text:
There was something in the air. Something distant and alive. Juan knew it when he woke.

He opened the wooden doors to his bedroom balcony and stepped out into the sun. It was quiet except for the woman across the street beating a wooden spoon into a rug draped over her balcony railing. She was bent over and thumped at the rug. Juan could see clouds of dust expel from the fabric and drift down to the cobblestone street below. She glanced up at Juan and waved the spoon at him and he said hello and smiled. Then she went back to thumping. A scooter drove past and he watched it rattle on the cobblestone until it turned at the end of the street and out of sight.

He took a deep breath, breathing in the sweet smell of the Algerian food stand next door, and went inside to dress for the day.

In the kitchen, Nick was rolling a spliff.

Good morning, Nick said licking the edges of the paper.

Good morning, Juan said.

Coffee?

Please.

Juan sat at the kitchen table next to Nick as he poured coffee into a cup. The tall kitchen windows were swung open and he could hear the post office trucks as they backed out to start their days. Nick and Juan lived next to the post office.

Nick pushed the coffee across the table for Juan.

Thanks, he said.

Nick put the tightly-rolled spliff in the side of his mouth and popped a match on the grainy table then lit the spliff and drew on it then leaned back in his seat and exhaled slowly. He put the half-charred match on the table next to the others. A door slammed shut and the last truck revved and drove off then it was quiet. Juan blew softy into his coffee to cool it and grinned and looked up at Nick and said:

Do you believe in God?

No, Nick said after a moment.

He drew on his spliff, the end crackling red, then blew a thin line of smoke towards the opened window.

I used to not, Juan said. But suddenly, I think I do.

Nick nodded.

I woke with this incredible yearning, yearning for something I don’t know. I feel it deep in my bones. It’s calling out to me.

Nick did not say anything, his mind was elsewhere. Juan drank his coffee slowly. He drank it down to the dregs. Then he stood and set the cup in the sink and grabbed his keys off the counter. At the door, he unhooked his jacket and turned to Nick still seated at the table.

So long, my friend.

Where’re you going?

Something is calling me.

Juan said hello to the Algerians. They were serving a customer a tuna sandwich and said hello back. The rug-thumping lady had gone inside. He strode down *Rue Desalle* towards the train tracks, the yearning deep in his core.

He turned down the train tracks and walked beside them towards the city center. He walked and was happy, the sun comfortable on his back. He walked past a Vietnamese restaurant, and next to the door a man in frayed clothes urinated on the stone wall. The man grunted something at Juan then slumped back into the wall and sat with his chin down and his pants around his ankles. Juan dropped a coin into the man’s cup.

He followed the tracks until he reached the station where people were coming and going. He then turned left onto a smooth-stoned street that slanted gently uphill to the city center called *Place de la Comédie.* The street was lined with shops and palm trees and the buildings on either side were three stories with balconies hanging overhead.

Olive-skinned children ran about. One of them tugged on Juan’s shirt and Juan turned around and knelt down to face the child.

Something is calling me, he said to the child.

The child’s metallic gray eyes burned through him and he knew.

She is waiting, the child said.

Then he turned and ran off with his friends down a dark, damp alley.

As he approached, he heard the sound that drew him here, the sound lit deep in his bones he waited his whole life to hear, to draw him in and love him.

He saw her sitting in the sun, cross-legged against the fountain. Above her, water jetted at two figurines dancing atop a rock.

He walked to her. Her sound sailed high above the wind and buildings and out to sea. He stood in front of her and she looked up at him and set her tambourine on the ground beside her and stood and faced him, her oil-black eyes absorbing all.

I’ve been waiting for you, she said.

I am here, my love.

He reached his hand out and she took it, her eyes never leaving his. He pulled her in and they knew what to do. They walked away through the crowd in the hard sun, arm in arm.

title: [RF] The Tambourine

question: What is it the couple know what to do?

answer: This could be as simple as living happily ever after. It could be to uplift people or it could be something far more sinister.

question: How does the child know what Juan seeks?

answer: She has sent him or he is part of a greater conspiracy to get them together.

question: Why does the feeling that he is drawn to something awaken Juan's belief in God?

answer: He has been waiting his whole life for this day. Perhaps he had given up and only when he knows it has dawned is his belief reawakened.

question: Where does the magnetic feeling come from that draws him to the girl?

answer: it must be a spiritual need as it is not explained.

question: Write a ~17 sentence summary.

answer:
Juan knew when he woke that there was something distant and alive in the air. In the kitchen, Nick makes coffee for the two of them. Juan asks Nick if he believes in God. Nick says no. Juan says that didn’t until this morning. He says he has woken with a deep yearning in his bones that is calling him.

He finishes his coffee, says goodbye to his friend, Nick and leaves to find that which is calling him. He is happy as he walks to the centre of town with the sun on his back. When he gets to the town centre a child tugs on his shirt. Juan kneels and tells the child that something is calling him.

She is waiting the child said.

As he approached, he heard the sound that he had waited for his whole life to hear, to draw him in and love him. She put the tambourine down and faced him.
I have been waiting for you she said.

I am here my love.

He took her hand and they knew what to do. They walked away arm in arm.


split: test

text:
Real_Abbot: @CoStello223: Hey, Im goin to NY with you.  You know the Yanks manager? Wants me to coach as long as you play…

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot:  If you are the coach you have to know the players right?

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223: Ya….

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot:  Cool, I have never met them tho… wanna tell me their names?

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223:  Yeah… but you know nowadays… people have some really strange Twitter handles…

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot:  Yeah… like funny ones or what?

Real_Abbot:  @CoStello223:  One guy is @DizzyDean …

	DizzyDean: @Real_Abbot @CoStello223 ???

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot:  Anyone else?

Real_Abbot:  @DizzyDean @CoStello223 nvm.

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 his brother @DafDean and cousin @GoofAyDean

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot hmm… Who is in the infield?

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 yup on first!

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot what?  I want to know who is in the infield?

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 yeah… with What and Idk!

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot you are the manager?

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 ***is and no... he is the owner…

CoStell223: @Real_Abbot who is the owner?

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 no first basemen…

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot we don’t have a first baseman?  You want ME to play first base?
Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 no he is our DH…

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Who is our DH???

Real_Abbot:  @CoStello223 no only on road trips and certain situations… primarily our first baseman.

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot What?!

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 2nd… Who is on first…

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot why are you asking me??? I thought you were the coach

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223  Im not Im telling you Who is on first….

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot  yeah I understand what is the guys name???! >:(

Real_Abbot:  @CoStello223 no What is the guys name on second base…

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot How am I supposed to know… Im not exactly asking who is on second…

Real_Abbot:  @CoStello223 Who is on fist

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 ***First

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot IDK!!!

Real_Abbot: @CoStello22 Hes on third… we arent talking about him…

CoStello223:@Real_Abbot What?  Third Base??

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 no… What. Second base. lol… is this how we are going to talk now?

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Idk what or who you are talking about now…

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 all infielders… now you are starting to get it…

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot Me? No.

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 DH

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot WHO IS DH???
Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 only sometimes… like I said before…

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot All I want to know if I am playing third…

Real_Abbot:  @CoStello223 Idk…I think he’s Norwegian

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot ??? Who is Norwegian?!

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 No… he is Japanese

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Who is Japanese?!?!

Real_Abbot:  @CoStello223 Yeah… do you have a problem with that?

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot do I have a problem with what?

Real_Abbot:  @CoStello223 you have a problem with What too?  You havn’t even met him…

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot Idk… I might have a problem

Real_Abbot:  @CoStello223 are you a racist?

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Me a racist??

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 no. He is dominican… and pretty much likes everybody

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot who is dominican?

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 NO! Japanese!

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot Ok you are really starting to piss me off… why?

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 Left.

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot Left?

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 yeah…

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot Jesus!!!! Are you kidding me right now?!

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 how did you know?

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot how did I know what?!  Jesus!!

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 You know what?

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot what?!!!

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 Yeah… you know him??

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Jesus H. Maybe I just won’t play…

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 He is our shortstop from Mexico… maybe you shouldn’t do you have a problem with him now too???

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot  WHO!

Real_Abbot:  @CoStello223 tweet the red sox you pig…the Yankees are going to stomp on your grave.

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Whatever…

Real_Abbot:  @CoStello223 nope we already have him the red sox have nobody…

CoStello223: @Real_Abbot I would rather play with nobody than FOR you.

Real_Abbot:  @CoStello223 fine… tell him I said hi!

CoStello223:  @Real_Abbot TELL WHO HI!

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 my pleasure.

***ESPN:  @CoStello223 Signs multi-year deal with Red Sox.  Nobody is happy!***

CoStello223: I hate @ESPN

-Tyler Scott

title: @Real_Abbot @CoStello223 "Who's on Twitter?"

question: Summarize the comedic formula being used in this piece.

answer: This online variation of a comedy skit relies on the character Abbot failing to inform Costello that "Who", "What", "Left", etc., actually refer to names instead of the words they spell and sound like. Thus there is a constant misunderstanding between the two. The skit wraps up with a punchline relating to the Red Sox and ESPN.


text:
[Examples of the three winning structures in Havannah, on a base-8 board. From left to right, they are the _fork_, the _ring_ and the _bridge_.]

HAVANNAH is a two-player abstract strategy board game invented by Christian Freeling. It belongs to the family of games commonly called connection games; its relatives include Hex and TwixT. Havannah has “a sophisticated and varied strategy” and is best played on a base-10 hexagonal board, 10 hex cells to a side.[1]

The game was published for a period in Germany by Ravensburger, with a smaller, base-8 board suitable for beginners. It is nowadays only produced by Hexboards.[2]

Game rules

One player plays as black; the other plays as white. White starts, after which moves alternate. The rules are as follows:

-   Each player places one stone of their color on the board per turn.
-   Stones are never moved, captured, or otherwise changed.
-   A player wins when they complete one of three different structures from unbroken lines, or paths, of connected stones, all of their colour:
    -   A _ring_ is a loop around one or more cells (no matter whether the encircled cells are occupied by any player or empty[3]);
    -   A _bridge_, which connects any two of the six corner cells of the board;
    -   A _fork_, which connects any three edges of the board; corner points are not considered parts of an edge.

An example of all three winning combinations is shown above. The structure in the centre of the board is a ring; the structure on the left-hand side is a fork; the structure on the right-hand side is a bridge.

Since the first player to move in Havannah has a distinct advantage, the pie rule is generally implemented for fairness. This rule allows the second player to choose whether to switch positions with the first player after the first player makes the first move.[4]

Players of different strength can still play an interesting game when the weaker player (as white) is allowed to place two or more stones on the first turn.

Difference compared to Hex

In Hex, when the board is completely filled, exactly one player will have a winning connection; in Havannah a completely filled board will have usually more than one winning structures (but the game ends with first winning structure).

Unlike in Hex, in Havannah draws are technically possible, in practice they are extremely rare. There has been one known draw between human players.[5] Tactics are much easier to master than strategy, and differences in playing level are considerable.

Computer Havannah

In 2002 Freeling offered a prize of 1000 euros, available through 2012, for any computer program that could beat him in even one game of a ten-game match. For many years, computer programs lagged far behind human players. However, since 2010 several Havannah-playing programs have applied Monte Carlo tree search techniques resulting in some notable improvement in playing strength. The “Havannah Challenge 2012” was held October 15–19, 2012 during which Freeling played ten games against three of the strongest Havannah-playing programs available, playing (at least) one game as black and one as white against each opponent.[6] Freeling lost the challenge when he had to resign a game with white against the Lajkonik program.

Until 2019, the best humans were still by far stronger than computers. However, MetaTotoro, based on Polygames[7] (an open-source project, initially developed by Facebook Artificial Intelligence Research and several universities[8]), won against the human player with the best ELO rank on LittleGolem, who was also the winner of various tournaments.

This result was achieved by the same program as the one used for beating best humans at Hex. It is a zero-learning based algorithm, as in AlphaZero, but with novelties: boardsize invariance thanks to fully convolutional neural networks (as in U-Net) and global pooling. This allows growing architectures, meaning the program can learn on a small board, and then extrapolate on a large board.[9]

Computational complexity

Solving Havannah is PSPACE-complete with respect to the size of the input graph.[10] The proof is by a reduction from generalized geography and is based on using ring-threats to represent the geography graph. In detail, since Lichtenstein and Sipser have proved that generalized geography remained PSPACE-hard even if the graph is only bipartite and of degree at most 3, it only remains to construct an equivalent Havannah position from such a graph, which is accomplished by constructing various gadgets in Havannah.

[1]

[2] Hexboards

[3] As clarified by Freeling at http://www.mindsports.nl/index.php/arena/havannah/49-havannah-rules; Schmittberger's book wrongly states that a ring should surround at least one vacant cell.

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

title: Havannah

question: Summarize Havannah's game rules.

answer:
Havannah is a two-player board game invented by Christian feeling. It has a base-10 hexagonal board with 10 hex cells to a side. Havannah game rules are thus:
- Each player would place a stone of their color on the board per each turn.
-These stones cannot be moved, changed, or captured.
- A win condition happens when a player completes one of three different st5ructions from unbroken lines, paths, connected stones, and color.

question: Summarize how computer AIs have progressed or improved since 2002.

answer: In 2002 Freeling offered 1000 euros (available till 2012) for anyone who can program an Havannah game that could beat him in one game over a 10-game match. For many years, no one could do it as computer programs lagged behind human players. However, many leaps have been made since the 2010 Monte Carlo tree search technique has been applied to Havannah game programming. In 2012 during the Havannah Challenge, Freeling was beaten by an AI over the course of ten games. Until, 2019, humans have continued to dominate the game. However, MetaTotoro, an open-source project has managed to produce a zero-learning-based algorithm that has beaten many human players since.

question: Why did computer programming for Havannah take a lot longer to come up with good programs that could beat humans?


text:
Today is the day. The sun is shining and vibrant. The birds are singing their melodies. The air is warm and smells like spring. Who could hate a day like this? I sure as hell do. Fuck that bright, burning ball of helium. Why aren't there ravens knocking at my door instead of song birds chirping away? I want it cold and smelling like freezing dreams outside. Oh well. Today is as good a day as any for this. I've already called into work. My boss gave me my final warning for call ins and next time I do I'll be fired, and that's just fine with me. I made my last stop this morning. I bought a pack of cigarettes and a .99 cent coffee. I passed by the liquor store. If things pan out like I intend them to, I want nobody blaming my best friend on this.
The door to my apartment squeaks like my boots and I open and sit down at my table. I light up a cigarette. The dumb bastard at the corner store always mixes my cigarettes up. I tell him I want lights, and I get reds. Typically I berate him and hope he learns his lesson, but that doesn't matter today. He'll see my face on the news and remember me, and he'll probably smile. Dumb bastard. This cigarette is doing what cigarettes need to do I guess. I just can't stand this taste. In the end it won't matter I guess. Neither will this bottom of the pot coffee. God, you would think that I would've splurged today with all I have planned. Nope! I'll always be a cheap ass I guess. I'll be able to leave something behind it looks like.

I walk to my bedroom and reach behind the pillow. The steel feels cold in my hand. It feels like winter. Jack Frost will be nipping at my temple if things go the way I'll predict. I keep the gun in my hand and walk back to the table. This is where I'll make my final stand against myself and the universe I think. This trusty revolver holds six shots. I have one bullet loaded. I stare out the window to the outside world. None of them know what's going on, and probably won't until a week from now when somebody calls the landlord bitching about the smell. That's just one more time for me to inconvenience others, and that's fine. I stare down the barrel of the piece and sigh. It's time. I spin the chamber and put my finger on the trigger. Let's see how my luck plays out today.

I've been obsessed with the idea of luck for as long as I can remember. What's the probability of "x" happening in "y" scenario? I've researched numerous miracles and accidents and probability and all of that shit for years. Any given day I can win the lotto or meet my soulmate or end up on a plane making a stop in a New York skyscraper. My research didn't yield me a damn thing, but my experiment did. This experiment has been happening for 26 years. Some call it life, but I call it "Studies of The Effects of Existing on a Sphere in The Milky Way and the Causation of My Shit Luck". I've learned that luck is a whore. Some people sleep with luck and walk away smiling, wanting a sandwich and some alone time. Some people get fucked by luck and piss lava for the rest of their lives. I, for one, have been pissing lava in a metaphorical sense for 26 years, and literally for a couple of days. Fucking bar hookup. I digress, though. The clap is just evidence that luck is against me, and that leads us to today. My final experiment is as follows: chain smoke and see if I can win a game of Russian Roullete against myself. If I lose, then the probabilities have always been against me, thus giving me a post-humous doctorates degree for this experiment. If I beat the odds and survive, then all of this has been for naught and I revise my theory to "Maybe Subject X Should Be a Less Shitty Person". Let's see how this goes.
I light up another cigarette and take one more sip of this black tar coffee. I raise the gun to my temple and squeeze the trigger.
*click*

Analysis: I don't have the absolute worst luck in the world. I am mathematically luckier than possibly 20% of people who could possibly be in my position. Thank god I'm luckier than most of Africa I guess. This isn't much of an accomplishment though. Just watch the movies, nobody ever gets the bullet on the first shot. I still have four more to go, and all the time in the world. Time isn't much of a factor now, though. I could wait a million years and the bullet will still be in the same place. I'd be dead, though, so I can't wait that long. I put the gun to my temple one more time and squeeze.
*click*

Analysis: I'm luckier than 40% of people that could potentially be in this position. That's still failing a test, though. I'm still an unlucky guy. A month ago my dog got hit by a car. I was unlucky enough to see it happen. The bullshit behind it, though? It was a vet driving the car. Lucky me, right? Nope. The dog died on impact. How the fuck does that happen? I mean, seriously? A vet hits an animal that they have dedicated their life to save? That's total bullshit. That's what happens to dogs if I give them food and shelter I guess. It's a disease from being around me. That's what I tell my doctors at least. I think their med schools must've been shit, though, because they don't believe me. I know I have a disease. They need to put me in their medical journals for the "Fuckerius Luckus" disease. I digress. It's time to give this merry-go-round another go.
Point, breathe, squeeze.
*click*

Analysis: 60% isn't bad I guess. In this given position I'm not doing awful. I still have two more shots to go, but I'm surprised the data is looking this way. It's worth noting, though, that every shot I take raises the percentage of catching a bullet. The odds are stacked against me. It's nothing I'm not used to, though. This is living life in the fast lane, and maybe dying in a ten car pileup. Two more shots to go and I still feel nothing. Let's go.
Point, squeeze.
*click*

80% means I'm passing. It also means that I have a 50/50 shot of dying. I'm not afraid of death. It's not like I really want to die or anything, I'm just tired of living. I didn't write a suicide note or leave a heartfelt video saying goodbye. They'll find me and assume that it was just a random suicide with no rational behind it. I'll be just another victim of society, with my name in the news and people who barely knew me praising me on social media. I don't deserve praise. I deserve nothing. I'm just an average piece of white trash who does average things, besides the whole daring the universe to kill me thing. I'll be the next guy you stand behind and in front of at the bank. We're all just average until we save a box of orphan puppies or shoot up a school, then suddenly we were always something. That's the way of the world I guess.

I take a drag of the last smoke in the box, and finish my coffee. I look outside once more. It's really not that bad of a day today I guess. It's the kind of day where you can just sit outside and think about things, or go walk in the park. I never really thought about doing that before. If I can defy the odds, I'm going to the liquor store and buying a fifth and going to the park. That's improving a little bit, right?

My hands are starting to sweat a little bit. I put the gun to my head one more time. I breathe in and breathe out. This is it.
Breathe, squeeze.
*click*

Oh holy fuck. I'm alive. I'm not just breathing. I FEEL alive. Luck be damned! Probability be damned! I. Am. Alive! I grab my keys and head out to my car. It's a piece of shit, but it's mine and it does what it needs to. I made a promise to pick up a fifth and go to the park. Nothing can bring me down now! I beat the odds and the universe wants me alive! I don't know my purpose, but I do know I NEED to be alive!

I play the radio on the way to the store. I typically hate the radio, but I'm done with hating now. Bring on generic pop music and bless my ears! I pull up to the store and kill my engine. I walk with a hop in my step with the likes I've never seen in myself. I have the day off, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and I'm gonna get drunk! There's nothing that can bring me down now!

I greet the cashier with a smile, and they just stare. That's okay. They'll be as happy with me one day and I will dance with them once they do! I pick up a pricey fifth. I can't really afford this, but I'll just skip dinner a couple of times. Nothing can bring me down today!

I stand waiting in line, ecstatic about what today has to offer. The guy in front of me is paying in pennies. If that's all he has then that's okay. It all spends the same and he gets to be happy for a little bit too! While the cashier is counting out the pennies, the guy in front of me reaches inside his hoodie pocket. He pulls out a revolver.

He points it at the cashier and yells for all the money in the register. She starts crying. I stand frozen. The cashier starts pushing buttons frantically trying to open the register. The thief is concentrated on her. It's time for me to be a hero.

I take a step towards the gunman. My boot squeaks. He turns to me in a panic. I breathe, he squeezes.
*bam*

Getting shot doesn't hurt as bad as you would think. It just stings, really. Then you feel your lungs fill with blood. Then you start feeling cold. You can't really get up, either. All you can do is move your head a little. I could see my blood spilling out onto the linoleum. I heard the cashier scream then another shot, and after that all I hear is chirping. The birds are still singing at least.My mouth tastes like metal. I start to grow tired. I lose the will to stay awake. I start to slip away into a dream. All I see is white. All I want to do is go to the park and get drunk. Damn my luck.
Damn it.

title: Lucky. [MF] (Resubmitted for formatting)

question: Summarize everything relating to the story's twist ending.

answer: The narrator plays Russion Roulette and manages to survive even after firing five shots. He feels alive and decides to go to the store and buy alcohol to celebrate. The person in line before him pulls out a gun to rob the store. The narrator tries to intervene and winds up getting shot and killed.

question: Summarize everything relating to beverages.

answer: The narrator makes a stop in the morning to pick up a 99 cent coffee. He takes a sip of the black tar coffee while playing Russian Roulette. He finishes the coffee before firing the last shot. When he survives, he decides to go to the liquor store to buy a fifth.

question: What does the story say about unlucky things that have happened to the narrator?

answer: The guy at the corner store always mixes up the cigarettes the narrator purchases. A month prior to the start of the story, his dog got hit by a car driven by a vet and died on impact. Despite surviving his game of Russian Roulette and seemingly having a new lease on life, the narrator is shot and killed during a liquor store robbery.

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


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

----------

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

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

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

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

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

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

title: [NF] Selfishly

question: Why has the author written this story?

answer: The author actually experienced the incident of the girl who tried to commit suicide. He is the person who saved her. He has never told anyone except his mother who has since died. He wonders what happened to her after the failed suicide attempt.

question: Why is the train conductor so pleased with the young man at the station?

answer: The conductor is grateful that the young man prevented the train from hitting the girl. The conductor has a little girl who is celebrating her fourth birthday on the weekend. He didn't want the weekend ruined.


text:
Sorry in advance, my new year's resolution was to try my hand at writing at least once a week, so this is my sloppy first attempt at a pointless short story. Bear with me, it really is pretty short.

	I looked down and saw the little pock marks on the long bruises I called arms, and rolled down my sleeves. There was a whistling sound in my head driving me bad shit mad.

...

	So he looked at me with his sad face, with his petty remorse and his puppy dog eyes. “I have to do this, and I’m offering you a place in my committee because I want you to be here with me, making more money than you already do and hopefully living a better life.”

	I was fuming but something was gnawing at me in the back of my head. What if he was saying this kindly, not sarcastically? It took me a second to register that he wasn’t faking any emotions.

	I realized that the entire life I had known him he was a real, authentic individual. I guess the past several years had taken its toll on me, and I may have become slightly cynical. I looked up and into his eyes and saw no dark spots of mal-intent. He was a businessman, yes, and a wealthy and calculated one at that. But he had a core, sensible and clean, that he had always held within him since before he was picking my sorry ass off the floor after fights in junior high. He legitimately cared for me, but as I usually did, I dug deeper. I thought about his goals. He had a family, and however poorly he treated his kids, the real kindness you can find in a man isn’t reflected by how often he treats his children, but simply how he treats them. Molding them to have traits for success isn’t a poor thing of him to do at all, and when he was kind and loving to them it was golden with no itemistic parts. He never treated them to ice cream or toys as rewards, they had birthdays and christmas, but even then maybe a surprise toy wasn’t the worst thing in the world for them. It was more the principle that a reward system was right for his kids, he would rather them be content with what they had. It was important to him, contentedness, the rich, bussiness-expanding, effluent douchebag.

	He just gave them his holy words and that was more than enough to have them happy for that day and give them a lingering dad-high for the rest of the week.

But in the end, he valued his family over me. He knew that in the end, he would have to do something about me, and bringing me in was the best he could do. No, he just wanted to do it, the difference being that I could tell he wanted this all along, for me to with him.

I selfishly said no.

I told him I had more important things to do than to be in his heartless rich-boy 401k club and told him my family relied on me and it was all lies, every word. I wanted to tear up and give him the hug I had held in since junior high, but my head was somewhere else. It was as if somebody else had taken over my body and was headstrong, pessimistic, and a complete and utter liar. I told him to fuck off, and I told him to kill himself. I wanted to be dead. My family hated me and I was going down the rabbit hole. I was going to be homeless in a week and a day if by tomorrow he decided to go through with his plan.

	I walked up, sarcastically thanked him, feinted him a handshake and then punched him in his jaw. As hard as I possibly could. Who did he think he was? Toying with my emotions as he did.
	 He took another blow to the face. Somebody other than me was doing it, I swear. I was next to the man doing it, looking at HIM over his shoulder, but he was getting bloodier and bloodier. I got up and saw blood on my knuckles. That’s weird, I thought. There was no blood from my first hit on him. His lip split on the third blow. I shrugged, confused, and left the room. I could hear him crying. Maybe it was me. My world was bending, swirling into a hole, and I wasn’t even fighting the current dragging me into it. I laughed and fell into the rabbit hole, cursing love and intentions, where they could never hurt me again. I looked up, saw the sky and broken glass, which was falling, increasing in velocity, but never passing me. It was a curious sight, I wonder why it wa-

title: Out of place and into the dark (Cheesy as fuck title)

question: What does the story say about the narrator's relationship with the man?

answer: The man is a wealthy businessman who helps the narrator. He offers him a place on his committee. Although the narrator wants to hug him, he refuses his proposal and tells the man that he has more important things to do, which is not true. He thinks that the man might be playing with his emotions and hits him.

question: What does the story say about why the narrator's family hates him?


text:
The lady’s nightly ritual of  filling the tub with Dove’s Double Power Calming bubble bath (the ladies at the mall swear that stuff will make you feel like you just went to the spa), taking a Valium, and washing it down with a smooth Bud from the fridge do little to stop the nightmares. Night terrors that come like gut wrenching earthquakes, born from the depths of the closet.

“Oh Lord, the closet,” the lady says as she is shaken from her thoughts. She keeps a kiddy night light that she bought from Walmart, a Little Mermaid themed nighty to keep the room more innocent, in the plug across from the bed. This way, when she wakes from a nightmare she can be sure that she is alone in the room, except for Ariella the Nighty of course.

Tonight was no exception to her ritual. She went to the kitchen and grabbed a cold beer, opened her immense medicine cabinet and fiddled with the cap of Valium until she got it open, turned on the hot water in the bathtub, and then poured in the Dove’s bubble bath. As she waited, she looked into the full-length mirror across from the tub.

Over the past year, her hair has seen grey strands accompany her otherwise brown hair, and dark purple bags have appeared under her eyes. Her skin, which she used to pride her 56 year-old self on being so smooth, has turned white and wrinkled. Her belly is plump from the nightly beers and her face has become slightly gaunt. She looks as if she has aged ten years in the past one, no doubt due to the stress of her nightmares, the alcohol, and drugs.

Staring at herself is a reminder of her fear and fills her with dread. Quickly, she pops open the Bud and washes down her pill. If anything can stop the self-shaming and fear, it’s her Happy Pills. She turned off the hot water, kept a little too hot so getting in would take her mind off of the real issue (although she would never admit this to herself) and slowly stepped into the tub.

After her bath, she got into her robe and went to her bed. She dropped the robe, exposing her breasts to Ariella the Nighty, and climbed into bed with her back to the closet. At this point, she tried to think of everything besides what’s in the closet.

“I wonder if Betsy got those pain meds for her husband?”

“I need to cut the grass tomorrow and get the weed out of the garden...”

“The new neighbors across the street really need to get a hold of their rowdy kids, always throwing their football into my yard...”

On and on the superficial thoughts go, but always, like some inevitable storm creeping in, the thought of the closet comes back. The closet’s glare feels piercing to the lady’s back.

“I can’t sleep with you here,” she whispers. “I can’t sleep with you in there.” Her voice is barely audible.

Her feet begin to tingle as the fear creeps in. She’s momentarily frozen to her bed. Knowing what she has to do, she makes herself sit up. She pulls the blanket down off of her hot, baking legs, and swings them down onto the floor. She takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, musters her courage and stands.

She doesn’t move, bute stares deeply and coldly at the closet door.

“You got me again, you bastard.”

She takes a small step toward the closet, unable to to resist its unending call. A car drives by blaring music, hip-hop, but she is numb to the world. Nothing else exists. Just the old, deteriorating woman and her closet that won’t let her sleep, won’t let her have peace, and haunts her mind and imprisons her thoughts.

She takes another small step to the door and kicks an empty beer can. She doesn’t notice. Another step. Another. The steps seem endless until she finally reaches the closet door.

“This is what you’ve been wanting,” she mumbles.

Her fear gives way to anger. Blinding rage. Anger at the sleepless nights. Anger because her life has been taken from her and given to this monster that feeds on her.

“Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” she screams as she swings the closet door open as hard as she can. The door hits the big toe on her right foot, breaking her toenail and making it bleed, but she doesn’t notice. Her eyes are wide open, ready to face the beast that holds her hostage. Her brow is furrowed, mouth a small slit, she is ready to fight, ready to rid herself of the monster. She makes contact with the beast’s eyes, and he stares right back into hers.

On the bottom of the otherwise empty closet sits an old, dusty photo. A photo whose color has begun to fade and edges have wrinkled from use. In the photo, a man with large green eyes stares up at the lady. The eyes of the beast.

Just as quickly, her anger turns into despair. She falls to her knees and grabs the old photo, holding it to her breast. She weeps. She weeps for the days when he was here. Then, the house was brighter, the window curtains pushed aside to allow sunlight in. Now, the sunlight doesn’t even come into the house. The window is like some force field keeping the daylight out.

The woman wept for a long time. Finally, she was able to brush away enough tears to look back into the closet. An old newspaper article lie on the floor. She grabbed it and read for the thousandth-time “Car Crash on I-20 Kills Family, Only Wife Survives”. She closed her eyes for a second, taking in the weight of the heading about the poor family. Her family.

She began to get the shakes. On the floor was one last photo, lying face down. She knew what is in the photo, but couldn’t bare to look. Her trembles got worse, so she leaned against the wall for support. Unable to stop herself, she grabbed the photo from the floor, flipped it around, and stared into the eyes of her children. She fell over clutching the photo. With not more tears to shed, she just lay there wrapped in the arms of the beast.

She awakes the next morning with sunlight hitting her face. She puts the photos and newspaper clippings back into the closet, making sure to put her children facedown and everything back in the same order. She makes coffee, then goes out front for some fresh air. She feels hungover, but she knows it’s not from the beer.

Outside, the Sun is shining, but she doesn’t see it. The wind is blowing, but she can’t feel it. The kids are playing across the street and she watches them. As she turns to walk back inside, she hears a noise from around the corner of the house. She walks around and sees a dog going through her trash.

The dog’s ribs are showing and it steps back in fright. The lady walks into the house to get a cold weiner from the fridge. She comes back out with the food and the dog nervously approaches her. The dog takes the food, eats it, and is transformed by the generosity. The dog wags its tail.

“Oh, you like that? You look a bit broken, pooch. Do you mind if I call you that? I bet not. Pooch it is. Well, Pooch, I’m a bit broken too. I think everyone is a bit broken inside. How about we be broken together? What do you say?”

Pooch licked her hand, and she smiled.

title: [RF] Realistic Fiction The Closet

question: What does the story say about why the lady was having frequent nightmares?

answer: The lady and her family were involved in a fatal car crash of which she was the only survivor. This harrowing experience devastated and damaged her emotionally and psychologically, which is only understandable why she had frequent nightmares. To add to her daily struggle, the contents of the closet in her room, like a monster, taunted her repeatedly because that was where she stored the memory of her lost family, which she'd eventually feel compelled to open and reveal its contents, bruising her emotionally.

question: What does the story say about what the nightly rituals include and why she performed them?

answer: Every night before going to bed, the lady would prepare her bathwater in a tub and fill it with Dove's Power Calming bubble bath, which was recommended to her by the ladies at the mall. Afterward, she would take valium and wash it down with a beer before soaking herself inside the tub. This ritual helped calm her mind from the trauma of the nightmares that plagued her, including the actual trauma of losing her entire family in a car crash. However, this ritual, which somehow kept her temporarily calm, coupled with the drugs and alcohol, negatively affected her physically.


text:
NESHOBA COUNTY is located in the central part of the U.S. state of Mississippi. As of the 2010 census, the population was 29,676.[1] Its county seat is Philadelphia.[2] It was named after _Nashoba_, a Choctaw chief. His name means “wolf” in the Choctaw language.[3]

The county is known for the Neshoba County Fair and harness horse races. It is home of the Williams Brothers Store, which has been in operation since the early 1900s.

The Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians (MBCI), a federally recognized tribe, is based here and has developed one of the largest casino complexes in the state on their reservation. The Silver Star and Golden Moon casinos are the first land-based casinos in Mississippi; these casinos are part of the MBCI's Pearl River Resort in the county.

History

At the time of European encounter, this was part of the territory of the historic Choctaw people, who occupied most of what later was defined as Mississippi. Under President Andrew Jackson, the United States conducted Indian removal in the 1830s in the Southeast, and most of the Choctaw were removed to west of the Mississippi River, to land in Indian Territory, now part of Oklahoma.

Neshoba was founded by European American settlers in 1833. They named it after a Choctaw chief, whose name in the Choctaw language meant “wolf”.[4]

Descendants of the Choctaw who remained in the state continued to identify as Choctaw. They lived in relatively distinct communities and reorganized in the 1930s, gaining federal recognition as the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians. Even in the 1970s, eighty percent of their people continued to speak Choctaw.

Late 19th century to present

The white-dominated state legislature passed a new constitution in 1890, that effectively disenfranchised most freedmen and other non-whites, such as Native Americans. This exclusion was maintained well into the 20th century, but activists in the 1960s increasingly worked to restore voting rights throughout the state.

Neshoba County is known as the site of the lynching murder of three young activists in July 1964 during Freedom Summer in Mississippi, a period of education and a voter registration drive to prepare African Americans for voting. The three young men, two from the North, disappeared at a time of heightened violence, and they became the subjects of a state and FBI search. White supremacists were found to have murdered three civil rights activists: James Cheney, Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner near Philadelphia, the county seat.

Deputy Sheriff Cecil Price was implicated and charged with being part of the group that lynched the three young men and buried them in an earthen dam 15 miles northeast of Philadelphia. Outrage over the crime contributed to congressional passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and Voting Rights Act of 1965. The crime and decades-long legal aftermath of investigation and trials inspired the 1988 movie _Mississippi Burning_.

In 1980 Governor Ronald Reagan launched his presidential campaign at the Neshoba County Fair, delivering a speech about economic policy and referring to “states' rights”. He was believed to be referring to southern conservative values, in an area associated with the 1964 murders and at a time when the Republican Party was attracting more white conservatives from the Democratic Party.[5][6]

Geography

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the county has a total area of , of which is land and (0.3%) is water.[7]

Major highways

-   [] Mississippi Highway 15
-   [] Mississippi Highway 16
-   [] Mississippi Highway 19
-   [] Mississippi Highway 21

Adjacent counties

-   Winston County (north)
-   Kemper County (east)
-   Newton County (south)
-   Leake County (west)

Demographics

As of the census[8] of 2000, there were 28,684 people, 10,694 households, and 7,742 families residing in the county. The population density was 50 people per square mile (19/km²). There were 11,980 housing units at an average density of 21 per square mile (8/km²). The racial makeup of the county was 65.50% White, 19.33% Black or African American, 13.80% Native American, 0.19% Asian, 0.02% Pacific Islander, 0.34% from other races, and 0.81% from two or more races. 1.16% of the population were Hispanic or Latino of any race. 28.6% identified as of American ancestry, 8.8% as Irish and 6.1% as English, according to Census 2000. Those who identify as having “American” ancestry are predominantly of English descent, but have ancestors who came to the US so long ago that they identify simply as American.[9][10] 88.7% spoke English and 10.2% Choctaw as their first language.

There were 10,694 households, out of which 34.90% had children under the age of 18 living with them, 52.50% were married couples living together, 15.60% had a female householder with no husband present, and 27.60% were non-families. 24.70% of all households were made up of individuals, and 11.50% had someone living alone who was 65 years of age or older. The average household size was 2.63 and the average family size was 3.11.

In the county, the population was spread out, with 28.20% under the age of 18, 9.00% from 18 to 24, 27.00% from 25 to 44, 21.60% from 45 to 64, and 14.20% who were 65 years of age or older. The median age was 35 years. For every 100 females there were 91.10 males. For every 100 females age 18 and over, there were 88.30 males.

The median income for a household in the county was $28,300, and the median income for a family was $33,439. Males had a median income of $28,112 versus $19,882 for females. The per capita income for the county was $14,964. About 17.90% of families and 21.00% of the population were below the poverty line, including 27.20% of those under age 18 and 22.00% of those age 65 or over.

Communities

Cities

-   Philadelphia (county seat)

Town

-   Union (mostly in Newton County)

Census-designated places

-   Bogue Chitto (partly in Kemper County)
-   Pearl River
-   Tucker

Unincorporated communities

-   Burnside
-   Choctaw
-   Good Hope
-   Neshoba
-   Sandtown
-   Stallo

Politics

  Year                               Republican                                  Democratic                                  Third parties
  ---------------------------------- ------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------- ----------------------------
  style=“text-align:center;” |2016   style=“text-align:center;” |72.8% _7,679_   style=“text-align:center;” |25.7% _2,715_   1.5% _159_
  style=“text-align:center;” |2012   style=“text-align:center;” |71.2% _7,837_   style=“text-align:center;” |28.0% _3,089_   0.8% _89_
  style=“text-align:center;” |2008   style=“text-align:center;” |72.0% _8,209_   style=“text-align:center;” |27.3% _3,114_   0.7% _79_
  style=“text-align:center;” |2004   style=“text-align:center;” |74.7% _7,780_   style=“text-align:center;” |25.0% _2,600_   0.4% _39_
  style=“text-align:center;” |2000   style=“text-align:center;” |70.7% _6,409_   style=“text-align:center;” |28.3% _2,563_   1.0% _94_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1996   style=“text-align:center;” |58.4% _4,545_   style=“text-align:center;” |34.0% _2,646_   7.7% _596_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1992   style=“text-align:center;” |61.1% _6,135_   style=“text-align:center;” |30.8% _3,090_   8.1% _817_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1988   style=“text-align:center;” |68.1% _6,363_   style=“text-align:center;” |31.5% _2,942_   0.5% _42_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1984   style=“text-align:center;” |71.7% _6,715_   style=“text-align:center;” |28.1% _2,630_   0.2% _19_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1980   style=“text-align:center;” |56.5% _5,165_   style=“text-align:center;” |42.3% _3,872_   1.2% _112_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1976   style=“text-align:center;” |49.4% _3,859_   style=“text-align:center;” |49.8% _3,891_   0.9% _69_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1972   style=“text-align:center;” |88.2% _6,815_   style=“text-align:center;” |10.5% _812_     1.3% _98_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1968   style=“text-align:center;” |6.8% _531_      style=“text-align:center;” |11.1% _867_     82.1% _6,417_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1964   style=“text-align:center;” |94.9% _5,431_   style=“text-align:center;” |5.1% _293_      style="text-align:center;|
  style=“text-align:center;” |1960   style=“text-align:center;” |14.0% _580_     style=“text-align:center;” |44.5% _1,840_   41.5% _1,716_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1956   style=“text-align:center;” |13.8% _502_     style=“text-align:center;” |77.9% _2,827_   8.3% _300_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1952   style=“text-align:center;” |23.3% _1,081_   style=“text-align:center;” |76.7% _3,567_   style="text-align:center;|
  style=“text-align:center;” |1948   style=“text-align:center;” |1.1% _33_       style=“text-align:center;” |8.3% _260_      90.6% _2,837_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1944   style=“text-align:center;” |4.2% _131_      style=“text-align:center;” |95.9% _3,025_   style="text-align:center;|
  style=“text-align:center;” |1940   style=“text-align:center;” |2.6% _77_       style=“text-align:center;” |97.1% _2,880_   0.3% _10_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1936   style=“text-align:center;” |1.9% _67_       style=“text-align:center;” |98.0% _3,495_   0.1% _3_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1932   style=“text-align:center;” |2.4% _56_       style=“text-align:center;” |97.2% _2,236_   0.4% _8_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1928   style=“text-align:center;” |21.3% _516_     style=“text-align:center;” |78.7% _1,906_   style="text-align:center;|
  style=“text-align:center;” |1924   style=“text-align:center;” |12.5% _228_     style=“text-align:center;” |87.6% _1,603_   style="text-align:center;|
  style=“text-align:center;” |1920   style=“text-align:center;” |13.7% _182_     style=“text-align:center;” |82.1% _1,088_   4.2% _55_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1916   style=“text-align:center;” |4.4% _69_       style=“text-align:center;” |92.9% _1,459_   2.7% _43_
  style=“text-align:center;” |1912   style=“text-align:center;” |2.4% _22_       style=“text-align:center;” |89.0% _806_     8.6% _78_

  : PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS RESULTS[11]

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5] Jim Prince: “War over Reagan's Words.” _Madison County Journal_ (11/22/2007)

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

title: Neshoba County, Mississippi

question: What does the article say about Neshoba County, Mississippi in the 19th century?

answer: Neshoba was founded by European American settlers in 1833. At the time of the European encounter, this was part of the territory of the historic Choctaw people, and the United States conducted Indian removal in the 1830s in the Southeast. The white-dominated state legislature passed a new constitution in 1890 that effectively disenfranchised most freedmen and other non-whites, such as Native Americans.

question: What does the article say about Neshoba County, Mississippi in the 20th century?

answer: Descendants of the Choctaw who remained in the state lived in relatively distinct communities and reorganized in the 1930s, gaining federal recognition as the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians. Neshoba County is known as the site of the lynching murder of three young activists by white supremacists in July 1964 during Freedom Summer in Mississippi, a period of education and a voter registration drive to prepare African Americans for voting. Outrage over the crime contributed to the congressional passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

question: What does the article say about the household structure in Neshoba County?

answer: As of the census of 2000, there were 28,684 people, 10,694 households, and 7,742 families residing in the county. 34.90% of the households, had children under the age of 18 living with them, 52.50% were married couples living together, 15.60% had a female householder with no husband present, and 27.60% were non-families. 24.70% of all households were made up of individuals, and 11.50% had someone living alone who was 65 years of age or older. The average household size was 2.63 and the average family size was 3.11.

question: What does the article say about the living standard in Neshoba County?

answer: As of the census of 2000, the median income for a household was $28,300, and the median income for a family was $33,439. The per capita income for the county was $14,964. About 17.90% of families and 21.00% of the population were below the poverty line, including 27.20% of those under age 18 and 22.00% of those age 65 or over.


text:
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Ahead of BATTLEFIELD FIGHT LEAGUE 48 (BFL 48), the promotion has announced a brand new revenue model that will help fighters earn more money.

Most promotions give fighters a cut of ticket sales and Battlefield does this at around 10-20%. However they have also taken it one step further and something BFL President JAY GOLSHANI says other promotions have not done. BFL will be giving all fighters 100% of the PPV buys that they sell.

As a fighter coming up through the regional ranks, you put the majority of your fight purse towards your camp. In the end most fighters come out losing money or earning very little after all expenses are paid.

“We are offering the fighters 100% of the PAY-PER-VIEW revenue that they generate for the orders through them,” Golshani explained in the Facebook video. “It’s not a revenue sharing model. There is no 50-50 split. It’s 100% to the fighter.”

So whether it’s 10 PPV orders or 40 PPV order, the fighter will make 100% of the sales they make.

“A quick example to make it easy for people to understand,” said Golshani. “Say MARIO PEREIRA when he fought JEREMY KENNEDY, 24 orders he had, I think they were about ten bucks each, if we had this model back then we would have given Mario an additional cheque for $240 on top of his fight purse. ARJAN BHULLAR for example, averages when we have Pay-Per-View like 16-20 orders, so he would get a cheque for $160-$200 on top of his purse.”

According to Golshani, the promotion has had offers from different outlets to carry their events online. But in their minds this is a better fit for themselves and their fighters in the long run.

Fighters will have to supply officials with the email address of their fans that ordered the PPV and they will receive their money from BFL about a week after the event.

Check out the video below for the full breakdown of BFL’s new revenue model.

BFL 48 goes down on April 29 from the Hard Rock Casino in Coquitlam, B.C. and features a battle for the heavyweight championship as Arjan Bhullar puts his belt on the line against his toughest test to date, JOE YAGER. An amateur title is up for grabs, as GWYN BERRY and MATT LEPPER compete for the vacant gold.

Check out the full BFL 48 fight card below.

FIGHT CARD

Arjan Bhullar (5-0, 3-0 BFL) vs. Joe Yager (11-5, 0-0 BFL) Pro heavyweight
Craig Maclean (1-1 BFL) vs. Tylor Nicholson (0-0 BFL) Pro bantamweight
Jared Revel (4-1, 3-1 BFL) vs. Joe LeVasseur (2-2, 0-0 BFL) Pro middleweight
Yannick Paré (3-5, 0-3 BFL) vs. Micah Todd (0-1 BFL) Pro Lightweight
Gwyn Berry (3-0 BFL) vs. Matt Lepper (2-0 BFL) Amateur Lightweight Title
Herbert Moon (0-0) vs. Jonathan Dubois (0-0) Pro Light Heavyweight
Paul Cowie (3-1 BFL) vs. Logan Demings (2-1, 0-0 BFL) Amateur Featherweight
Vincent Thom (1-2, 1-1 BFL) vs. Cameron Lane (1-0 BFL) Amateur 160
Sam Ameresh (0-0 BFL) vs. Lee Shawcross (0-0 BFL) Amateur 160
Lupita Godínez (0-2, 0-1 BFL) vs. Ashlee Jarvis (0-0 BFL) Amateur 120
Gurshan Singh (0-0 BFL) vs. Kevin Medeiros (0-0) Amateur Lightweight

MUAY THAI

Dan Olson (7-5, 0-0 BFL) vs. James Sebunyana (5-2, 0-0 BFL) Ammy 155
Amir Ghassemi (1-0, 0-0 BFL) vs. Blaine Whiting (2-2, 0-1 BFL) Ammy 153
Oscar Rodriguez (1-0, 0-0 BFL) vs. Nick Smeader (1-0, 0-0 BFL) Ammy 145
Victor Dodge (0-0 BFL) vs. Taren Bir (0-0, 0-0 BFL) Ammy 140
Gerry La Vallee (1-0, 0-0 BFL) vs. Matt Pcowicz (0-0 BFL) Ammy 160

question: What does the article say about Battlefield Fight League 48's (BFL 48) new revenue model?

answer: BFL 48 announced a new revenue model that will help fighters earn more money. BFL will be giving all fighters 100% of the PPV buys that they sell. Fighters will have to supply officials with the email address of their fans that ordered the PPV and they will receive their money from BFL about a week after the event.

question: What does the article say about the fighter who earns the most in BFL 48?


text:
Hoping to get some feedback on a short story, thanks Reddit!:

Kevin wonders what he's supposed to say. There must be a manual on this somewhere, a guidebook for men in this situation. As he unwraps the frozen pizza and sets the oven, he watches Laura collapse on the sofa, pick up the remote, the emptiness in her face. She stares at the black television screen. He tries to think of something to talk about, something that isn't the thing.

He decides on a topic. “I'm making a pizza,” he says. Nothing.

Again, “Would you like some?”

He wonders how long this will last, this silence. The doctor did not warn him about this, in fact they'd had no time alone, no time for Kevin to ask him, man to man, what he is supposed to talk about with her, how long she will be like this, what signs to look for should it turn serious. Kevin wishes now that he had insisted they step out of the room so his questions could be answered. In the moment, though, he'd been blindsided by his own grief, he certainly had not been expecting it, and now he finds himself feeling a bit resentful of Laura, that she cannot look at him, and he wants to tell her that it had been part of him, too.

But Laura, her eyes now focused on the remote control in her hands, knows Kevin will never understand. She can admit, of course, that he must be in some kind of pain, but maybe not, he is in the kitchen now, cooking a pizza like nothing is wrong. And what had he said to her, on the ride home? “We can try again in a few weeks.” Laura could not think about that, and she had wondered how her husband could be so insensitive.

Though the doctor told her it was highly unlikely, Laura knew she had felt the thing die. Standing, rising from the bed that morning, a slight pain in her side, insignificant, she would have thought nothing of it, except. The blood didn't come until hours later, but some part of Laura was expecting it, had felt the pain and then later, the drip in her underwear, had wondered for just a minute if she were getting her period. The doctor had said the pain was probably unrelated, a muscle cramp, she must've slept wrong, but she was unconvinced. She'd felt it die – does Kevin know what it's like to carry that?

Having put the pizza in the oven, Kevin sits now at the kitchen table, pulling the daily newspaper from its plastic wrap, scanning the headlines. The silence is maddening. She hasn't turned the television on. He thinks about the calls they should make, to his parents and hers. He does not want to hear their cries of sympathy, their packaged responses, “Everything's going to be okay,” “Time will heal this.” Perhaps even secrets, from one mother or the other, “It happened to me, too, you know.”

Of course, it happens all the time. Kevin is sure he read that somewhere, it happens more than people think, life goes on. He knows marriages survive this sort of thing, that the silence is only temporary, but his is not just any marriage and his wife is not like other wives. Laura, the beauty he'd met eight years ago, in college, the dancer. Such strength in the way she moved, he remembers. It had been the thing that first attracted him. Only after they began dating did she reveal the truth in who she was. Her dancing, in a sense, had been a sort of mask for her and a deceit for Kevin and the other men who came before. Inside, she was entirely vulnerable and painfully sensitive. Kevin remembers something he said during their first fight, though now he can't remember what the fight had been about - “It's nothing personal.” And her reaction, such anger, “I hate that phrase! It's always personal!”

He hears Laura rise from the couch – finally, some movement – and a drawer opens. He stands and peeks into the living room, she can't see him, and she is standing at the bookshelf, fidgeting with something, and as Kevin watches her, he notices that her body hasn't changed in all the years he's known her, still so lean and strong. She turns toward the sofa, and Kevin strains to see what she has done, and finally, with a flicker in the corner of his eye, he sees it, she's lit a candle.

Laura knows he's watching her, listening. It is the thing she loves most about Kevin and still the thing that drives her most crazy, that he is so attentive. She loves, too, that he cannot be fooled, that at times, he seems to see through her. When she met Kevin, she'd been waiting for a man like him. Laura so willingly engaged in the charades, wanting to appear independent and determined and feminist, like the dancers in some of her classes, yet while trying to convince, she was begging to be discovered. When Kevin held her for the first time, she remembers, it was like a quiet resignation, a peaceful surrender. She let go of the games and expectations, and just was. Brilliantly free, feeling safe and protected and, to be honest, feminine.

The down side in that liberation, and there is always a down side, is that often Kevin expects her to be weak. She imagines that while being with him had made her feel, for the first time, like a true woman, it also made him feel like a man. To protect her has become a part of his identity, certainly a part of their identity together, as a married couple. She'd wondered before what might make him vulnerable, had observed him closely as they sat in movie theaters watching tearjerkers, looking for a sign of emotion. She's ashamed to admit that once she'd even fantasized about his father's funeral, wondering if that might be the thing that would make him cry. She'd imagined taking his face in her hands as the tears came, kissing the spots where they landed, holding his big, muscular body in her tiny one, as he shuddered with the sobs.

It makes her angry to think about the thing that is happening now, the thing they aren't talking about, because Kevin expects her to be weak, and she feels weak, and she is not sure which came first.
The refrigerator opens, and Kevin grabs a beer. He checks on the pizza. There is a card hanging on the refrigerator door, it came with the flowers Laura's parents sent after learning they were pregnant. It says, “We can't wait for the new addition to our family! All the best as you begin your journey as parents. Love, Mom & Dad.” Kevin contemplates throwing it away.

He walks into the living room, and is struck by how beautiful his wife is, how she has always seemed, though hard for him to admit, more beautiful in her pain. He'd noticed earlier, too, when he found her in the bathroom, sitting in front of the toilet, and he'd had the thought that she must've vomited, remembers distinctly saying to himself, it's to be expected. But as he approached, she looked up at him, and he'd seen the glassy eyes, the tears that had gathered around them, they made her blue eyes look like crystal, and she was not hysterical, Laura was rarely dramatic, but then he'd looked down, into the toilet, and seen not vomit but blood.

Kevin is standing now, she senses him behind the sofa, and seconds later, feels his fingers in her hair.

“Babe?” he says quietly. She throws her head back, the whisper feels warm, she wants more. He leans over and kisses her ear, and she is just feeling it, she tells her mind to stop working, closes her eyes and summons blackness behind them.

Kevin tries to remember the last time they made love because they needed to, wanted to. In the last few months, it's been so intentional, scheduled, even. For one purpose, to make a baby. He wants her now, and as he kisses her face, he slides his hands down her body, over her breasts. He hears her wince and he pulls them away.

The doctor had been clear. Six weeks. Rest. Then, try again. Laura doesn't want to try anymore. She, like her husband, feels like something was taken from them, the minute they began having sex to conceive. Kevin is sitting next to her now, and she can see his desire, is both thankful for and disgusted by it.

Kevin is feeling something strange, unfamiliar, something that perhaps he's felt before but always contained. The emotion now seems to be choking him, it is everywhere, in his bones, even. Perhaps it is the memory that comes to him, the memory of the last time they made love for the pleasure of it, it was the night Laura showed him the pregnancy test. It had been celebratory, fun. After Laura came, he remembers, she'd burst into laughter, so hard she cried, and through her smile, she'd whispered, “I love you.” Kevin had been thinking, there is nothing better than this.

It's Laura, finally, who breaks the silence. “I'm going to take a bath,” she says, and stands, heads for the stairs. He tries to tell her he loves her, but this thing is choking him. Instead, he watches her climb the steps until she disappears.

He cries only for a minute, and only to himself, and wonders more about how long this will last, and if things will be different in the morning.

The oven timer sounds, and Kevin realizes he's not hungry, and never was.

title: The Thing We Aren't Talking About

question: Why is Kevin finding it so difficult to know what to do?

answer: Laura has just miscarried. It's the unspoken thing between them. She is convinced that she felt the fetus die. Kevin has thoughtlessly suggested that they can try to conceive another baby in a few weeks.

question: Why is the couple not phoning family to tell them of the situation

answer: They don't want to hear the packaged responses and cries of sympathy. They are not ready to hear that everything will be okay or that time will heal. They don't want to hear how others may have had a similar experience.


text:
John Kobylt and Ken Chiampou, the immigrant-bashing Los Angeles radio personalities who were suspended earlier this year when they referred to Whitney Houston as a “crack ho” and marveled that the late pop singer “took this long” to die, are back on the air and up to their old tricks.

In the August 3 edition of the “John & Ken Show,” the duo took up for the Federation for American Immigration Reform (FAIR), an anti-immigrant organization that the Southern Poverty Law Center has called a hate group since 2008 because of its virulent and false attacks on non-white immigrants.

“The Federation for American Immigration Reform, I think, has been defined by some of these think tank organizations as a hate group,” Chiampou said.

“Really? The Federation for American Immigration Reform, which just researches the facts concerning America’s immigration policies, puts out reports concerning the amount of dollars spent on illegal immigrants, goes up and through that. But because some of their stuff points out the truth, which the other side doesn’t like, concerning how many illegals we have in this country, how much it costs this country, our failing policies, politicians who don’t stand up for our laws, who don’t stand up for border patrol, how they are suddenly labeled a hate group.”

OK, Ken, we’ll bite.

First, a quick factual correction. FAIR doesn’t “just” research “the facts” about immigration policy. It is a lobbying organization. This is no secret. On its own website, under “Our Objectives,” FAIR said it seeks “to influence public policy directly by lobbying (to the extent permitted by our tax status) and by protecting the citizens' rights in the courts.” Its “mission,” in part, is to “advocate immigration policies that will best serve American environmental, societal, and economic interests today and into the future.”

So there’s that.

And then there’s the “facts” FAIR puts out there, the alleged “truth” that, you say, is so disliked by the “other side.”

Sometimes FAIR’s “facts” are true. More often, they’re debatable, culled as they are from dubious sources like FAIR’s sister organization, the Center for Immigration Studies.

The bottom line is, FAIR doesn’t peddle facts; it peddles hate. Its lobbying and legal efforts – such as the campaign that led to Arizona’s SB 1070 and Alabama’s HB 56 – are based on fomenting fear, on exploiting racial tensions and economic anxieties to convince people that they had better not let any more “aliens” into their country.

FAIR founder John Tanton, a man with a lengthy record of friendly correspondence with Holocaust deniers, a former Klan lawyer and leading white nationalist thinkers, has repeatedly suggested that racial conflict will be the outcome of immigration. In 1998, he told a reporter that whites would inevitably develop a racial consciousness because “most people don't want to disappear into the dustbin of history,” and added that once whites did become racially conscious, the result would be “the war of each against all.”

Dan Stein, FAIR’s president, is no better. “Immigrants don't come all church-loving, freedom-loving, God-fearing,” he said in 1997. “Many of them hate America, hate everything that the United States stands for. Talk to some of these Central Americans.”

Need more examples? Former Colorado Gov. Richard Lamm, a longtime member of FAIR's board of advisors, once said that “new cultures” in America were “diluting what we are and who we are.” And Joseph Turner, FAIR’s former Western field representative, once accused Mexican immigrants of turning California into a "third world cesspool.”

Not to mention FAIR’s “suggested reading” on immigration, which includes white nationalist Peter Brimelow’s_Alien Nation_, a book whose central thesis is that America should remain a country dominated by whites.

FAIR also recommends Pat Buchanan’s _State of Emergency: The Third World Invasion and Conquest of America_, which argues that America’s shift away from being white-dominated is "one of the greatest tragedies in human history.”

So yes, John and Ken, FAIR is a hate group. Not because it promulgates “facts” and “truths” its opponents would rather ignore but because it promotes hatred of immigrants, especially non-white ones.

By defending racism, encouraging xenophobia and nativism, and giving its all to efforts to keep America white, FAIR has more than earned its place in the pantheon of hate groups. That is where it belongs, and that is where it will stay.

question: What is FAIR?

answer: The Federation of American Immigration Reform is described by the author as an anti-immigrant organization that the Southern Poverty Law Center has called a hate group since 2008 due to its virulent and false attacks on non-white immigrants.

question: Who is Ken Chiampou?

answer: The author describes him as an immigrant-bashing Los Angeles radio personality.

question: Why are FAIR's facts debatable?

answer: They are taken from "dubious sources" like FAIR's sister organization, the Center for Immigration Studies.

question: Why does the author consider FAIR to be a hate group?

answer: The author says their legal and lobbying efforts are based on promoting fear, on exploiting racial tensions, and economic anxieties to convince people that they shouldn't let immigrants into their country.

question: What is Arizona's SB 1070?

answer: That information can't be found in the document.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: The author of this document discusses when LA-based radio personalities, John Kobylt and Ken Chiampou, defended FAIR, Federation of American Immigration Reform. The author gives their opinion and lists facts about the organization, calling it a hate group.


text:
“Help!”

All I hear anymore. “Help” this, “help” that. Shut the fuck up. Nowadays, when I hear “Help,” I respond with “Bang.” That way, they can never say that filthy word again.

I don’t know who I am anymore, to be perfectly honest. At this point, I’m just trying to get by. It’s hard sometimes – impossible, even – but I always pull through. I have to, for her.

I walk about a half-mile back to “The Hole.” Well, to anyone else, I guess it’s just “A Hole” to everyone else, but that’s when I shoot them and tell them that that’s what I am.

“I’m home,” I mumble, with a half-hearted smile. It’s hard, out here – but she keeps me going. She motivates me. However, I only have two for her today.

*“What do you have for me, sweetheart?”* says that beautiful, silky-smooth voice. Buttery, almost; except I’m not fond of butter.

Goddammit. I’ve only been her servant for a few weeks, but I already see that she isn’t happy with my progress for the day.

*“This isn’t enough,”* she softly murmurs, *”It’s just not enough.”*

I’m sorry.

This is my fault.

“My condolences, ma’am. I will make it up to you tomorrow, I swear upon my life.”

I do swear. I mean it, honestly; she means everything to me, and I won’t disappoint her.

I hope.

Six hours pass, I open my eyes to see my brown, slightly molding ceiling.

I walk to the bathroom and splash my face, not even noticing how dark and chunky the water is. On my way out of my bedroom, I catch a quick bite to eat – a slice of sweet, whole wheat bread, with only a little bit of dirt on it.

“I’m out for today, ma’am,” I yell on my way out the door. No response, as usual; she knows where I am and where I need to go at all times. She’s so smart; I wish I could be as smart as her.

The sun peeks out halfway over the eastern hillside as I feel a slight warm breeze on the back of my neck. It’s silent, as usual; No birds, no cicadas, no leaves rustling in the summer breeze, nothing. Just the way I like it.

I stop, just as a hand on a clock with the batteries removed. Well, in my life, more like the hand on the clock bashed in with a sledgehammer before being eaten and shit out of a sumo wrestler.

I see one, about 300 yards away from me, slightly north-west of “The Hole”. She’s probably in her 60s, if I was to guess, due to her greying hair pulled back into a neat bun and her fashion sense of disgusting flowers and neon colors. I hate flowers.

I hold my arms out in front of me, waiting for the perfect shot - I can’t hold my breath yet, I have to wait until she’s perfectly in range – and I wait. She’s still running towards me, yelling the usual – “Help!” – I guess she has bad eyesight. I cock the revolver, waiting for this dumb bitch to notice that these are her last moments. I don’t know how she’s lived this long, honestly – most don’t make it past 30, if they make it at all. Whatever. It’s not my problem anymore.

Five more for the day. Five! I get back to the hole with my bounty dragging behind me and leave it proudly on display for her to see once I call her. I’ve never achieved five before; my previous record was three and a half (it should’ve been four but she doesn’t like the smaller ones).

“I’m home!” I say excitedly, without realizing that these will be the last words I have the honor to speak to her.

*“What do you have for me, sweetheart?”*

That silky smooth voice.

I cut myself on one of her tendrils in my excitement to give her the score for the day.

I watch, with much fascination, as she devours all five bodies for the day.

*“I’m so, so proud of you, sweetie,”* she tells me in her voice that reminds me of warm blankets on a cold winter day, *“So proud. You can join me.”*

What?

Is she serious? This can’t be real.

I nod with more vigor than a five-year-old boy after being asked if he wants ice cream after a fun day at the local pool.

As I feel her warm, spiky tentacles absorb my pathetic human body, I finally feel at peace.

I’ve ascended.

title: [SF] Ascension

question: What is "The Hole?"

answer: The place where the narrator and the creature with tentacles and a woman's voice live.

question: Who are the main characters in the story?

answer: The narrator and the tentacled creature woman.

question: What is the narrator looking to provide for the woman?

answer: Fresh human corpses.

question: What is the narrator's relationship with the woman?

answer: He serves the woman (creature).

question: Write a ~6 sentence summary.

answer: A man (the narrator) lives in "The Hole" and is a servant for a tentacled creature that calls him sweetheart using a woman's silky smooth voice. It seems the man is under a spell and doesn't know who he is anymore. He hunts and kills fellow humans, which the creature then devours. When the man manages to kill five people, the creature tells him she's proud of him and he can join her. Tentacles absorb the man's body and he finally feels at peace. He's ascended.


text:
							Green is the Grass
	I remember being afraid that we were going to hit the sun, as we floated up and up.  Squinting up at that great yellow ball, Uncle Scott must have been able to see the anxiety in my face.  Putting a hand on my shoulder he said "Why so scared Al? Nothing can touch us up here." But his word meant little, without Mimi there to hold my hand and tell me I had nothing to fear. She was down on the ground, drifting further and further away. Was she thinking about me? Was she worried for me? Or was she just relieved that she got a break from holding my hand for half an hour. Uncle Scott's hot air balloon could only hold four, so she and mom decided to sit this one out and let the boys have some time alone. It didn't take much to tune out my uncle's blabbering about the mechanisms and the physics of his new toy.  Dad was listening intently, but my older cousin John seemed just as disinterested as I was, for other reasons of course. I looked down again to see ant sized versions of Mimi and Mom sitting on our blue and white checkered picnic blanket, lounging in the shade of the solitary oak tree; that wasn't nearly as scary as looking up at the sun.
	That was six years ago, now I'm the one on the ground, and Mimi is gone.  We used to spend so much time together, my sister and I. This field was our favorite spot in the whole world. The two off us would come out here for picnics and spend the whole day laying in the tall green grass, looking at the clouds. The field itself  was gigantic,  but we would almost never go more than 300 yards from the highway, because that was where our tree was.  A venerable white oak, standing 80 feet above the ground. Its ancient, gray branches reaching out in all directions, twisting and turning with no discernable pattern. The lowest branch hung just low enough for me to reach it if I was sitting on Mimi's shoulders, but I was always too scared to climb higher.  Mimi was always trying to get me to be brave; trying to get me to face my fears. She said it would make me stronger, that once I did I wouldn't be affraid of them anymore. "Go ahead!" she would say, "I know you can do it! You just have to want it!" But I never believed her, back then I figured I would always be afraid.  But as long as Mimi would always be there to hold my hand, I wouldn't need to be brave.
	Mimi was my older sister, she was only 3 years older than me but from looking at us you'd think it was more than that.  She was always a tall girl, about six feet, the tallest girl at our school. She had light brown hair and dark green eyes, like me, with a face that reminded everyone of the sea, even those who had yet to see the ocean and marvel in it's beauty.  At school Mimi had lots of friends, but that never stopped her from talking to me during lunch, and sticking up for me. Being much smaller than most of the other students, I was the natural recipient of their boredom and the source of their entertainment. But not when Mimi was around, no one would even think about tormenting me with her at my side; not after she broke Sammy Nelson's nose freshman year. He'd shoved my back up against a locker and she shoved his pale, freckley face into the neighboring locker, taking out a solid chunk of his red hair in the process. His face was an inch away from mine so the slam sounded like someone dropped a bowling ball on the hood of a car, plus the added crunch of the bones in his nose shattering.  She got suspended for that, but she was okay with it. "Worth it" she would always say with a coy manner and a wink.
	It was almost one year ago, but I remember it all too well. May 25, 2012, the first day of summer, also my 15th birthday.  I woke up at 8:35, unusually late, to my parents telling me that Mimi was already at the oak tree, waiting for me with a surprise. I put on my favorite Modest Mouse t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans as quickly as I could.  I mounted my Specialized six speed and made my way to the field, a ride I had made over a hundred times; it was only two miles down the road.  When I had finally arrived at the field the anticipation was killing me. I ran out to the tree with my bike at my side, but I didn't see Mimi.  I circled around the tree twice to no avail; she was nowhere to be found, or at least nowhere to be seen.  But she was there; our blue and white, checkered picnic blanket had been roughly sprawled out on the grass. It basked in the sun right where the shaded blades of grass met their lighter, warmer relatives. "Not a bad idea." I thought to myself. I plopped down on top of the blanket, lying on my back with my arms and legs spread out wide, starfish style.  Just days before, a late spring rain had fallen, leaving the grass a new, bright green. A green that seemed to shine, a green that gave off just as much light at the sun in the sky; the two of them, sun and grass, worked together to make the cleanest, freshest, most beautiful day. My fingers found a hole in the blanket where a tuft of that grass was reaching out, looking for it's sun.  I gathered the fresh green grass into my fist and yanked, I then raised my hand above my head, and let the grass float down onto my face.
	Just then, the leaves on the end of the branch that loomed over my head twitched, ever so slightly; she's not as sly as she thinks she is.  I hoped up onto my feet and trotted over the the base of the tree.  I scanned all of the lower branches, once again circling the trunk of the tree like a young girl might circle a may-pole.  "Hmf, maybe she's not here." I thought out loud.
	"Happy birthday loser!" shouted the branches.
	"Okay, where the hell are you?"
	"Look up!" I looked up. "Higher you tard!"
	Her voice, I love her voice. I will always love her voice.  It was a soft, warm voice.  It had a depth to it, not a manish depth, but a smart, thoughtful depth.  But the way she spoke was just feminine enough. I craned my head back, as far as i could, and did another spin, still looking. "I bet you think your real funny! Where the hell are you Meems?"
	"Right here!" her head popped out from behind a thick branch.  She was way up there, near the very top, fifty feet high at least. "Happy Birthday Alex." she shouted.  Even if she was yelling at the top of her lungs, her voice still rang with relaxation and care, as if it were its own entity.  "Come up here, I want to show you something!"
	"I don't think I can even reach the lowest branch!" I ran around to the other side of the tree where that low hanging branch floated just low enough to where the tips of my fingers could graze it.  I leaped once, couldn't get a hold.  I jumped a second time; this time I was able to wrap my hands around the branch.  "Got it." I whispered to myself.  I pulled as hard as I could but I couldn't manage to get my armpits to hook over the branch.  It was like trying to do a pull up in P.E. class, only harder.  Everyone in P.E. laughed at me when I couldn't do a single one.  "Hey! I can't do it!" I shouted. To be perfectly honest I probably could have made it on top of the branch if I tried hard enough, I just didn't want to.  I knew that if I could get off the ground and onto the branch, I would get ten feet high and wet my pants.  I hate heights. Mimi understood.
	"Okay I'll come down! It was just a bird's nest" --a relief. She bounced down from branch to branch with such ease, it was amazing.  "So, how does it feel to be fifteen?" She asks as she hops down the tree.
	"Uhhhh, I dunno. How's it feel to be a monkey?"
	"Pretty damn good. You should try it. Hey, check this out." Now she was about 25 feet off the ground, standing on a good thick branch.  "Here's your real present!" She kicked a plank of wood off of the branch and it came sailing down, followed by two lengths of thick, hemp rope.  It came to a halt two and a half feet away from the grass.
	"No frickin' way! That so cool! Meems thanks so much, I love it." I plopped my ass down right on top of the swing and started pumping my legs, propelling me back and forth, up and down.  I look up and she is sitting right in between the two ropes directly above me.
	"You really like it?"
	"I love it, it's awesome! Did you do this all by yourself?"
	"Yep! You know dad can't keep a secret.  I'm glad you like it."
	The swing was amazing.  Not because I love swings, but because I love this spot.  I love our spot.  This swing made it ours.  It was the definitive stamp that said "We found this place, and we made it our own." Sure we'd carved our names of the great thick tree trunk, but this was more, this was hard to miss.
	"Hey I bet you're hungry!" I was. "I brought us some-- AH!"
	She landed six feet away from me, completely still aside from a twitch in her foot.  A dark red drop of blood trickled down from her left ear.
	The rest of the day was a steady blur. The blue and red flash of sirens will forever be the backdrop of any memory I carry of that day.
	Now, here I lie, one year later, the back of my head resting on that blue and white checkered picnic blanket once again, yet this blanket cannot manage to stop my head from spinning. All of these memories stirring my emotions up like the wind stirring the fallen leaves under the oak tree. I turn my head to the side, facing the open field with nothing obstructing my view.  Either a lack of recent rainfall has repressed the sheen that the grass needed to truly connect with the sun, or my melancholy is repressing the joy that I used to get from melting into the field.  It would be a lie to say that It didn't take every iota of courage I possessed in order to make my way back to this field, our field.
	That's right, our field, Mimi's and my field. It still is our field. I owe her that much at least; it will never just be a field, not even the field. It will always be our field. Tears swell up; I push them back. I can't cry, Meems wouldn't want me to cry. Maybe walking will help. I take three paces in the opposite direction of the tree. No, I'm here. I turn around on my heels and beeline for the swing.
	Now there's no pushing back the tears, they're here, and they're real. For the first time since she left, they're here. I sit on the swing without thinking about it. I assume that the image of her falling through the air, gracefully and quietly, will rush up and hit me in the face; it doesn't. Now I'm angry. How could she do that? How could she leave me? Doesn't she know I still need her? Doesn't she know I still want her to hold my hand?  Although, its not like anyone messes with me at school anymore; they wouldn't dare. I start pumping my legs for the second time. Now I'm bawling, but it's okay. Mimi would have wanted me to cry.
	The grass is suddenly much greener, the sun much warmer, the air much cleaner, and the day is much brighter. My swinging comes to a stop, along with my tears.  I rise from the swing and see, for the first time, neatly painted on the wooden plank, in red and blue paint, are the words "Alex, Keep on swinging. Love, Mimi" What a dork, she will always be able to make me laugh.

title: [MF] A dark little soemthing I wrote. Imput appreciated.

question: Summarize how Mimi treated the narrator.

answer: Mimi seemed to be a protective older sister to the narrator. She used to hold his hand and tell him he has nothing to fear. She always encouraged him to be brave. The narrator felt that when Mimi was holding his hand, he didn't have to be brave. When he was bullied in school, she would stand up for him. She once broke his bully's nose and got suspended, but said it was worth it. On the narrator's 15th birthday, she was thoughtful enough to build him a swing at their tree and painted the words "Alex, keep on swimming". Even after her death, the narrator feels that Mimi would want him to be brave and not cry, but would also tell him it's okay to cry.

question: Summarize the story's tragic incident.

answer: On the narrator's 15th birthday, he and his sister Mimi are at "their" oak tree. Mimi had climbed what seemed to be 50 feet into the tree. When she goes to retrieve some food for them, she falls from the tree to her death. The narrator can only remember the blue and red flash of sirens, as the rest of the day was a blur. Her death leaves the narrator feeling many emotions, including abandoned.

question: Summarize the emotions the narrator feels about Mimi's death.

answer: The day Mimi dies, the narrator seems to be in shock as the rest of the day was a blur. A year later, it takes all of his courage to go back to his and Mimi's spot. The location stirs up many emotions in his head and it causes his head to spin. Mimi's death makes him question why she would leave him and makes him angry. He also feels melancholic. The narrator feels conflicted about crying, but eventually realizes Mimi would want him to. The sun comes out, and the narrator is able to discover the note Mimi wrote on the swing she made for him. This causes him to realize she will always be able to make him laugh.

question: What does the story say about the color green?

answer: The story mentions the color green several times. The narrator notes the tall green grass that would surround he and his sister when they'd have picnics. The grass once looked a bright, new green after a late spring rain and it's color, the sun, and his sister worked together to make the most beautiful day. After Mimi dies, he sees the grass is duller, but when the sun comes out it becomes greener. This seemingly leads him to a note that Mimi wrote him on the swing she made. Additionally, the narrator mentions how Mimi's dark green eyes made every one think of the sea.

question: Summarize the narrator's parents response to Mimi's death.