text:
Justice (C) 2012-2013 Victor D. Lopez
_______________________________

Time: The all too near future
Place: A courtroom
Setting: Final sentencing for the last remaining capital offense on the books of an apparently kinder, gentler more just world where equality is no longer a mere aspiration.
_____________________________

Justice

The prisoner stared impassively into the camera. The bright lights causing beads of sweat to form above his eyes and forcing him to squint, his perspiration-soaked thinning hair flattened unflatteringly against his forehead. No sound could be heard other than the faint hum of the air conditioning whose airflow was directed from the high ceiling above the high seats of the three judge panel, towards the three judged, keeping their immediate area comfortably cool. The camera trained on them remained a respectful distance away, and no harsh lights illuminated their somber countenances.

All three judges stared at the camera showing no emotion, their hands folded in front of them on the surface of their capacious bench on top of three equal, neat stacks of paper piled before each judge. Everywhere on earth citizens watched the unfolding drama over the neural net that provided a fully immersive experience indistinguishable from reality, effectively placing every citizen of earth in the courtroom as the Chief Judge began to speak in a deep, resonant, clear voice.

“The evidence against you has been examined. This tribunal finds you guilty of the charges against you by a unanimous vote. Have you anything you would like to add before we pass sentence?”

The camera changed back to the prisoner. The lights brightens around him and the heat rises perceptibly, adding fresh fuel to the trickle of sweat flowing down his flushed face, causing a bead of sweat to form at the end of his nose that he cannot swat away because his wrists are restrained by metal bands at the armrests of his chair, outside the viewing range of the camera which has a tight zoom on his face. “I am guilty of no crime,” the prisoner spoke in a low voice full of palpable weariness and resignation.

“You are guilty of the most heinous of crimes,” the Chief Judge contradicted. "That is not open to debate. This is your final chance to make what amends you may to those whom you have harmed through your selfish, deviant act. It will have no effect on the sentencing by this Court.”

“But I have done nothing wrong,” the man emphatically repeated, the perspiration rolling down his neck deepening the growing ring of sweat absorbed by his bright orange jumper, staining a dark collar of moisture around his neck.

“Silence!” the Chief Judge hissed. “The record will show that the prisoner is unrepentant. This Court finds that the prisoner willfully, maliciously and without justification removed his neural connector with the purpose and effect of disconnecting himself from the Net. We further find that the motivating factor for this egregious, willful and repugnant crime was the attempt to abandon the Common Consciousness and establish his individuality separate and apart from the Communal Mind. We further find that the subject is in full possession of his legal faculties and capable of understanding the criminal nature of his acts, and, perhaps most tragically, that he fails to see the enormity of his crime.” The Chief Justice faltered slightly, delivering the final words of the Courts sentence with a slight tremor in his voice. After stopping a moment to compose himself as his learned colleagues looked on impassively, he continued. “It is, therefore, the judgment of this Court that you will forever remain disconnected from the nets from this day forward.”

Upon hearing the Judge’s words the prisoner’s eyes opened wider, attempting to digest their import. Could it be? Could he finally be allowed the freedom to regain his humanity? The unalienable right to be an individual for the first time in his life? The opportunity to live in a world in which he could have original thoughts, genuine emotions, and the opportunity to be different from everyone else? The joy in these words nearly made him faint with relief and unbridled joy, allowing him for the first time in his life the possibility of hope as tears welled in his eyes. He found he could not speak, could not express even the simple words “thank you” to the Court. It was as though he were emerging from a life-long nightmare, as if . . .

“The prisoner’s IP address, 999.999.999.999, shall be erased from the Nets,” the Judge continued as the prisoner’s tears flowed freely. His existence shall be forever stricken from the Collective Consciousness lest it germinate there and once again grow sedition in our midst.” The prisoner wept openly now while smiling broadly. “The death sentence for this most heinous of crimes is hereby commuted so that the prisoner may be allowed the individuality he craved for the rest of his natural life, devoid of the comfort of humanity or the distracting influences of life.”

The Chief Judge then paused and took a deep breath. “It is further ordered by this Court that the prisoner shall have his eyes, eardrums, tongue and olfactory organs surgically removed that he may not see, hear, taste, or speak with any other human being for the rest of his natural life. thereafter, he is to be remanded to a hospital where he shall be restrained to a bed and tended to by robotic life support aids. The sentence of this Court shall be carried out immediately and shall be witnessed by all Citizens of Earth as partial reparation for this most heinous of crimes against humanity.”

The prisoner’s screams lasted only a few moments as an anesthetic was administered and the cameras were re-arranged in preparation for justice to be carried out.

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Justice - from Book of Dreams 2e: Science Fiction and Speculative Fiction Short Stories (c) 2013 by Victor D. Lopez.

title: Justice

question: What does the text say about the prisoner's punishment?

answer: The court decides that instead of the death sentence, the prisoner will be disconnected from the mental network, which is what the prisoner wanted anyways. Their IP address will be erased from the Nets, and their existence will be stricken from the Collective Consciousness. However, their eyes, eardrums, tongue, and olfactory organs will also be surgically removed and they will be placed on life support to prevent them from interacting with anyone else.

question: What does the text say about humanity in the future?

answer: In the story, humanity is interconnected via a neural net, and the only capital offense that remains is disconnecting oneself from that net. Using the net, everyone on Earth is able to experience the prisoner's trial. In addition, everyone on the net is apparently assigned an IP address.

question: What does the text say about the prisoner's family?


split: train

text:
is a 1977 Japanese animated television series produced by Nippon Animation.

Plot

The first scene opens with a letter of arrival from Sherlock Holmes' niece, Angie Islington, a young 12-year-old noble girl who loves to investigate cases. One day, she stumbles upon a case of robbery which involves the Queen of The United Kingdom's ring that had gone missing during a garden party. Rewarded with a new title of honorary detective and a pendant an emblem of recognition, she embarks on an adventure. She is assisted by Inspector Jackson, a detective of the Scotland Yard, his dashing assistant Michael, and Angie's best friend Franck. They are going to settle numerous problems and bring peace back into the town.

Settings

Originally planned by Takahara Planning to have a story of a Gypsy girl travelling across Spain looking for her mother, with unbeknown reason transformed into a British detective drama. [1] Set in the 19th century of London, the whole city has an old rustic vibe, yet still appears to be modern. Landmarks one of such is the Big Ben is present in the story giving an insight of the foreign world of English history.

Inspector Jackson is never fond of Angie as he constantly feel threatened by the fact that the 12-year-old girl is much sharper and intelligent, eventually taking his spotlight away from him. Throughout the whole series, Angie has difficulty in gaining trust on adults whom she just met. That thought of doubt however, vanished as soon as they saw the pendant that the Queen awarded to Angie for claiming her lost ring. The pendant has an inscription behind it written “Protect Charlotte in my name; Victoria Queen of England”. Which tells anyone who are brave enough go against her will have to address to the Queen themselves.

Publications

The screening of the series was spread throughout Europe and the Arabs. During the 1980s, the release of Sherlock & Me from Portland Films in the UK and The Casebook of Charlotte Holmes in the U.S. Charlotte Holmes is an animation-only version made by Mexican TV, dubbed in Spanish. In America however, it was edited strangely, by using a real-life clip of Sherlock Holmes and his assistant Doctor Watson, indirectly introducing Angie as his niece through a letter.

In 1982, it was broadcast and dubbed in Italy.

Two years after the first release at the UK market, Charlotte made a second display as a “Bonus Cartoon” on Ringo Goes West, a Mountain Video's production. It is an English dub of Toei's Three Musketeers in Boots.

Angie's activities was last seen at France. In 1990 it was aired on French TV, a total amount of ten years after her debut in most other parts of Europe and thirteen years since she was produced in Japan.

Cast

-   Keiko Han as Angie
-   Hiroko Kikuchi as Poppins
-   Ichirō Nagai as Jackson
-   Kaneta Kimotsuki as Benjamin
-   Kazuyuki Sogabe as Michael
-   Miyoko Asou as Barbara
-   Seiko Nakano as Frank
-   Takeshi Aono as Roger
-   Tetsuo Mizutori as Alfred
-   Toku Nishio as Jimmy
-   Yōko Asagami as Helen
-   Yūji Fujishiro as Hirari

Broadcast

_Angie Girl_ aired on ABC from 13 December 1977 to 27 June 1978.

Some episodes of _Angie Girl_ were released in the United States as part of _The Casebook of Charlotte Holmes_.[2] The stories were framed by live-action segments featuring actors Michael Evans and Bernard Fox playing the roles of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.[3]

[1]

[2]

[3]

title: Angie Girl

question: What does the text say about the challenges Angie faces and how she solves them?

answer: In addition to the mystery she's after, she doesn't have the support of Inspector Jackson. Adults, in general, have trouble trusting her because she's 12 years old. However, she carries the ring of Queen Victoria herself, which instructs people to help Angie. With the help of the ring and her intellect, she manages to solve the mystery.

question: What does the text say about Sherlock Holmes' exploits?


text:
He knew the moment she entered the bar.  If anyone had been watching him in his secluded corner, they would have noticed the slight tightening of his shoulders.  Otherwise, to all the world he was just a morose man staring into his drink with his right hand poised above an open journal as if waiting for dictation.  His statuesque pose opposite the drop of life that entered at that instant.

Watching her movements with his peripheral vision, the man admired the woman’s gracefulness as she danced between the tables and chairs.  She walked past his booth without a glance.  When the woman rounded the corner into the back section, he visually relaxed and let out a tired sigh.  Placing a ten dollar bill on the table, the man gathers his belongings as if to leave.

As he knelt down next to his backpack, the man stops and turns pale.  A chill runs down his spine as he glances over his shoulder.  Surprised emerald eyes stare at him from midst a heart shaped face.  The woman stands at the back corner with her hand braced on the wall, giving the look of a deer caught in headlights. They lock eyes and, for a moment, the universe stops its incessant ticking.  The man recovers first, standing up, brushing his coat, and while eyes still bound together, gestures to the opposite side of the booth.

Breaking eye contact first, she looks around the room in panic.  Seeing no avenue of escaping with dignity, the woman lets out an exasperated huff, the glides over to the secluded table. Motioning the waiter over she orders a Guinness for both her and the man.  They sat in familiar, nearly companionable, silence while they waited for their drinks.  When the beverages arrive, they both thanked the server then grew quiet again.  The Silence fully blossoms around them as they sit alone, together.

With a small smile, the man gazes at the woman.  He takes in her face, neck, shoulders, then follows her arms down to her fingertips. His touch had known every curve and angle. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath to both capture this fragment of time and shatter the growing silence.  Clearing her throat in indignation, she startles him back to the present. The man blushes, not used to being caught unawares. Silence, again, settles around them like a wool blanket on a mid-summer’s day.

The door crashes open, breaking their reveries. In strided a conglomerate of shrieking harpies announcing their intention to party the night away.  The woman looks relieved and glancing sheepishly at the man, gets up to go.  One of the birds disengages from the group, hurling herself into the woman’s arms, squealing above the sounds normally heard by the human ear. Not a glance is given the man as they go back to the herd.

Silence once again settles in the corner, bearing all its weight upon the man’s shoulders. He looks tired and beat up, almost lost. He only looks up once as he takes his writings out of his pack. Then he opens his journal and begins to write.

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

This was an story prompt for my creative writing class where we had to write a sort of dialogue between two people who once dated in the past and have ran into each other at the bar. We couldn't have them talk about the relationship or how it ended and each of them have something they are holding back from the other person that we can't talk about as well. I had decided to do a "no dialogue" dialogue.

Please tell me what you think, how I can improve, what should be expanded upon.

PS. I'm a Veteran with a traumatic brain injury and while I have always written poems/short stories, my ability to do so has been hampered. My team and I believe that getting back into writing will help with the healing and so I come to Reddit for a little extra push to get better. Thanks! :)

title: The Words Unspoken

question: Who is the protagonist watching?

answer: The protagonist sits in a secluded corner of the bar. He recognizes the woman that arrives. She walks past him and he tries to leave. As he packs his things he realizes that the woman recognized him. They sit together in silence until they are interrupted by a group of people walking in the bar. The woman leaves with one of the drunk women from the group and joins them. The man opens his journal again and continues writing.

question: What does the story say about the woman's feelings about the protagonist?

answer: The protagonist sits in a secluded corner of the bar. He recognizes the woman that arrives. She walks past him and he tries to leave. As he packs his things he realizes that the woman recognized him. It seems as though the woman had a relationship with him and they sit together in silence. A group of people walk in and break the silence and the woman quietly leaves with the group. The protagonist writes in his journal once more.

question: What does the story say about break ups?

question: What does the story say about the man's journal?


text:
She is beautiful.  She is innocent.  She is amazing.
She is a girl whose beauty I cannot describe.  Her golden hair flows over her shoulders with absolute perfection.  Her eyes can light up the darkest of night.  all I want is for her to be in my arms.  One thing is stopping me: fear. Fear of rejection.  If you're ever reading this, just take the signs in.  This isn't want.  It's need.
I need her.

title: her

question: What is the narrator's gender?

answer: The narrator is implied to be male since the narrator is expressing romantic desire towards a woman and there is no indication that the narrator sees any other obstacle other than the fear of rejection. Also, the phrase "for her to be in my arms" is generally implied that the speaker is taking on the role of a male.


text:
I like kids. Don’t get me wrong, I like kids in a strictly plutonic way. It’s just that I use the word “plutonic” much looser than average folk. Sometimes I’ll see a kid and be like “Damn, that’s a pretty hot kid,” but other times I’m like “Meh, that kid isn’t as hot as that other kid I saw earlier. Goddamn, if I were a kid…” but I digress. I don’t want to come off as ham-fisted. But can you imagine having hams for fists? Talk about fisting kids! This is my defense of why I did that to those kids: a memoir.
	The best place to start in my opinion would be the beginning. I’m no big wig, spouting out droll impressions of the Caravaggio hanging on the wall of some Mr. Monopoly cock sucker’s penthouse office while sipping aged scotch and saying words like “proletariat” and “China” and “If my dick were any bigger you could stick a pig on it and slow roast that mother fucker, using my secret sauce I learned on my secret family’s vacation to Cairo.” So one day I learned that my cool uncle died and left me his ice cream truck. It was the cat’s pajamas. I sat in the back seat of my mother’s hatchback (lesbian), legs crossed so my older brother couldn’t tell I had an enormous erection. After what felt like a real long time, we arrived at the place where people pick up stuff from dead people. I don’t remember what it was called. I can’t remember most of that day because my blood was about eighty percent endorphins. I felt like I was on top of the world. It was the cat’s meow. The bee’s knees. The tickle I get on my tip when I put peanut butter on it and make my dog lick it off.
	As I reflect upon it, I remember we were going to the mall to pick up the ice cream truck. As we drove by the big Dave and Buster’s sign, a restaurant I was all too familiar with (the first time I got dome was while I was playing Time Crisis 2 at that exact restaurant), I slouched down in an effort to hide myself. I would say I’m well known at the mall scene, as I frequent there to beat up middle schoolers to establish myself as the most popular kid at the mall. It didn’t matter that I’m an 18 year old college student; to be honest I beat them up so I can try to live out a fantasy I’ve had since birth of being the coolest, toughest kid in the whole middle school. I also sold cigarettes to them on the side to make some scratch. My face has been put on posters under my pseudonym “Enrique Horticulture.” I’ve been beaten mercilessly by the mall cops, a part of my life I’ve tried (unsuccessfully) to repress, for fear of those memories reemerging as I age and becoming aggressively violent towards pregnant women.
	Anyways, the ice cream truck. My stiff penis in hand, I stepped out of the car. I remember it was kinda cloudy that day, but not too cloudy, you know? But even so, the little sunlight that there was still glistened off that ice cream truck. I covered my face with my free arm, shielding my fragile eyes from the holy glowing light from the ice cream truck. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I was able to get a better look at that ice cream truck. And it was everything I could have hoped for. It was almost perfectly square; the lawyer even said the edges were “dangerously sharp” and that they “murdered my dog.” The only indication that it was an ice cream truck was because the words “ice cream truck” were spray painted across the sides of the vehicle in a what I assume started as a neon orange, but had faded into a color not unlike a poop you would have and then call a doctor immediately afterwards out of concern for your wellbeing. There didn’t appear to be a speaker system for music, but I could tell that there were some enormous sub woofers in the back because of how weighed down the rear of the van looked. There wasn’t a menu of what was offered on the outside, just a piece of paper taped to the side that under closer inspection said “popsicles or fuck off.” There wasn’t any fancy ornament on the top of the van. What I found instead was my cool dead uncle’s taxidermied dead body, strapped to the top by really frayed ropes that looked like a cat that went through a wash and dry cycle with the laundry. It was the greatest piece of American engineering I had ever laid eyes on.
	I walked around it slowly, running my fingers along the slowly rusting exterior. I leaned in close and licked it while my mother talked with the lawyer about how a child could own such a death trap. The lawyer, (who, fun fact, turned out to be an arsonist) said it’s my cool uncle’s will and I can drive it as much as I damn well please. I lost it as those words left his mouth. I threw open the door to get in the driver’s seat (the keys were lost years ago) and felt the nice shag he had put on the steering wheel. I saw that my cool uncle left a note on the rearview mirror. As I tore it off, the mirror came off with it. I shrugged, assuming it wouldn’t be a problem until I looked back and saw that there were no windows in the back. I turned back forward to look at the note. It read:
Sawyer,
I know you’ll get the most use out of this.
Your Cool Uncle
	I pressed it against my chest, holding it dear. It’s in my pocket right now, as I write, because I’m Sawyer and I’m writing this. I put it in my pocket and asked the lawyer to give me the keys. He walked around to give them to me as I fantasized about the quantity of cigarettes I could push in the mall parking lot. I took those keys and jammed them hard into the ignition. It took a bit of force to get them to turn, but by god did they turn. The engine gave off some really awful sounds that I think made a nearby newborn baby cry and some dark smoke started to pour out of the cassette tray. But I didn’t care. I was the proud owner of what fits the broadest definition of an ice cream truck.
	I sped home, ecstatic to fill my ice cream truck full of popsicles to sell to the children. I got home and ripped open the freezer door to fill my arms with as many popsicles I could carry. I brought them back to my truck and climbed in back only to find there wasn’t a freezer. In retrospect I should have done a better inspection of the truck when I first got inside of it, but driving it felt better than what I bet losing your virginity to a really hot porn star feels like. Based on the surroundings, I ascertained that my cool uncle was in fact living out of this very ice cream truck. I felt his spirit around me and inside of me. Kinda like Jesus. I was determined to make my cool uncle proud of me and make a name for myself and this ice cream truck I had inherited. I walked to the hardware store to buy spray paint to give the truck a bitchin’ paint job. I worked all night to make it look like the coolest goddamn ice cream truck you’ve ever seen or will see. The next morning I opened the garage door to reveal to the world my pussy-getting ice cream truck. I was rather disappointed by how it looked to be honest. I didn’t open a window and got pretty high and passed out. I really only had time to write “The Happiness Harbinger” along the side and paint some flames that were really only like 3 yellow lines. I was still proud, and I imagine my cool uncle would be too.

title: Why I Did That to Those Kids: A Memoir By Sawyer Rioux

question: Why might the narrator clarify what he means by "liking kids"?

answer: He doesn't want the reader to think he's a pedophile.

question: Why is it strange that he hangs outside the middle school to mess with the students?

answer: He's an 18-year-old college student.

question: Why is it strange that he licks the car his deceased uncle has gifted him?

answer: Cars are usually dirty and likely don't taste good.

question: What might be creepy about the narrator's inheriting an ice cream truck?

answer: There are stories and urban legends about ice cream men's being pedophiles, kidnappers, and child murderers.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: Eighteen-year-old Sawyer has peculiar habits of beating up middle schoolers and selling them cigarettes though he maintains he likes kids but in a "platonic" way. He finds his recently deceased uncle has gifted him with a battered ice cream truck and Sawyer is ecstatic. He paints flames on the sides along with the text "The Happiness Harbinger".


text:
"I think Jim's dead."

These are the last words Martha White expected to hear when she hurriedly answered the ringing phone, mostly just to silence the ringing.  Her mind was still clutching on to fragments of her dream until a voice ripped her into a black hole of reality.

"I think Jim's dead."

The voice was familiar, but it took her a few moments to connect it to a name.  Sean Lovell.  Her son, Jim's, best friend.

"Sean?  What-- what are you talking about?" she asked.
"Mrs. White, I don't know.. I think Jim's--"
"Jim is fine," Martha interrupted, "he's asleep in his room.  It's a school night."
"No, Mrs. White.  Jim snuck out tonight to come to a party in the city and there was a.. he had a few drinks, but we didn't.." Sean didn't seem to know what he was going to say until he said it. He was normally very well spoken, but on the phone tonight, every word seemed a hurdle he couldn't leap.
"I think it would be best if you came to Dr. Grove's as soon as you can.  They won't let me look at the b.." Sean caught his throat, sighed, and continued, "they won't let me make sure it's him.  They want family."

Martha terminated the call and ran out the door towards Jim's room without bothering to get dressed.  As she reached Jim's door, only twenty feet from her own door, she reached up instictively to knock.  Before she could bring her knuckle to the door, she felt her hand halt its course and instead make its way to the handle.  She turned the knob.  The door opened.  Jim wasn't in his room.

--

Dr. Samuel Grove was a wise old man with wise old hands.  His hands were once destined to throw footballs.  He was a high school star until a knee injury that left him limping to this day ended those dreams.  Recently, his hands are good for locating pain and writing reports.  Performing the latter, his left hand is hard at work describing the extent of the injuries to the covered corpse behind him.  The corpse, he was fairly certain, is the boy of a woman that he used to love.  His right hand performs the former as he massages his temples around his glasses.
As he finishes his report, he moves out into the waiting room.  In any other house, this would be the living room, but Dr. Grove long ago turned his home into his private practice.  He kept the feel of a living in tact as much as he could, but over the years the empty spaces began to get filled with magazine holders, water coolers, and brochures for the latest prescription drugs.  This is where Sean Lovell sat staring at his phone.  With a tap, Sean could access any aspect global interconnectivity.  He only stared at his phone, unable to leave his mind.

"Sean, how are you doing?"  Dr. Grove had a wise old voice.
"I keep going over tonight in my head.  Again and again.  I never worry about the small things, but I can't help but feel that if any one of the small things that happened tonight happened differently, Jim wouldn't be here.  I wouldn't be here."
Dr. Grove studied Sean.  He was a good kid who only got in the usual trouble.  This was the most new experience to every happen to him.  Dr. Grove moved in and sat on the yellow cotton couch next to Sean and put his wise hand on the boy's knee.  It would be locating and soothing pain this time.
"The worst part about how we experience time is we only experience it one direction.  The worst part about how we experience memories is thinking that we could outsmart time."  Dr. Grove waited until Sean looked at him to continue, "but people like your friend Jim could make you forget about time and forge new memories.  If you focus now on what you and he could've done instead of what you and he have done, then it'll be a whole lot harder to forget about time and make new memories later."
Sean gave a half smile and a nod of understanding, looked back at his phone, and began to cry.

--

Martha White was on autopilot when she knocked on Dr. Grove's door.  She saw Jim was gone, and now she was here.  She barely remembers getting dressed and driving over as thoughts, worries and outcomes overflowed in her mind.  Dr. Grove answered the door and showed Martha inside.  She asked to speak to Sean Lovell.  Sean was in the waiting room.

"Sean, what happened?  Are you sure it's Jim?"

Martha's voice had worry, wonder, and confusion in it.  All of these blended together and came out as sounding angry.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. White!  I.. we were at a party in the city.  Some kids from high school.. we, Jim, was drinking and he had an argument with a girl.  A big one.  It wasn't even about anything serious.  It was about a school project.  He came up to me and told me he was leaving and then he left.  I.. I'm so sorry Mrs. White..." Sean began to hear his voice rising.  He was losing control of his emotions.
"I didn't think to stop him," Sean continued, "but I went after him about 20 minutes later.  He was coming home, Mrs. White, so I took the road through the woods from the city to avoid traffic lights.  Not even 5 miles in, I saw the police lights, and then I saw his car.  It was.. it was wrapped around a tree."
At this, Martha began to cry and tremble.  Sean moved to console the old woman, and she accepted the consoling.  Sean continued.
"They told me that the ambulance had already taken him here, so I came as soon as I could and called you on the way."

They sat in tears and mutual sadness until Dr. Grove came into the room.

"Mrs. White, Martha, whenever you're ready, I need you to identify the body."
"I'm ready now, Sam," Martha said.  She sniffed and wiped tears from her eyes, and out of habit, she caught herself in the mirror.  *What a sad old woman*.
"I'm sorry I kept you waiting there this long." Martha spoke to Dr. Grove.

Dr. Grove positioned Martha by the side of the table.  He looked at the woman before he put his hands on the sheet covering the body.  This woman was going to lose a son tonight, and any doubt that is holding her together now will soon be gone.
"Take your time Martha," Dr. Grove said as he slowly revealed the corpse, "but tell me, is this your son?  Is this J--"

Martha crumbled to the floor crying at the sight of Jim's long brown hair matted in blood.

title: Jim White

question: Explain Martha's confusion regarding Sean's call.

answer: As far as she knows, Jim is in his room. However, Jim snuck out of the house without her knowledge. So when Sean says Jim is dead, she's confused because she expects Jim to be at home.

question: Summarize how Sean discovered Jim's fate.

answer: 20 minutes after Jim left the party, Sean went after him. He saw Jim's car around a tree a few minutes later.

question: What is the doctor's advice to Sean?

answer: He advises him to focus on what he and Jim experienced in their past instead of going through "what if" scenarios because it's important to not get lost in the past as if there's anything to change.

question: What is the cause of Jim's death?

answer: Traffic accident due to drunk driving.

question: Write a ~10 sentence summary.

answer: "I think Jim's dead." Martha realizes the boy who's speaking is his son Jim's friend, Sean. Sean explains that Jim snuck out of the house to go to a party. Now he's at the doctor's, but they don't allow him to identify the body because he's not family. She checks Jim's room and rushes to the doctor's after seeing he's really gone. There, the doctor tries to console Sean. Martha arrives. Sean elaborates that Jim left the party early after a silly argument with a girl. Sean went after him after 20 minutes and saw his car wrapped around a tree. Martha takes a while before checking the body and collapses in tears the moment she sees his hair.


text:
A unknown person, without name, lives in a cave. Far away from the urban. The person eats meat, and plants, drinks water, and that all from the cave. The person always got a smile ready, and got no prejudices. The person is dumped by there parents when the person was only 6 years old. He look to the birds every day, and feeling not very lonely because there was always some birds in the cave.

But, on a day, someone else was entering in the cave. A other person, what crying and crying.

The person was surprised, and says: Why you're here? Why you're cry?

The crying person: I'm feeling my sad, so sad that I can't even use a word for it.

The person give the crying person a stone scale with water, and asking: Why you're then here? Why you're feel sad?

The crying person was crying harder, and says: Nobody support my, the society not, my family not, and even my parents not. There never supported my with my wish to life just so normal as the rest of the society. I'm just a person who is in a luxury prison, and feeling hopeless and see no escape about it. My dream was also my last hope what making my positive, but because everybody blocking it, I not believe in hope anymore, its all nonsense.

The person seeing how the tears of the crying person drying out, and asking: Why you're here?

The crying person says: Because, I was look to a place to end it all. There is much pains in my life, and I can't restart living on a better, happy way.

The person was become emotional and says: Well, you can restart you life here, and you dream also can be true here. You soul is heavy ruined, and here you can repair it. Do what you will, say what you will say, you're free here to be yourself and make you dreams to a true.

The crying person begins to again cry, but the tears are tears of happiness, and was saying: Very very much thanks, finally a escape, and a good escape.

title: Happiness & Hopeless (First 'short' story, inspirited a bit by my past)

question: Who are the main characters of the story?

answer: The cave-dweller and the crying person.

question: Why is the other person crying?

answer: She feels hopeless because no one is supporting her.

question: Where does the story take place?

answer: A cave far from the urban areas.

question: What is the crying person doing in the cave?

answer: She is looking for a place to end it all because the pain is too much and she feels she can't be happy.

question: Write a ~7 sentence summary.

answer: A man lives in a cave and is happy and content despite being abandoned by his parents there when he was six. He always has a ready smile and has no prejudices. One day, a crying person goes to his cave. The cave-dwelling man gives her water and asks why she's in his cave. She says she wants to end her life because she feels hopeless that no one supports her and feels she can't find happiness. The man talks her out of it and says she can restart her life inside the cave. The crying person begins to shed tears of happiness.


text:
TRDELNÍK (; or rarely TRDLO or TROZKOL) is a kind of spit cake. It is made from rolled dough that is wrapped around a stick, then grilled and topped with sugar and walnut mix.

Origin

Trdelník has several origins. In the mid-19th century it was known as a Slovak dish,[1], and in the 20th century as a Moravian dish.[2][3] A similar pastry was also popular in the Hungarian speaking part of Transylvania (in today's Romania), where it is called kürtőskalács. The word _trdelník_ is of Czech-Slovak origin; the root of this word, _trdlo,_ is the name of the wooden tool the cake ingredients are wrapped around during cooking (which gives it its traditional hollow shape), and can also mean “simpleton” in English (see _trdlo_).

In the 21st century it became popular among tourists in the Czech Republic and Slovakia. Nowadays, _trdelník_ is very popular among tourists as a sweet pastry in many countries, mostly in the Czech Republic. A variation of trdelník with an ice cream filling was popularized by Prague cafés.[4]

The version from the Slovak town of Skalica (_Skalický trdelník_) was registered in December 2007 as a PGI (protected geographical indication) in the European Union.[5] The registration application with the detailed description of the product was published in April 2007 in the Official Journal of the European Union.[6]

Tourism in Prague

Although trdelník is usually presented as “a traditional Czech cake” or “the old Bohemian pastry”, and mentions of “_český trdelník_” can be found in 20th century literature,[7] trdelník is mostly mentioned in literature as a Slovak or Moravian, not Bohemian dish, and the mass spread of this dessert in Prague is recognized to have started more recently. Czech cinematographer and reporter Janek Rubeš argues that trdelník is only made for tourists, and that even the hamburger is more traditional in the Czech Republic.[8]

Skalický trdelník

[Baking of Trdelník] The production of trdelník has a long tradition in the Slovak town of Skalica near the border with the Moravian Slovakian town Hodonín. The original recipe was owned at the end of the 18th century by the cook József Gvadányi, a retired Hungarian general and resident of Skalica. The original recipe then was improved by the inhabitants of Skalica to its final form now known as _Skalický trdelník_.

The society _Skalický trdelník_ was founded in 2004 with the goal of keeping the tradition of the original open fire Trdelník production.

Similar products

[Slices of Skalický trdelník ready for serving. Note the hollow interior created by baking on a cylindrical spit.] [Trdelník booth at a market in Litoměřice.]

-   - Known in Hungary as _Kürtőskalács_

-   - Known in Austria as _Prügelkrapfen_

-   - Known in Germany as _Baumstriezel_

-   - known in Luxembourg as _Baamkuch_, has become a traditional dish served mostly on special occasions, such as weddings.

-   - Sękacz is a similar cake also cooked on a spit, normally over an open fire.

-   - Šakotis or Raguolis (Bankuchinas as known in western part of Lithuania) is made similarly but looks, tastes and is eaten completely different.

-   - _Colac secuiesc_ is a similar cake also cooked on a spit.

-   - Known in Turkey as _makara_

-   - Known in Israel as _kyortush_

-   - Known in South Africa as _stokbrood_

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

title: Trdelník

question: What does the text say about other flavors of Trdelník aside from walnut mix?

question: What does the text say about the origins of Trdelník?

answer: Trdelník has several origins. In the mid-19th century it was known as a Slovak dish, and in the 20th century as a Moravian dish. There was a similar pastry called kürtőskalács, in the Hungarian-speaking part of Transylvania (now Romania). In the 21st century, it became popular in the Czech Republic and Slovakia. The word "trdelník" is of Czech-Slovak origin.

question: What notable changes have been made to Trdelník nowadays?

answer: Today, Trdelník is very popular among tourists as a sweet pastry in many countries, mostly in the Czech Republic. A variation of Trdelník with an ice cream filling became popular in Prague cafés. The version from the Slovak town of Skalica known as Skalický trdelník was even registered as a PGI (protected geographical location) in the European Union in December 2007. At the end of the 18th century, the original recipe was owned by József Gvadányi, a retired Hungarian general, cook, and resident of Skalica. The society of Skalický trdelník was founded in 2004 to keep the tradition of the original open fire Trdelník production.

question: What does the text say about Trdelník?

answer: Trdelník is a kind of spit cake. It is made from rolled dough wrapped around a stick, then grilled and topped with sugar and walnut mix. The word "trdelník" is of Czech-Slovak origin. It is also known (rarely) as Trdlo or Trozkol, which is actually the wooden tool where the cake ingredients are wrapped around during cooking. It gives the Trdelník its traditional hollow shape.


text:
[Katie Hopkins]

Getty

Katie Hopkins has caused controversy once again after saying we need a "final solution" following the Manchester attacks, which are being treated as a terrorist incident. She quickly deleted the tweet – which echoed Hitler's term for the Holocaust – as her followers started condemning her, _The Independent_ reports.

"Don't you even dare, Schofield," she said, directing the tweet at the _Good Morning Britain_ host, Phillip Schofield. "Do not be part of the problem. We need a final solution. #Manchester."

Hopkins has since been reported to the police and there have been calls to have her fired from the _Daily Mail,_ where she is a columnist. This is not the first time she has caused disputes with this issue. In December, the newspaper had to pay out £150,000 in damages for an article Hopkins wrote, where she falsely accused a Muslim family of having extremist links. She was also ordered to apologise, which she did on Twitter, in the middle of the night, presumably so fewer people would see it.

After deleting her "final solution" tweet, Hopkins tweeted again, rewording it to a "true solution". Her words came after police confirmed that 22 people have died in the attacks and 59 are injured, including some children. It is being considered terrorist activity, however no group has yet taken responsibility for it.

This content is created and maintained by a third party, and imported onto this page to help users provide their email addresses. You may be able to find more information about this and similar content at piano.io

question: Who is Katie Hopkins?

answer: She is a columnist for Daily Mail.

question: What is wrong with the term final solution?

answer: It is a term Hitler used for the Holocaust.

question: Is Katie Hopkins racist?

answer: The term final solution is considered racist due to its connection to Hitler and the holocaust. The newspaper she worked for paid damages after Hopkins falsely accused a Muslim family of having extremist links.

question: How did she change her tweet?

answer: She changes final solution to true solution.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: Katie Hopkins posted a tweet that echoed Hilter's idea about the holocaust. She was called out and changed the offensive wording. In the past the newspaper she worked paid damages after she assumed a Muslim family had extremist links.


text:
The DYNASTIC LEFT (, ID) was a Spanish political party founded in 1881 by elements from the Liberal Fusionist Party and the Democratic Progressive Party.[1]

Between 1884 and 1886 most of its members returned to the Liberal Fusionist Party, now rebranded as simply the Liberal Party.[2]

[1]

[2]

title: Dynastic Left

question: What is the Dynastic Left?

answer: It was a Spanish political party.

question: When was Dynastic Left founded?

answer: 1881

question: Who founded the Dynastic Left?

answer: Elements from the Liberal Fusionist Party and the Democratic Progressive Party.

question: What happened between 1884 and 1886?

answer: Most of its members returned to the Liberal Fusionist Party, now rebranded as simply the Liberal Party.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: The Dynastic Left was a Spanish political party founded in 1881 by elements from the Democratic Progressive Party and the Liberal Fusionist Party. However, between 1884 and 1886, most of its members returned to the Liberal Fusionist Party, now called the Liberal Party.


text:
Three guards held onto the chains that shackled me. With every step I took an orchestra of chain melodies followed. The chain cuffs on my feet were the start; the handcuffs were soon to follow. Eventually all five chains that prevented me from running came together and formed a harmonious sound.

“Is all this necessary,” I turned toward my good friend officer Barry Kindle “I promise I won’t bite,” I said while mimicking a dog biting towards him.

“You can never be too careful…” he said as he pulled the chain that wrapped around my waist, leaving me breathless “…especially with a psychopath like you.”

Psychopath, I never did like that term. It tends to insinuate that I have some sort of a problem, a disease even. When in fact I am perfectly aware of what I have done and I have no remorse over it. I’m just different than most people.

The bus that stood at the end of my pilmigrage was reminiscent of one I used to ride as a kid on my way to Sunday school. It was white with a hint of rust scattered all about. The seats were torn and to tall for the average person to see over. It was disappointing to know that my last sight of the outside world would come from a spot-ridden plexi-glass window.

“Ready to go Jason,” Kindle said as he leaned over me to push down the window “I thought you’d want some air,” he said as his fake smile turned into a mocking grin.

“I’ll make sure to tell your wife how caring you are..,” before I could finish Kindle’s fist caressed my face. Over and over repeated blows were landing on target, with each one inflicting more of his pain on me. The white floors of the bus were being sprinkled with my blood, as the guards rushed over to try to pull Kindle off. Tears descended uncontrollably down his face as he repeated the name of his lovely wife, Emma.

I can still remember the full moon that covered that night. Fluttering street lights trying ever so hard to illuminate one’s destination, a losing battle in my opinion. There I was driving back and forth trying to find 438 Wintercrest Drive.

“Turn right in fifty feet,” the robotic woman in my GPS demanded. “You’re destination is on the right,” a beep immediately followed, emphasizing that I was here. I had found it. My heart was beating out my chest as my pulse skyrocketed. My grand finale was here and I was determined to make it memorable.

Pavlov had a theory that if you rang a bell and fed a dog the dog would associate food with the sound of a bell. Eventually, all one would have to do to get the dog to salivate is ring the bell. I had done this enough times to know that the bell had rung, and my reward was forthcoming.

I had parked. From what I could determine the neighborhood was a quiet one. Car royalty crowded the streets. Mercedes to the left of me, Porsche to the right and Lexus scattered in between. There I stood next to my Volvo expecting a guy in a golf cart and supped up blue suit to pull up and drag me out of this place. No such luck. No one ever cared to look outside their windows in this new era of ours. Everyone seemed to be confined to their own four walls and the entertainment held within them. Even in the nicer neighborhoods, which I previously visited, no one noticed the guy in the ski mask walking around with a knife.

As expected, there was only one car in the driveway. My good friend Kindle was out chasing another loose end I had fed him. Zodiac had started a trend. It was within our profiles to send packages. According to the profiles the packages symbolized our need to be caught. A need that arose from us not liking what we did. If only I could teach a class to all the forensic psychologists. In actuality we loved every second of what we did, and if we were caught we would miss out on all the fun. We sent the packages as nothing more than a mere distraction, something to keep the cat busy while the mice went out and played. There are two things that I have passion for in life. The first thing is puzzles. I love solving them and working through all the possible solutions until I find one that fits. The harder the puzzle, the more in love I fell. At times days or even years would pass until I witnessed that AHA moment of a puzzle. It was then that I felt most alive. Adrenaline would rush through my veins and a feeling of pride would overcome my otherwise humble self. I had solved something; something had made sense in this otherwise mad world. Once, I had even solved a part of one of the top ten unsolvable puzzles- Kryptos. However, I never earned recognition for that one, Kindle did.
Creating puzzles is my second passion. As a kid I would always attempt to make brain teasers, riddles or even math jumbles. Eventually I gave up. I seemed to have lacked a creative gene and even though I was able to solve puzzles, creating them was not in my blood. Then one day on the television I heard the magic words “Four people were shot today…no witnesses…if you have any details please call….” AHA.

I had found my legacy, my own brand of puzzles. Puzzles that would gather people, garner emotion and would be everlasting; puzzles, which would outlive me and have lost souls constantly searching for answers. I had found the perfect puzzle.

The basement window was open. Just like it had been the past four nights I had scouted the place. I kneeled down and hobbled over towards the basement windows. I could here the annoying sounds of some popular television show rumbling on the inside. I waited for the noise to be loud enough and I slid into the basement making a loud thump as I landed. No one noticed. I tried not to make a sound as the dog went on a barking rampage. He knew someone other than his owner had infiltrated his domain. Emma went towards the dog to try and calm him down. Patting him on the head and re-assuring him that everything was fine. Indeed, everything was fine. My eyes took a while before they accustomed to the darkness of the basement. Soon enough I could see crystal clear with only the moon as my light. There was a lot of useless stuff in the basement, boxes full of pornography. old Wheaties cereal boxes with famous athletes on them, and a cradle that Kindle had made for the baby his wife had lost. All of it was useless now. One foot over the other I made my way towards the stairs, preventing anything from falling along the way. When I reached the stairs I noticed a newspaper clipping that had been pinned to the wall. It read: Barry Kindle solves Kryptos. That however, wasn’t the part that captured my interest. It was the side-story on the bottom right- in eight inch font-that captured my interest. Body of suspected murderer found in river. That was Adam.

Crimes of passion are the junk of our profession. They are always sloppy and never covered up well enough. There is no purpose in them, other than to get back at a spouse whom cheated on you. There is no thrill in them and worst of all, there is always remorse. Adam Keaton was a man suspected of killing his fiancé. He had killed her because he caught her sleeping with another man. As the evidenced was gathered, Adam was released on bail. It was then, that he became my puzzle. A puzzle no one has ever solved.
There are certain rules for creating puzzles. One of which is to make the puzzle solvable, but not easy. I left evidence, heck, I even planted some afterward. However, overworked and underpaid detectives don’t care much about someone who was going to rot in jail anyways. The trick to not getting caught is to not get cocky. Change your tactics. There is always someone looking for the serial who killer who kidnapped, raped and threw five blonde teenage girls in the river. However, no one ever uses all their resources to capture the guy who killed: a suspected murderer, a nun, a child, a homeless man, a bank manager. Each one killed in a different location, and all in different execution methods. The reason being, because they don’t suspect the same guy did it.

title: The Puzzler Part 1

question: What does the guard call the narrator?

answer: A psychopath.

question: What's the narrator's name?

answer: Jason

question: What does Jason say his passion is?

answer: Creating puzzles.

question: Which infamous serial killer does Jason reference?

answer: Zodiac

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer:
Jason is being transported. His friend, Officer Kindle, refers to him as a psychopath-a term to which Jason does not take kindly. Jason works with Kindle to help him solve other murders. It appears Jason is also in cohorts with the Zodiac killer, who, according to Jason, has a similar modus operandi.

Jason is staking out a house and trying to remain quiet so a family dog doesn't react to his presence.


text:
A Greenville, Kentucky man was arrested for "terroristic threatening" after posting lyrics to the Exodus song "Class Dismissed (A Hate Primer)" on Facebook.

According to 14News.com, 31-year-old James Evans posted the following on August 24: "Student bodies lying dead in the halls, a blood splattered treatise of hate. Class dismissed is my hypothesis, gun fire ends in debate."

Mike Drake, the school resource officer in Muhlenberg County, says that several agencies received calls about the post. Evans was subsequently arrested. A preliminary hearing is scheduled next week.

Exodus guitarist Gary Holt has issued the following statement:

"The idea that an individual in this great country of ours could be arrested for simply posting lyrics to a song is something I never believed could happen in a free society. James Evans was simply posting lyrics to a band he likes on Facebook, and he was locked up for it. The song 'Class Dismissed (A Hate Primer)' was written as a view through the eyes of a madman and in no way endorses that kind of fucked up behavior. It was the Virginia Tech massacre perpetrated by Seung-Hui Cho that was the subject and inspiration to write the song, one in which we put the brakes on playing it live after the Sandy Hook shooting, as we did not want to seem insensitive."

"As some of us in Exodus are parents, of course these things hit close to home, it's every parent's worst fear. These moments are the stuff of nightmares, and life, as well as music, isn't always pretty. But when we start to overreact to things like lyrics by any band, including Exodus, and start arresting people, we are caving in to paranoia and are well on our way to becoming an Orwellian society."

UPDATE: Evans has since been released from jail.

question: Can it be said that the police were right to arrest James Evans for posting the lyrics on Facebook?

answer: It might be implied they tried to take precautionary measures due to the obscene lyrics of the song posted online.

question: Was Evans insensitive for posting such lyrics on Facebook?

answer: It is not stated.

question: What was the message behind the song "Class dismissed (A hate primer)."

answer: It is not stated.

question: What inspired the Exodus band to create that song?

answer: The Virginia Tech massacre.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: This article is about a Kentucky man James Evans who got arrested for posting the lyrics to the Exodus song "Class dismissed (A hate primer)" on Facebook. Concerned individuals reached out to agencies and the school resource officer of Muhlenberg County, which resulted in Evans's arrest. A member of the Exodus band was upset by this development and criticized the law for putting a man behind bars for posting the lyrics to his favorite band on social media. He also stated the inspiration behind the song was the Virginia Tech massacre, which Seung-Hui Cho perpetrated. He furthermore spoke against people overreacting to lyrics by artists as it can lead to paranoia.


text:
1.

     10-26-2017 #1

    [ThatDarnSteve's Avatar] CommunityDeveloper

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

      Hey, everyone! Steve from RedLynx here. Yesterday we experienced some minor issues during our rollout of the 25-10-2017 update - also known as "The Awesome Worldwide Build That Is Only Out In Soft launch Territories For Now". These issues meant that the iOS version was available a few hours prior to the Android version due to technical difficulties in the rollout process.

      Now, this is all ironed out, and the update has proceeded as planned - for the most part.

      Two slight hiccups persist in the way of Dwarf King Clyde, and Marine Craig. These two tough guys have slight issues, and we are working on fixing them.

      DWARF KING CLYDE
      I failed to communicate a key part of his balance change. Beyond his speed, he will also no longer target the enemy New Kid with his Warcry. This was done because he is too similar to Dougie in some respects, and we didn't want that. Now he will only target standard enemy units. His card text will be changed to reflect this.

      MARINE CRAIG
      Marine Craig's damage has been reduced due to a bug. This issue is known, and you can expect it to be resolved very shortly! We are expecting it won't take long to fix this one, as it is merely a configuration issue.

      Sorry for the trouble!

      If you haven't downloaded the update yet, you can come see us play it on the weekly Phone Destroyer livestream over on Twitch, starting in about 30 minutes! (1800 EET).

      []

      EDIT: THESE ISSUES, AND AN ISSUE WHERE �NRELEASED CARDS WERE LISTED IN THE ARENA SCREEN HAVE BEEN RESOLVED!

      LOVE.
      STEVE��

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

question: What is the main topic of the article?

answer: The article is an acknowledgement of the problems encountered during a rollout of the update for an app.

question: What hiccups were encountered?

answer: Dwarf King Clyde and Marine Craig, presumably characters within the app.

question: Who is the target audience for this article?

answer: The target audience is people who play the game.

question: When was this article published?

answer: 10-26-2017

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: The article is an acknowledgement of the problems encountered during a rollout of the update for an app.


text:
I once dreamt of this moment: placing a foot onto a beaming electromagnetic pillar, launching towards a dark mass filled with more brightness than a human eye could handle. We were told the sun would dim slowly, like a fire with no more wood to feed the flame. It would expand and swallow the world, the same world which has housed everything we have ever known. But now, they trust me: Experiment 9K30. The last thing I witnessed before I stepped into that glistening wheat, aqua blue stream, were the eager eyes of the planet, wrapped with thoughts of return stories, and those who knew there wouldn't be one.

“9K30.”

His boots moving like hammers on the metal.

“*Commander*.”

He pauses in front of me, with scanning eyes. Deep down he's filled with complex intertwining thoughts, so convoluted that he remains silent.

“It's strange to think that this moment is finally here.”

Everything feels blank.

“Thousands of generations before us never thought that humanity would live long enough to actually witness this. ...They also didn't think it would happen this soon.”

We both just peer out into space, until the attention shifts.

“9K30 you know-”

“*I know, sir.*”

“Once we set foot-”

“*Sir.*”

He sighs.

“Out of all of them, I think we've made the best choice with you.”

“*Thank you, Commander*.”

“Don't you ever be the one thanking me, 9K.”

...With all of these metal plates and glass-like shields coating me, it's hard to remember that deep down inside I may actually be humane.

**EDIT**: I just thought I should mention that this is a smaller piece out of a larger work in progress.

title: Swimming With A Thousand Suns

question: What is 9K30?

answer: 9K30 is the main character in the story.

question: What "moment" is the narrator referring to?

answer: The moment when 9k30 is finally going to space.

question: Why is 9K30 the best choice?

answer: Information can't be found.

question: What is 9K30 the best choice for?

answer: Information can't be found.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: Experiment 9k30 prepares for take-off.


text:
The REMORAS , sometimes called SUCKERFISH, are a family (ECHENEIDAE) of ray-finned fish in the order Carangiformes.[1] Depending on species, they grow to long. Their distinctive first dorsal fins take the form of a modified oval, sucker-like organ with slat-like structures that open and close to create suction and take a firm hold against the skin of larger marine animals.[2] The disk is made up of stout, flexible membranes that can be raised and lowered to generate suction.[3] By sliding backward, the remora can increase the suction, or it can release itself by swimming forward. Remoras sometimes attach to small boats, and have been observed attaching to divers as well. They swim well on their own, with a sinuous, or curved, motion.

Characteristics

Remora front dorsal fins have evolved to enable them to adhere by suction to smooth surfaces and they spend their lives clinging to a host animal such as a whale, turtle, shark or ray. It is probably a mutualistic arrangement as the remora can move around on the host, removing ectoparasites and loose flakes of skin, while benefiting from the protection provided by the host and the constant flow of water across its gills.[4] Although it was initially believed that remoras fed off particulate matter from the host's meals, this has been shown to be false; in reality, their diets are composed primarily of host feces.[5]

Habitat

[Some remoras, such as this _Echeneis naucrates_, may attach themselves to scuba divers.] Remoras are tropical open-ocean dwellers, but are occasionally found in temperate or coastal waters if they have attached to large fish that have wandered into these areas. In the mid-Atlantic Ocean, spawning usually takes place in June and July; in the Mediterranean Sea, it occurs in August and September. The sucking disc begins to show when the young fish are about long. When the remora reaches about , the disc is fully formed and the remora can then attach to other animals. The remora's lower jaw projects beyond the upper, and the animal lacks a swim bladder.[6]

Some remoras associate with specific host species. They are commonly found attached to sharks, manta rays, whales, turtles, and dugongs, hence the common names “sharksucker” and “whalesucker”. Smaller remoras also fasten onto fish such as tuna and swordfish, and some small remoras travel in the mouths or gills of large manta rays, ocean sunfish, swordfish and sailfish.

The relationship between a remora and its host is most often taken to be one of commensalism, specifically phoresy.

Physiology

Research into the physiology of the remora has been of significant benefit to the understanding of ventilation costs in fish.

Remoras, like many other fishes, have two different modes of ventilation. Ram ventilation[7] is the process in which at higher speeds, the remora uses the force of the water moving past it to create movement of fluid in the gills. Alternatively, at lower speeds the remora will use a form of active ventilation,[8] in which the fish actively moves fluid through its gills. In order to use active ventilation, a fish must actively use energy to move the fluid; however, determining this energy cost is normally complicated due to the movement of the fish when using either method. As a result, the remora has proved invaluable in finding this cost difference (since they will stick to a shark or tube, and hence remain stationary despite the movement or lack thereof of water). Experimental data from studies on remora found that the associated cost for active ventilation created a 3.7–5.1% increased energy consumption in order to maintain the same quantity of fluid flow the fish obtained by using ram ventilation.[9]

Other research into the remora's physiology came about as a result of studies across multiple taxa, or using the remora as an out-group for certain evolutionary studies. Concerning the latter case, remoras were used as an outgroup when investigating tetrodotoxin resistance in remoras, pufferfish, and related species, finding remoras (specifically _Echeneis naucrates_) had a resistance of 6.1–5.5 M.[10]

Use for fishing

Some cultures use remoras to catch turtles. A cord or rope is fastened to the remora's tail, and when a turtle is sighted, the fish is released from the boat; it usually heads directly for the turtle and fastens itself to the turtle's shell, and then both remora and turtle are hauled in. Smaller turtles can be pulled completely into the boat by this method, while larger ones are hauled within harpooning range. This practice has been reported throughout the Indian Ocean, especially from eastern Africa near Zanzibar and Mozambique,[11] and from northern Australia near Cape York and Torres Strait.[12][13]

Similar reports come from Japan and from the Americas. Some of the first records of the “fishing fish” in the Western literature come from the accounts of the second voyage of Christopher Columbus. However, Leo Wiener considers the Columbus accounts to be apocryphal: what was taken for accounts of the Americas may have been, in fact, notes Columbus derived from accounts of the East Indies, his desired destination.[14]

Mythology

In ancient times, the remora was believed to stop a ship from sailing. In Latin, _remora_ means “delay”, while the genus name _Echeneis_ comes from Greek εχειν, _echein_ (“to hold”) and ναυς, _naus_ (“a ship”). In a notable account by Pliny the Elder, the remora is blamed for the defeat of Mark Antony at the Battle of Actium and, indirectly, for the death of Caligula.[15] A modern version of the story is given by Jorge Luis Borges in _Book of Imaginary Beings_ (1957).

Gallery

Remora SI.jpg Remora Belize Reef.jpg|Live sharksucker, _Echeneis naucrates_ Remora remora 1.jpg|Common remora, _Remora remora_ Nurse shark with remoras.jpg|Nurse shark with remoras attending

Timeline

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bar:space
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bar:periodtop
from: -65.5   till:  -55.8    color:paleocene  text:Paleocene
from: -55.8   till:  -33.9    color:eocene  text:Eocene
from: -33.9   till:  -23.03    color:oligocene  text:Oligocene
from: -23.03    till: -5.332    color:miocene    text:Miocene
from: -5.332    till: -2.588    color:pliocene    text:Plio.
from: -2.588    till: -0.0117   color:pleistocene    text:Pleist.
from: -0.0117    till: 0    color:holocene    text:H.

bar:eratop
from: -65.5   till:  -23.03    color:paleogene  text:Paleogene
from: -23.03    till: -2.588    color:neogene    text:Neogene
from: -2.588    till: 0   color:quaternary    text:Q.

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align:left fontsize:M mark:(line,white) width:5 anchor:till align:left

color:oligocene bar:NAM1  from:    -33.9   till:   0   text:   Echeneis

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align:center textcolor:black fontsize:M mark:(line,black) width:25

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from: -65.5   till:  -55.8    color:paleocene  text:Paleocene
from: -55.8   till:  -33.9    color:eocene  text:Eocene
from: -33.9   till:  -23.03    color:oligocene  text:Oligocene
from: -23.03    till: -5.332    color:miocene    text:Miocene
from: -5.332    till: -2.588    color:pliocene    text:Plio.
from: -2.588    till: -0.0117   color:pleistocene    text:Pleist.
from: -0.0117    till: 0    color:holocene    text:H.

bar:era
from: -65.5   till:  -23.03    color:paleogene  text:Paleogene
from: -23.03    till: -2.588    color:neogene    text:Neogene
from: -2.588    till: 0   color:quaternary    text:Q.

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

[12]

[13]  (Dr. Gudger's accounts are more authoritative, but this source is noted as an early account that Gudger appears to have missed.)

[14]

[15]  (cited in )

title: Remora

question: Describe why Remora have been useful in studying ventilation in fish.

answer: They adhere to a host fish, so they don't need to expend energy to move, which simplifies the process of figuring out how much energy fish use in their two different modes of ventilation.


text:
The man answered me hoarsely, a queer smile playing across the corner of his cracked lips, "It is said that when the gods wish to punish us... they answer our prayers."

His face, a map of scars, was strangely familiar, like a distant place long forgotten.

"Speak not in riddles old man," I snarled, "You will make your peace with to whomever gods you pray well soon enough. Until then, you answer to Me, and pray, pray now, my vengeance is kinder than theirs."

His sunken eyes shone dimly, and bore no fear. "Then I truly hope my debt to them is paid," he laughed, wistful.

"Tell me, what did you wish of them, Barabbas? What shining stone did you cheat from the Wardens' lot? What coveted prize did you squander on stolen time? What dungeon's claim did you lay away on halcyon roads? Was it Love? Riches? Power? Tell me. Tell me before I send you back to the hell from whence you came, wretched man."

"I sought something. I think... I sought knowledge. Understanding."

"Then you are a fool, old one. Tell me, out of perversion, what did you learn, living out your wasted days? What carnival spectacles did the wilds divulge, as you wandered far and away? What secrets did the amber halls and dim-lit alleys whisper to prowling ears? What shrouded facts sought their way through dead tomes, spilling torrid wanderlust into grey matter? Was it Techne? Logos? Pathos? Teach me. Teach me, before I snuff out your pathetic spark."

He took a deep breath and exhaled, a visible shudder traveling through his frail skeleton. I saw his eyes glimmer distantly. I saw him strain, the furrows of his brow crossed in wrought exertion. I watched his frail hand reach across the distance between us, stretching as if to grasp something unfathomable and then, a solitary tear fell onto the cold ground.

"I cannot... I can no longer remember. I am old and my mind is not what it once was."

He closed a pair of weary eyes and hung a tired head, anguish painted across his worn features.

"Once a fool, always a fool, I can see," I spat, seizing his slacking jaw, and peering into cloudy eyes, a visage of sorrow. "Tell me your story. Show me your sins. Show me your joys and regrets, your dreams and sorrows. Show me it all, the last thing you do before these damned eyes are shut forevermore. SHOW ME!"

Silence. Grimacing, he forced his eyes shut, face a contortion of singular will, summoning every scrap of concentration he could gather.

Time stood still.

Then, suddenly, his eyes sprang open and the clouds parted within revealing a sudden inner light, a clear and piercing gaze. His brow lifted, his focus sharpened and a sudden strength found itself within him, wresting my hand away.

Hands astir, he gripped my hands, arms, and face frantically, some terrible recognition dawning over him. Clasping my head with his palms, he suddenly collapsed onto the ground, drained.

"Speak, you despicable thing! Tell me your name! Speak, damn you!" I growled, anxious to hear his last words. Crouching, I knelt beside his haggard frame.

He spoke, after a time, eyes aglow with perception. His words were slow and deliberate. This is what he told me.

"You... I remember my wish. I wished to know an old man’s secret, once. My name is... but, ah! that, you know already. Let me teach you what I have learned. Let me show you, eager one.”

And he smiled, a wry smile, breathing his last.

As he closed his eyes, I opened mine to curse him, but he was gone, and I awoke lying alone, cursing only myself.

title: The Wish

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: Unclear

question: Who is the narrator talking to?

answer: Apparently, an old man who knows some secret the narrator wants to know.

question: When does the story take place?

answer: Unclear

question: Is the narrator dreaming?

answer: Unclear as it says at the end they "awoke lying alone."

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator interrogates an old man wanting to know about what he's learned in his life. The old man dies before he can express what he's learned.


text:
_JALTA, JALTA_ is a Croatian musical from 1971. Libretto for the musical was written by Milan Grgić, and the director is Vlado Štefančić. Author of the music is the Croatian composer Alfi Kabiljo. First performance was on 28 December 1971 in Zagreb.

Plot

The musical takes place in Yalta, Ukraine, during the Yalta Conference, while Winston Churchill, Joseph Stalin and Franklin Roosevelt were dividing the world. Three valets have arrived to Yalta with them: the Russian, Griša; the American, Larry; and the British, Stanley. They were in charge of guarding and airing out of laundry for the Big Three.

The valets are all placed in the old Aramovski villa, in which the housekeeper Nina Filipovna takes care that everybody lives in friendship and unity. They, too, start to discuss the dividing of the world, and maybe they would succeed if there wasn't for the “Green Meadow”, a small piece of land in the Antarctic of which the Big Three are completely oblivious.

In the meantime, the generals and delegates attending the conference start to notice strange things on the great map of the world located in the recreation room. A mysterious green spot is forming in the Antarctic. All the generals and delegates become upset.

There is a silent war among the valets. They keep getting into conflicts over everything. Nina tries to be the mediator of the group. She splits everything to three equal parts, even a branch they use to dry their clothes. But, open conflict develops among the valets because of that branch. Griša, unbeknownst to the others, starts hanging his clothes all over the whole branch. The others catch him red-handed and a big fight ensues. There is a danger that all of the valets will leave the villa. So, Nina intervenes. She decides to be gentle to each and every one of them. However, it is discovered that she is gentle only with Larry and Stanley. Griša is infuriated. He was betrayed. Open conflict ensues among the valets. A duel.

While they are fighting, a bomb, which is located in the garden of the villa, activates. It starts to spin out of control, begins to smoke and make strange noises. Everybody panics and escapes before it explodes.

Meanwhile, the green spot on the map keeps growing. The generals manage to find out that Nina Filipovna knows something more about that spot. Agents act at once, and arrest Nina. They question her, but she doesn't say anything.

The day of departure comes. Valets are packing. The Aramovski villa is damaged in the bomb explosion, and all of the valets wear bandages.

The agents and generals wish to know everything about the “Green Meadow”. Valets don't say a thing. Then Nina is brought in the room with her hands tied behind her back. Out of fear for Nina, valets agree that they are ready to say everything about the “Green Meadow”, under the condition that Nina is let go. The generals persuade all of them that they have no intentions of dividing the “Green Meadow”. They just wanted to know if there was grass, flowers or butterflies there. When they are told that there was all of those things there and more, the generals are thrilled that there is a piece of land in the world which belongs to no-one and which won't be divided.

Nina is released. She and the valets make a deal that all of them will go to the “Green Meadow” together some day. And who knows, maybe the whole world will become a green meadow some day.

The musical ends with all of the participants singing the song “Neka cijeli ovaj svijet” (“Let This Whole World”).

Music

[Alfi Kabiljo: _Jalta Jalta_, Vienna 2004] Music for Jalta, Jalta was composed by Alfi Kabiljo, which made him famous. Musical is composed of those songs:

1.  “_Uvertira_” (“Overture”)
2.  “_Tri sobara_” (“Three Valets”)
3.  “_Zelena livada_” (“Green Meadow”)
4.  “_Whiskey, votka, gin_” (“Whiskey, Vodka, Gin”)
5.  “_Jalta, Jalta_” (“Yalta, Yalta”)
6.  “_Čunčurluk_”
7.  “_Što će biti s nama sutra_” (“What Will Happen To Us Tomorrow”)
8.  “_Neka cijeli ovaj svijet_” (“Let This Whole World”)

title: Jalta, Jalta

question: What does the story say about the way the world was divided by Churchill, Stalin, and Roosevelt?

question: What does the story say about Nina's attempts to keep the peace?

answer: Nina makes an initial effort to help everyone live in unity. When disputes break out among the valets, she mediates between them and intervenes in their fights.

question: What does the story say about the physical location of the Yalta conference?

answer: It is held in Yalta, Ukraine. There are villas on-site or near where the conference is held. There is a recreation room in which there is at least one map on the wall.

question: Explain the development of the dispute between Grisa, Larry, and Stanley.

answer: They start in a silent war with one another. After Nina tries to split shared things three ways, Grisa disregards that division, the others find out, and open conflict begins. They try to duel before an explosion causes them to disperse.


text:
So I basically add to this whenever I'm feeling tired and whimsical. Let me know what you think of the first little bit (I realize it's bizarre and arguably horrible):

*Svenson O’Shaunnessy: A Hero’s Journey*

Svenson O’Shaunnessy: oh, how to describe so wondrous a man in so few words! Such an undertaking would be a feat of such difficulty second only to that faced by the man himself, an odyssey so breathtaking that asthmatics must not dream of approaching it, and so dangerous that a seatbelt, helmet and athletic cup are recommended for those with the bravado, or indeed the foolishness to continue in their reading.

Svenson O’Shaunnessy was born in the Maldives, the last true member of a seafaring people who were dying out all too fast. His people were of the sort who had been embraced by the Earth for millennia, and had embraced the Earth in turn so as to come to know her intimately. However, intimate as Mother Nature can be, she can also be as harsh as the hailstorm that O’Shaunnessy would be trapped in years later, armed with nothing but a bear trap, three samosas and a disgraced Sherpa who he knew only as Gustav. But I digress.

Intimate as Mother Nature can be, she can also be as harsh as the hailstorm that O’Shaunnessy would be trapped in years later. O’Shaunnessy was orphaned at a mere six months of age when both his mother and father were engulfed by a sinkhole the size of the Colisseum of Rome.

O’Shaunnessy, by this time, was fortunately an adept sprinter. He covered the four-mile goat trail back to his village in only eleven minutes and six seconds (a personal best! Alas, in his angst and desperation O’Shaunnessy would never know this. Nor would he surpass this speed until years later, deep in the catacombs of Paris while chasing a man dressed as an arsonist, who had just kidnapped an extraordinarily valuable colony of yeast).  But I digress.

O’Shaunnessy, by this time, was fortunately an adept sprinter. He covered the four-mile trail back to his village in only eleven minutes and six seconds. Upon returning to the village, O’Shaunnessy made a beeline for the abode of a certain Mistress Stiletto, a witch doctor who was just finishing her treatment of the shortest of a set of witch triplets with a particularly nasty case of the Gout.

O’Shaunnessy cried out to Mistress Stiletto urgently, using the complex series of clucks, grunts, and nose-whistles that his people used to signal distress. In fact, O’Shaunnessy would not learn the second of his eventual nineteen languages until he was eight years of age, when a wily old seamstress from the slums of Peru would teach him Ebonics. Soon after this encounter, O’Shaunnessy would learn to read, write, and speak Braille from the seamstress’s one-eared mongrel of a husband, who was a cobbler by day and a passionate Crimean War re-enactor by night. But I digress.

O’Shaunnessy cried out to Mistress Stiletto urgently, using the series of clucks, grunts, and nose-whistles that his people used to signal distress. Mistress Stiletto looked up at once, her mismatched eyes gleaming in anticipation of imminent danger. Her green eye quivered back and forth in agitation, frantically searching for the source of the call. Her red eye swiveled upwards more slowly and deliberately; it always knew, with unwavering accuracy, exactly where to look next.

title: Anybody want to tell me what they think of the beginning of my story? Not sure where else to post this...

question: Who are the main characters of the story?

answer: Svenson O’Shaunnessy, Mistress Stiletto

question: What is O’Shaunnessy's story?

answer: He was born in the Maldives, the last true member of a seafaring people fast dying out. He became an orphan at six when his parents died in a sinkhole.

question: What is O’Shaunnessy's relationship with Mistress Stiletto?

answer: Mistress Stiletto is the town's witch doctor. When O’Shaunnessy's parents died, he ran straight to her.

question: Where does the story take place?

answer: That information can’t be found.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: Svenson O’Shaunnessy was born in the Maldives and is the last true member of a seafaring people fast dying out. He became an orphan at six when his parents died in a sinkhole. He has a lot of memorable adventures such as getting trapped in a hailstorm with nothing but a bear trap and chasing a man dressed as an arsonist in the Paris catacombs for stealing a colony of yeast. When he was orphaned, O’Shaunnessy ran to Mistress Stiletto and learns Ebonics from a Peruvian seamstress. He also learns how to read, write, and speak Braille from her husband.


text:
It’s strange how much things will change in a couple of months.  The thought echoes in your head, melding with the hollow sound your boots make on the pavement.  As you search around you, your eyes are met with gloom and the destruction of humanity.  You squint in the glare of the setting sun reflecting off of the windshields of vehicles.  Not all are empty of human occupancy, but all are devoid of life.  It was a hot day, but the heat was fading into the cool shade of night, and your sweat-damp shirt does little to cut the twilight breeze.  Gooseflesh raises on your arms and neck, alerting you to the need to find camp for the night.

You step off the shoulder of the road and pass noiselessly into the woods.  You choose your steps, but your careful endeavors are still enough to alert a protective squirrel of your presence.  It screams in anger, startling you.  Your body reacts before conscious thought catches up to your actions.  You are looking down the sights of your .40 caliber Sig Sauer with the safety off before the two sync again.  You are ready to kill.  You flip the safety back on and holster your gun.  You can’t see the squirrel to shoot for meat, and it is of no threat to you.

The shrill noise echoes in the distance.  It is an eerie sound.  You realize it is the first sound of a sentient creature you have heard all day.  You also realize that in a place where you would have once jumped in startlement you now readied yourself to destroy another life.  The idea doesn’t disgust you as it would have.  In fact, the reaction pleases you.  The thought flickers along your brain again:

Strange indeed

Your reflexes have been well earned, surviving in a perversion of what had been.  You don’t know why it all went to hell- that’s above your pay grade-, but it did, and when it did, it went big.  In a month the world had been drug by its ankles to the darkest pits of hell,  Cerberus nipping at it the entire way down.  War had broken out in the streets.  Brother fought brother in the streets.  Looters rampaged through everything, hoarding food and water. A couple committed suicide on TV because that would show their true devotion to the Lord.  Through it all reporters had stuck with it.  They were brave.  They went into the thick of things and tried to establish peace and logic, to shed light on what had been happening.  They failed.  The radio waves were blank now, those courageous souls all dead- succumbed to this new world.

 Pure luck had got you out of the city, and after that, you simply survived.  It didn’t matter what cost, you did.  You have eaten dog, rat, and crow after the measly supply ran out- and even with your lower standards you went hungry most nights.  But you haven’t eaten human, you aren't there... yet.  You had killed to survive.  Four dogs, seven cats, countless rats, a bear, a deer, and three humans.  The humans you felt no remorse for.  They had tried to kill you.  One tried to stab you in the night for your pack, another because they were wounded and dying, and you gave her mercy.  The last had simply tried to kill you because you looked like a meal to him.  That had been the easiest kill of all.  What haunted you was the look on the animals’, especially the deer’s face.  You had shot it through the back legs.  It hadn't been able to move.  As you approached it to finish the job you made eye contact with it.  The pain in its large, innocent eyes would haunt your dreams the rest of your life.  But it had fed you.  Its hide kept you warm at night.  You survived.

It was the day you killed the deer that you had stopped counting the days since you had left your home.  It was that day that you lost emotion.  That day had changed you.  You hadn't spoken, hummed, or sang since that day.  You simply lived.

Your thoughts are interrupted as the woods you were walking through gives way to a small meadow.  It smells of grass.  Across the meadow there is a tent, its door flap fluttering in the wind.  There are the remnants of a firepit some distance from the tent.  The receding light of the sun illuminates the scene.  Gooseflesh rises on your arms again, but not from the cold this time.  Pollen motes from some surrounding pines drift through the light.  It makes what you view somewhat hazy, giving it an otherworldly look.  There is an arm hanging out of the tent flap.  Crimson blood is crusted around pale fingers.  A gold band on her ring finger glows grudgingly in the light, miraculously untouched by the ichor.  You approach slightly further, and see the rest.  A woman is laying in the tent.  Someone had stabbed her.  Many times.  Her chest is one gaping wound.  Her face is a deathmask of terror, marring her pale beauty.  The emptiness in your chest begins to coalesce into a ball in your stomach.  The vomit comes up before you can turn away fully.  The retching hurts, and the acidity of your bile burns your throat.  You don’t know why you are vomiting- perhaps some of your lost humanity is still there.

When you are done you become aware of something else.  A low wheezing chuckle.  Your hand darts for your gun as something shifts in the tent.  You draw it as a sallow young man steps out of the tent.  His face is drawn and dirty except for where tears have washed it.  The chuckle comes from him.  He was handsome once, but it seems as if he hasn’t eaten or slept in weeks, and in those weeks grief has aged him millenia.  The end has hit him hard.  The chuckle becomes a laugh, and finally a deranged, hysterical scream.  It is a noise much worse than the squirrels.  It speaks of more pain than the deer could ever feel, and a disbelief of what this world has become.  “A grand joke, this is,” his scream says, “hilarious.”  You move back a pace, keeping your Sig between you and him.

Abruptly, he stops making noise.  In its absence you can hear birds that it disturbed fluttering off through the trees.  His sunken eyes make direct contact with yours.  A shiver runs along your spine.  He speaks.

“World’s gone to shit, ain’t it?”

You don’t respond.  You’re too confused by this to respond.  And your throat is too crusted over with the weight of this new world to speak anyways.  Instead you slightly incline your head in an affirmative nod.  He grins, understanding your pain as well.

“Oh well.  I ain’t the last.”

Your mind is too overcome with puzzlement to react to what happens next.  The man pulls a revolver from his pocket.  He raises it and fires, but not at you.  Blood spurts from his head as he smiles.  He crumples and falls next to the woman, ear-to-ear smile on his face and his scream still echoing in the distance.

Shock spreads throughout your body, then exits it.  You slowly holster your gun.  Your hand is shaking slightly for some reason.  You look up at the sky.  The sun is fading, but you decide its not too late to find another camp.  You walk back the way you came through the forest.  The squirrel screams again, but this time you don’t react.  You reach the road and continue walking.  Your long shadow pacing you.

As the sun sets the last light peeking through the trees glints of off the metal of the gun clutched in a cooling hand, and is dully reflected off of two golden bands on two lifeless hands, both miraculously untouched by blood.

title: My first attempt at writing. Needs a title and constructive criticism please.

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: This is from a second-person POV.

question: In which setting does this take place?

answer: It's implied that this occurred in a war-torn world.

question: Who are the main characters within?

answer: A man and hunter trying to survive in a war-torn world.

question: What is the narrator talking about?

answer: The narrator is talking in the second-person POV about surviving in a post-apocalyptic world.

question: Write a ~7 sentence summary.

answer: This occurs in a post-apocalyptic world where humanity is being destroyed. You enter the woods in search of a game to kill to survive. Humanity is crumbling; it's kill or be killed. You approach a tent and notice a dead woman inside. The sight is repulsive, making you vomit. A man is inside, and he talks about how humanity has gone awry before blowing his head off. You head out of the tent, overcome with shock at the state of humanity.


text:
[Alex P. - Case Studies] [Patrick - Case Studies] [Esophageal Stricture] [Homecooked] [FGESF]

Alex P. - Case Studies

This site is dedicated to the memory of my girl Alex, who had triaditis. She will never be forgotten.

Patrick - Case Studies

Patrick had an increase in vomiting episodes, but he appeared to be very nauseous.

Esophageal Stricture

My Gracie had an esophageal stricture, and it nearly killed her. She developed it from her medications.

Homecooked

Cook 6-8 hours or until meat is very tender. Sometimes it’s less time, depending on if you cook on high or low.

FGESF

FGESF is a mysterious and underdiagnosed condition, often confused with other serious illnesses like Inflammatory Bowel Disease (IBD), lymphoma, and other forms of cancer.

Welcome to IBDKitties

Feline Inflammatory Bowel Disease is a very serious condition that affects thousands of cats every year. There are many causes for IBD but no cure as of yet. Treatments are evolving as is this disease. Please read as much information on this site as you can. Educate yourself so you know what’s happening and how best to help your fur child. This site is dedicated to my beautiful girl Alex who lost her battle on July 10, 2008 and will now serve, as well as so many others, as my motivation to help as many as we can and to find a cure. Check back frequently for new information. Please be advised that IBD in cats is very different than IBD in dogs. Cats have different dietary needs, respond to medications differently, many things are toxic to them that aren’t toxic to dogs. And they cannot go long without eating before their liver starts to fail. One treatment should not be suggested as a catch all for both species. The information and recommendations on this website are NOT meant to take the place of veterinary advice, as we are NOT veterinarians. It’s here to help you ask better questions and offer additional knowledge to your veterinarian as they often times rely on us for more up to date and accurate reporting on these issues. Some of the information on this site has not been written by a veterinarian and should not be considered a replacement for a veterinarian visit. This site is for education purposes only, and you should always seek the advice and treatment of a vet above all else.

question: What is IBD?

answer: Feline Inflammatory Bowel Disease.

question: Is IBD in cats similar to IBD in dogs?

answer: No, cats have different dietary needs, respond to medications differently, and many things are toxic to them that aren't toxic to dogs.

question: Should you take the advice of this article over a veterinarian?

answer: No, this should just be used as a guide for further questions to ask a veterinarian. These statements have not been reviewed by a veterinarian.

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: Someone who has lost a beloved pet cat to IBD and wants to inform others about it to the best of their ability.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: Feline Inflammatory Bowel Disease is a serious condition that affects thousands of cats every year. There is no cure for IBD. The narrator lost a cat to IBD in 2008 and wants to educate others. IBD in cats is not the same as IBD in dogs. Defer all judgement to your veterinarian, this is simply educational material designed to inform questions to be asked of a vet, it does not take the place of a vet.