text:
The 2000 ASA PESADA ANTONOV AN-24 CRASH occurred on 15 November 2000 when an Antonov An-24 registered as D2-FCG operated by Angolan airliner ASA Pesada crashed shortly after taking off from Quatro de Fevereiro Airport in Angola's capital Luanda. The aircraft was carrying 52 passengers and 5 crewmembers and was heading to Yuri Gagarin Airport in Namibe Province, Angola. All 57 people on board were killed in the crash.

The crash was the third deadliest plane crash in Angola, the second deadliest plane crash involving an Antonov An-24 and the second plane crash to occur in the country in just less than 3 weeks. On 31 October, another Antonov An-24 carrying 49 people operated by ACA-Ancargo Air crashed on the northern part of the country, killing all 49 people on board with UNITA rebels claimed to have shot down the plane.[1]

Flight

The aircraft took off from Luanda's Quatro de Fevereiro Airport to Namibe Airport, around 420 miles south from the capital. The aircraft was planning to pick up a Portuguese soccer team for a tour in the country. Shortly after takeoff, the aircraft then banked to the left and crashed onto a field in Golfe II district of Luanda. The aircraft exploded on impact. Search and rescue team didn't find any survivors on the crash site. All 57 passengers and crews on board were killed. Authorities evacuated 40 badly burned bodies from the crash site, including women and children.[2]

Investigation

An investigation was opened on the crash. Many eyewitnesses stated that during the crash, the Antonov An-24 was on fire. The black boxes were recovered by investigators. Transport Minister Andre Luis Brandao stated that technical failure was the most likely cause of the crash. According to the findings of a preliminary investigation the accident was caused by engine failure; the report also accused ASA Pesada of negligence for failing to keep accurate records of the amount of fuel and number of passengers on board.[3]

Aftermath

Angolan authorities immediately grounded all Antonov An-24 in the country indefinitely due to the crash. Before the crash, Antonov aircraft had been prohibited to fly in the country as another Antonov had crashed in Angola on 31 October, which killed 49 people on the northern part of the country. Even though it was prohibited by the country, the Antonov were still permitted to fly on the coast. A statement by the National Civil Aviation Authority said none of the planes would now be allowed to fly on civilian services. The Angolan Air Force was exempted from the prohibition, but their planes cannot carry civilians.[4]

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

title: 2000 ASA Pesada Antonov An-24 crash

question: Where was the aircraft heading?

answer: The flight was heading to Yuri Gagarin Airport in Namibe Province.

question: How many passengers were onboard?

answer: There were 52 passengers onboard and 5 crew members.

question: How did the flight crash?

answer: Shortly after takeoff, the flight banked to left and crashed onto a field in the Golfe II district of Luanda.

question: Were there any survivors?

answer: No.

question: Write a ~6 sentence summary.

answer:
On 15 November 2000, an ASA PESADA ANTONOV AN-24 crashed killing 52 passengers and 5 crew members. The flight was on the way to Yuri Gagarin airport. Shortly after takeoff, the flight banked to the left and crashed onto a field in the Golfe II district of Luanda.

According to the investigation, it is stated that engine failure is the cause of the crash. The Angolan authorities have immediately grounded all Antonov AN-24 indefinitely. Although, the Angolan Air Force is exempted from the prohibition.


split: train

text:
Faces pass by, unnoticed, ignored.
Yours stays with me.
A simple smile expands into a lifetime.

My heart beats a nervous staccato rhythm as I wait for you.
Hours spent deep in conversation pass like the single tick of the clock.
Your eyes are pools of light searching within me for meaning.

Two separate lives begin to merge.

Stories are shared, insights explored together.
Your nose wrinkles slightly when you laugh at my jokes.

I gently brush a stray hair from your forehead.

Soft skin exposed for the first time, stray words without meaning fade slowly into the dark.
Souls and bodies intertwine and become one, the edges blurring as we are lost in each other.

Light creeps furtively around the curtains, setting your hair alight in a golden halo as you sleep.
I gently trace the graceful curve of your neck with my fingertips.
Your face pushes into the crook of your arm as you try to block the light from invading your dreams.
As I lie there and stare at your innocent, peaceful face, I can’t help but feel lost.

Lost in you, and the humble realisation that you have chosen me to share your innermost self.
I know your secrets, your desires, your plans for the world, yourself and for me.

Your eyes blink slowly as you stir, and you smile at me with the contented look of someone waking up to the sight of the person that completes them.
I can’t help but smile back, caught up in your wonder at a world seemingly fresh and renewed.

When you watch me while I work, I feel inspired to greatness.
When you smile at me, you infect me with your laughter and delight.
When you touch me, you ease the troubles of a world all too easily led to insanity.
When you kiss me, all else ceases to exist.
There is only you and I.

A moment that seems to last an age, but gone all too soon, leaving me aching for more.

I pray this feeling will last forever…

You pass me in the crowd, your arm gently brushing mine as you walk on.
My mind snaps back to the present from visions of a life together that could have been.
I continue on towards the rest of the world, knowing it’s a better place because you are there.

I’m so lost in you, and I don’t even know your name.

title: Lost in You [Short story/Poetry? Not sure :)]

question: What is the tone of this story?

answer: Romantic and wistful

question: Who is the narrator addressing?

answer: A stranger the narrator envisions a romantic life with

question: How does the person the narrator is addressing make them feel?

answer: The narrator feels lost in this person romantically despite not even knowing them.

question: What feeling does the narrator hope lasts forever?

answer: It seems the narrator is hoping the feelings of being in love last forever.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator envisions theirself in a romantic relationship with a stranger they bump into in a crowd. They feel lost in this stranger without even knowing their name.


text:
[Chorin Abbey] [Aerial view] CHORIN ABBEY (German - _Kloster Chorin_) is a former Cistercian abbey near the village of Chorin in Brandenburg, Germany. It was founded by the Ascanian margraves in 1258 and had far-reaching influence on the northern edge of the Ascanians' sphere of influence, where it bordered with the Slavs. It was secularized in 1542 and allowed to decay until the early 19th century, when the ruins were restored and the building partly rebuilt under the direction of Karl Friedrich Schinkel. It is now an archetypal example of the Brick Gothic style and part of the .[1]

Some scenes in the 1912 film _Das Mirakel_ were filmed there.[2]

[1] Cante, Marcus (2013). _Zisterzienserkloster Chorin: Geschichte – Forschung – Denkmalpflege_. Forschungen und Beiträge zur Denkmalpflege im Land Brandenburg, Vol 15. In German. .

[2] *

title: Chorin Abbey

question: What is Chorin Abbey?

answer: a former Cistercian abbey near the village of Chorin in Brandenburg, Germany

question: Who founded Chorin Abbey?

answer: the Ascanian margraves

question: When was Chorin Abbey founded?

answer: 1258

question: When was the film Das Mirakel released?

answer: 1912

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: Chorin Abbey is a former Cistercian abbey near the village of Chorin in Brandenburg, Germany.


text:
CAMPHINE, the burning fluid lamp fuel, not to be confused with camphene, the chemical.

Camphine was the trade name of a purified spirit of turpentine formerly used for lamps, generally prepared by distilling turpentine with quicklime.[1] Camphine gives a very brilliant light when burned in a lamp, but, to prevent smoking, the lamp must have a very strong draft. To achieve this special lamps were constructed, called Vesta lamps.[2] Liebig describes camphine as a blend of 1 part purified turpentine with three parts 93 to 94% grain alcohol. “It gives a very white light, not as bright as pure turpentine, but it can be burned in a simple lamp.”

Russell[3] reports that whale oil was commonly used in lamps until the 1840s when prices began to rise. Lard lamps were an early substitute beginning in about 1842. Camphine was the first fuel used in burning fluid lamps. Henry Porter of Bangor, Maine patented a turpentine/alcohol blend and the name “burning fluid” in 1835. Hence, the name Porter's Burning Fluid. The mix had been developed as a fuel for oil lamps by Isaiah Jennings of New York in 1830.[4] A typical camphine lamp has wick tubes forming a V.[5] They have caps resembling thimbles to extinguish the light and to prevent evaporation when the lamp is not in use. Whale oil lamps could be upgraded to use the new fuel by installing camphene burners, but the combination of more flammable fluid and the larger fonts in whale oil lamps sometimes caused lamps to explode.

The flammability of burning fluid posed a hazard. Spillage could start a fire. In 1853, Scientific American reported thirty-three deaths from burning fluid lamps the previous year. The most significant incident was the St. Louis Theater fire on June 12, 1846, in Quebec City, Canada. The fire began when someone knocked over a burning fluid lamp; 45 people died.

Coal oil was discovered in 1846; kerosene became available from petroleum after 1858. Kerosene was the fuel of choice until gas lighting or electric lights became available. As measured by flashpoint, kerosene is much less flammable (fp 150-185 deg F, vs 95 for turpentine, and 55 for grain alcohol).

In a PBS Newshour story,[6] Professor Bill Kovarik of Carnegie Mellon University examined the popular idea that whale oil was replaced by kerosene. He found that camphine dominated the market between the two. Camphine prevailed until Congress decided to tax alcohol to fund the Civil War. The tax applied to the alcohol used in camphine making it more costly than kerosene.

Kovarik estimated prices in 1850 as follows:

-   Camphine or “burning fluid” — 50 cents/gallon (combinations of alcohol, turpentine and camphor oil – bright, sweet smelling)
-   whale oil — $1.30 to $2.50/gallon
-   lard oil — 90 cents (low quality, smelly)
-   coal oil — 50 cents (sooty, smelly, low quality) (the original “kerosene”)
-   kerosene from petroleum — 60 cents (introduced in early 1860s)

He estimated production of camphine at close to 200 million gallon per year vs 18 million gallon for whale oil in 1845. Kerosene reached the 200 million gallon level only in 1870. Hence, camphine burning fluid dominated in the interim between whale oil and kerosene.

Congress passed the Revenue Act of 1862 to help pay for the Civil War. Excise tax was applied to a wide range of products including alcohol. In 1860, 1138 distilleries produced 88MM gallons of spirits with an average price of $0.1440/gal.[7] A proof gallon is defined at a gallon of 100 proof alcohol (consisting of 50 parts absolute alcohol and 53.71 parts of water, specific gravity 0.93353 by hygrometer at 60 deg F).[8]

Raw alcohol is used for industrial purposes, primarily for burning fluid, but also as solvent for paints and lacquers and in pharmaceutical preparations and patent medicines. Further processing results in beverage grade alcohols. Initially the tax was $0.15/proof gallon of raw alcohol, $0.25 for beverage alcohol, $0.15 for whiskey, and $0.30/gal for brandy, rum, gin, and wine.[9]

In 1864, Congress raised the tax to $0.20 to March 7, then $0.60/gal to Jun 30, and collected $28MM on 85MM gal sold.[10] In 1865, the rate increased to $1.50/gal for 6 months and then $2/gal. Collections fell to $16MM on 17MM gal. In 1866 and 67, the tax remained at $2/gal and $29MM was collected on 14.6MM gal and $28MM on 14.1 MM gal. The conclusion was that much was stored in anticipation of rising taxes and that high tax rates resulted in more fraud. In 1869, the tax was reduced to $0.50/gal. The government collected $33MM in 1869 and $38.6 MM in 1870.

In 1860, 25MM gal of burning fluid was produced at a price of $0.45 to $0.60/gal. In 1866, the price of burning fluid was $4/gal and consumption was insignificant.[11]

The Library of Congress is digitizing old newspapers under its Chronicling America program. [12] The files are searchable making it possible to compare published dates with newspaper stories. The first reference to camphine appears in the July 11, 1838, issue of the _NY Morning Herald_.[13] AVM Webb has invented a new lamp for camphine which offers bright light and economy. In the May 28, 1840, issue of the Baltimore Pilot and Transcript, T. Palmer & Co. has camphine oil lamps for sale.[14] He claims 13,000 are in use in New York City. Later he claims exclusive availability of camphine lamps.

Kerosene (coal oil) ads began to appear in 1856. Typical is the one in the February 24, 1856, issue of the _NY Herald_.[15] It stresses the advantages of kerosene over other lamp fuels. _The Southerner_ of Tarboro, Edgecomb County, NC, reprints an extensive article from the _New York Pathfinder_ on the benefits of kerosene in its Nov 7, 1857, issue.[16]

[1]

[2]

[3] Russell, Loris S, “Early Nineteenth-Century Lighting,” in Peterson, Charles E, editor, “Building Early America: Proceedings of the Symposium Held at Philadelphia to Celebrate the 250th Birthday of the Carpenters Company of the City & County of Philadelphia, Chilton Book Co., Radnor, PA, 1976, p. 193.

[4] Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. http://cameo.mfa.org/wiki/Burning_fluid

[5] Illinois State Museum, http://exhibits.museum.state.il.us/exhibits/athome/1800/objects/camphenelamp.htm

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

[12]

[13] _Morning Herald_. (New York [N.Y.]) 1837-1840, July 11, 1838, Image 3 http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83030312/1838-07-11/ed-1/seq-3/

[14] The pilot and transcript. (Baltimore, Md.) 1840-1841, May 28, 1840, Image 3 https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83016475/1840-05-28/ed-1/seq-3.pdf

[15] _The New York Herald_, February 24, 1856, Page 3, Image 3 http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83030313/1856-02-24/ed-1/seq-3/

[16] The Southerner, Tarboro’, Edgecomb Co, NC, Nov 7, 1857, p .1 https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn90052434/1857-11-07/ed-1/seq-1.pdf

title: Camphine

question: What is camphine made of?

answer: A mixture of purified turpentine and grain alcohol

question: When was camphine invented?

answer: The mix was invented in 1830, but patented in 1835

question: Who invented camphine?

answer: Isaiah Jennings invented the mixture, but Henry Porter patented the blend five years later under the name "burning fluid"

question: How much did camphine cost in 1850?

answer: 50 cents/gallon

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: Camphine was the trade name for a blend of purified turpentine and grain alcohol used in lamps in the mid-1800s. It dominated the market as the price of whale oil rose, but was ultimately replaced by kerosene, partly due to a substantial tax on alcohol imposed by Congress to fund the Civil War.


text:
Okay Reddit. First time I'm posting something to an audience outside of my small circle of friends. Hope you like it. I'm from India so you have the references here and there. Shouldn't stop you from getting it, though. Hope you like it :)

This story formed itself on three separate occasions and was finally written on a cold winter day on a Lutyens' Delhi building's terrace. It became more special after I recited it to someone immediately after its completion. Not very often do I get to read stories out but for the one time I did, it sure feels good. This story for me (like the others) is like winter. Cold, numb fingers and dull aches, but some warmth inside, and just about enough. I hope you like it :)

"Do ghosts live on Peepul trees?" I ask, peering across the terrace into the hazy silhouette of a clump of trees far away. The winter sun trying its best to warm my bones against the chilly wind that plays with my messy hair. "Ghosts and Gods both." says my aunt knowingly as she pours me yet another cup of strong, milky tea. A mug, rather. I warm my numb fingers on it. I am cold. I'm in a village for all practical purposes. My phone does not work here, buffaloes sit lazily basking in the faded sun, children quarrel over a game of marbles, and a twenty-year-old misfit sips tea sitting on a cot.

Needless to say, this is not my natural habitat. For one, I can see the sky in all its sprawling, blue glory. Two birds skip off the draft and dive one after the other to swoop onto some unknowing prey. Somewhere, a rooster crows, which is quite odd for two o clock in the afternoon. Also odd for this time of the day is the cold that seeps through to my bones. I tell my aunt about life in the city. She listens wide-eyed. She cannot fathom the coldness of it all, the steel and glass prison that I work in, the dreadful fact that I know exactly how each day is going to be. She does not understand how free I feel here without my cell phone chaining me like an invisible umbilical cord, how clear the air here is without a thousand conversations riding the airwaves form tower to tower. All is well in my world though, as she pours me yet another cup of tea. I smile. Family.

As the clock strikes four, children start pouring into the terrace. My cousin sister, all of nineteen, is the neighbourhood teacher, a prestigious title earned through months of reading aloud the alphabet, teaching children to dot their i's and cross their t's and much red ink spread over her soft palms. The children eye me suspiciously. After a while they decide I'm no threat and a couple of them greet me. "Good Morning, Sir!" they say in that sing song chorus I used to be a part of, long back. I smile again.

This class is quite different from any I have seen. The children, aging from five to ten, do not sit still. They laugh and cry freely. They sing their lessons. Some are struggling to hold pencils while some are proud to be old enough to wield pens, prized possessions no doubt for those little fingers. It is, in a way, like an overgrown garden. Disordered and chaotic but oh, so beautiful.

One little boy stands out, though. There's something strange about him even in this scene which is none too familiar to me. He takes and exceptionally long time to write. I kneel next to him and peer into his notebook, bound with thread. All the words are misspelt, the letters are fractured,misshapen little creatures, and the boy's face is a mixture of confusion and terror. I look at my sister with concern. She nods silently and tells the class to write numeral to a hundred. She walks over to me and looks into his book. Then she looks at me, her eyes full of exasperation and silent despair. "There's something wrong with him." she says, the winter haze making its way into her voice. "He's just slow to learn. He's not too rich. His father was supposed to come see me today." She looks at him with sadness. He merely smiles as he squints into the sun. "Take care of him will you?" she says and leaves me with him.

I am now a helpless subject of the boy's scrutiny. he squints at me face, the winter sun giving me a halo. I try to smile, but it falters. This will not go well, I think. I need something to say, to engage his mind, so much more free than mine. "Do you like aeroplanes? I ask him , finding my saviour in a flash of supposed brilliance. "Planes." he says after a couple of seconds of incomprehension, his face lighting up. "Planes!" he says again, his hands tracing a flight path, cutting through the cold air. "Let's make one!" I say with poorly disguised relief and I tear out two pages from his notebook and give him one. I make the first folds quickly, my fingers using their own memory saved from eons ago when I used to fly. He sits there confused, his fingers not grasping the movements, ever so slightly out of his control. I repeat slowly. He follows this time. He laughs clearly as he does and the air is warmer, if only by a fraction.

As his small hands struggle to give life to the piece of paper, I see him deep in penance, wanting nothing more to bend the paper and his own limbs to his will. Ages pass by with me lost in the slow dance his fingers play with the paper, becoming more and more refined until he makes the final fold with all the grace of a finishing pirouette. As we walk to the boundary I silently pray that it flies well, to some unknown tree-dwelling deity, lord of planes and the winter wind.

The child blows into the paper plane in a ritual he is sure will lend it magical wings, and jumps slightly as he releases it into the vast, cold expanse of air.

And it flies majestically, circling us and riding a draft into a slow dive reminiscent of the two birds, then stalling, then diving again and continuing its graceful pirouette as the boy's wide eyes follow it in flight, even as he dives and stalls with the plane, no longer bound by his form, and having lived its short life with the grace of a dying star, the plane lands on a buffalo sitting some distance away. The animal merely grunts and goes promptly back to chewing its cud, a business more important than all the machinations of this world.

I look at him. He is laughing. He is in fits. "You did well." is all I can muster. I ruffle his hair gleaming brown in the sun, and he nods with twinkling eyes. I turn around to see an old man, whose eyes tell me he is the father. "He did well." I say weakly to him. He merely nods, other gestures being foreign to him. He picks the child up into his arms, never too weak for his son. Then he looks at me with a smile and moist eyes. I cannot look away. They are too deep for me to swim away.

My mind goes back five years when I had returned with my examination results to my father. "You could have done better." was all he had said. I remember sitting there under the same sun with the result sheep in my hand, a piece of paper that would never, ever fly.

I look at the child and his father again. It's not cold anymore. The wind stands still as if in respect, and for a moment the sun shines brighter.

Then it hits me .

The boy isn't broken.

I am.

I walk away silently and gaze across the open fields into infinity until my eyes are moist.

Perhaps it is just the cold wind.

Perhaps.

title: Broken

question: What made the narrator realise he was broken?

answer: After meeting with the little boy's father, he remembered his relationship with his own father.

question: Why is the narrator in the village?

answer: He was visiting his aunt.

question: How was the narrator able to bond with the little boy his sister left in his care?

answer: He taught him how to make paper planes.

question: Did the little boy have a learning disability?

answer: He didn't but he was a slow learner.

question: what's the difference between the narrator's natural habitat and the village?

answer: The narrator lived in the city which was full of life, heat and noise while the village was quiet and cold.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: While staying with his aunt in the village, the narrator encountered a little boy, one of his cousin's students. The little boy appeared slow to learn but was teachable. Interested in him, the narrator taught the little boy how to make paper planes, slowly but successfully. Afterwards, his father came by to take him home and something about meeting the little boy's father reminded the narrator of his relationship with his father, making him realise how broken he was.


text:
It is said that a person is something the whole universe is doing, much like a wave is something the entire ocean is doing. His grip tightened, his eyes narrowed.

A young boy stood still in a forest. Pools of sunlight slowly grew and retracted with a light breeze. Timelessness and faint understanding of place and existence crept in. Echoes of birds birthed a sting of emotion, tightly winding primal joy to this beautiful understanding of everything. How I never wanted to leave, for this place was not a part of the world that I was. My thoughts and convictions simply evaporated here. For the briefest of moments, I was truly free.

A young man sat in a field. No roads were near, nothing to break his purpose. Tall grass, dotted with golden buttercups, purple wildflowers, and patches of goldenrod gently swayed. Warm sunlight eased his strain. Vividly green trees enclosed this paradise. Scents melded together, creating a delicate aroma. Everything was so alive, so detached. His world struggled to understand this concept. The young man embraced it as something more. Wisps of high cirrus clouds raced across the depth of the blue sky. Here, he felt himself become a child again. He shed his worldly concerns, closed his eyes, and indulged himself. I never wanted anything else but for this.

A middle aged man sat on a small strip of sand, cradled from view by thick bushes. The skies changed hues, progressively darkening with each shift. All was still. His boat drifted forward gradually, leaving no ripples behind it. Stars and planets rose into view, reflected so perfectly that one might genuinely not be able to determine the difference between horizons. Auroras painted themselves across the sky. Fierce reds clashed with persistent greens, sending bickering splashes off in all directions. I knew all I would ever need to know.

He snapped back into his world, almost as if forcefully ejected here randomly. His emotions and senses dulled, aware they were no longer in a perfect place. Here, purpose was sent helter skelter by pressure to succeed at trivial and pointless things. How burdened they are, he thought to himself. How strange I must seem to them now. How silly they will feel once they are me. His grip loosened, and his vision blurred.

A photograph drifted slowly to the floor.

title: Ripples of nostalgia

question: The young boy seems relieved to be in the forest. Any particular reason why?

answer: He seems like an anxious person with the weight of the world upon his shoulders.


text:
JEAN ACHACHE (1952) is a French director, screenwriter, film producer, and writer.[1]

Biography

Jean Achache began his career as a filmmaker in the mid-1970s alongside Robert Enrico as an assistant director for _Le Vieux Fusil_ and _The Secret_.[2] In the eighties, he collaborated with Bertrand Tavernier on films like _Death Watch_ or _A Sunday in the Country_. Jean Achache then turned to the realization of his own works through clips,[3] documentaries like _Diabolo's Workshop_ with Terry Gilliam[4] and films like the adaptation of the novel _Un soir au Club_ by Christian Gailly in 2009.[5]

In 2006, he published his first novel _Juste une nuit_ at .[6]

Filmography

Director

Cinema

-   1994: _Les deux Amants_ (short film)
-   1994: __ (short film)
-   2004: _Marcel !_
-   2006: ''La guerre du Nil aura-t-elle lieu ? ''(documentary)
-   2009: _Diabolo'S Workshop_ (documentary)
-   2009: _Un soir au club_

Clips

-   1989: Le petit Train, Les Rita Mitsouko
-   1990: Regarde les riches, Patricia Kaas
-   1990: Au Tourniquet des grands cafés, Jean Guidoni
-   1990: Des fleurs pour Salinger, Indochine
-   1991: Punishment Park, Indochine
-   1997: Love in Motion, Peter Kingsbery

Producer

-   1987: _Waiting for the moon_

Screenwriter

-   2009: _Un soir au club_

[1] Allociné

[2] 1 Sur canal +

[3]

[4] commeaucinema

[5] site du film

[6] 2 site de l'éditeur

title: Jean Achache

question: Who is Jean Achache?

answer: Jean Achache is a French director, screenwriter, film producer, and writer.

question: When did Achache produce his first movie?

answer: 1987

question: How many short films did Achache direct?

answer: 2

question: When did Achache start his career as a filmmaker?

answer: mid 1970s

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: Jean Achache is a French director, screenwriter, film producer, and writer.


text:
The family of Jimmy Mubenga, an Angolan refugee in the UK, has brought a civil lawsuit against G4S, the world's largest private security company. Mubenga died on October 12, 2010 while being restrained by G4S guards who were hired to help deport him from the country.

Mubenga lived in the UK for 16 years but was convicted for involvement in a pub fight. He was then deported by the UK Border Authority (UKBA) under laws that allow non-citizens to be kicked out of the country if they are sentenced to prison.

When Mubenga was taken on British Airways flight number 77 from London to Angola, he was treated "worse than an animal" said Mubenga's wife, Adrienne Makenda Kambana. Kevin Wallis, an oil engineer, who was seated in the opposite row, said he saw the security guards "holding him down" and "moaning and groaning."

Deportees are often taken out of the UK by security contractors on commercial flights who are required to carry them under the 1971 Immigration Act. Others are taken on specially chartered flights.  However if the deportees put up a fight, pilots often ask the contractors to deplane.

In order to avoid being kicked off, security guards have developed a technique called "carpet karaoke" which involves pushing "a seated and belted deportee forward so that he or she would "sing to the carpet" and their shouts, screams and cries would be muffled, according to a 2011 report titled "Out of Control" by Amnesty UK.

Before the flight took off, Mubenga went quiet. An ambulance was called and he was pronounced dead.

Terry Hughes, Colin Kaler and Stuart Tribelnig, the three security guards employed by G4S, were found guilty of "unlawful killing" by a jury vote of nine to one on Tuesday.

"The fact that Mr Mubenga was pushed or held down, or a combination of the two, was a significant, that is more than minimal, cause of death," declared the foreman of the jury. "The guards, we believe, would have known that they would have caused Mr Mubenga harm in their actions, if not serious harm. We find that they were using unreasonable force and acting in an unlawful manner."

"At the inquest the reality of the murky private removals industry emerged, where deportations are a business for profit with multimillion-pound contracts," writes Mark Scott, a lawyer with Bhatt Murphy solicitors who represents Mubenga's family, told reporters outside the court after the ruling "G4S was paid by the hour, and if a deportation failed profits were hit. The guards' wages were dependent on the hours worked. It was important to "get the job away" and they were given incentives for successful removals."

G4S does not have a good record in handling other refugees and asylum seekers: a total of 773 complaints were lodged against the company when it had the UKBA contract. Also in a 2011 report, the Chief Inspector of Prisons found conditions in a G4S run immigration center to be "objectionable, distressing" and "inhumane."

G4S has since lost the contract with UKBA. The new deportation contractor is Tascor, a subsidiary of Capita, which has hired away many of the security guards and supervisors from G4S, according to Scott.

Tascor employees recently told the Guardian newspaper that "there is still inadequate training for new recruits." Deportees on a recent charter flight from the UK to Nigeria were "punched and assaulted by guards" according to an anonymous whistleblower.

"The verdict in Mubenga's inquest has shattered the illusion that those in uniform should be trusted to know what they are doing," writes Nadine El-Enany, a lecturer in law at Birkbeck College. "It has also demonstrated that there is no basis for the assumption that deportation is a legitimate and peaceful state activity."

question: What is G4S?

answer: G4S is the world's largest private security company.

question: Why did Jimmy's family file a civil lawsuit against G4S?

answer: Jimmy Mubenga's family filed a civil lawsuit against G4S for unlawfully killing Mubenga while he was being deported to Angola.

question: Why was Jimmy getting deported?

answer: Jimmy was convicted for being involved in a pub fight. He was then deported under the law that non-citizens can be kicked out of the country if sentenced to prison.

question: What is "carpet karaoke?"

answer: Carpet karaoke is a technique that security guards use, it involves pushing a seated and belted deportee forward such that he/she would "sing to the carpet" and their screams would be muffled.

question: Write a ~7 sentence summary.

answer:
Jimmy Mubenga's family filed a lawsuit against G4S. At the time of the article, Mubenga was being deported from London to Angola. A fellow flight passenger confirms the G4S guards were "holding him down" and "moaning and groaning." An ambulance was called and he was pronounced dead.

The jury found the three G4S guards to be guilty of "unlawfully killing."

G4S has since this incident lost its contract with the UK Border Authority. The new deportation contractor is Tascor.


text:
 A long time ago, in a forest not far from here, a little girl of no more than four stood looking up at the trees in awe of their great heights. She was amazed at the texture of the bark beneath her tiny fingers and the colours of the leaves on the forest path. Upon hearing soft foot steps crunching the leaves behind her, she giggled and darted through the trees, hiding behind an exceptionally large one. She waited, breathing heavy, for the footsteps to continue. She heard them pick up speed, and suddenly the girl was flying through the air, swinging in the arms of her father. Squealing in delight she begged to be swung higher and faster. Her father swings her around once more, before plopping her down into the foliage on the forest floor.

Kneeling before his little girl, looking earnestly into her sweet face, he warned her not to run off again, for the woods were quite large, and it would be easy to get lost. The girl, quick to reassure that she would stay close, nodded her head vigorously, causing her dark curls to shake. Together they walked through the forest, marvelling at the trees and the path, touching the leaves and the moss mottling the tree bark.

It was then the little girl saw it. A butterfly. It was the bluest butterfly she had ever seen. Ignoring her fathers earlier warning she left the path and followed the butterfly deeper into the woods, and away from her father. She climbed over fallen logs, and ducked under low branches. She walked for hours in the woods, following the butterfly, while her father searched for her.

Eventually, after the sun had retreated, and the shadows crept closer, the butterfly landed on single flower, the colour of the morning sun. Creeping up to the flower, she stared, wide eyed, at the butterfly. At this time a boy, only a few years older than she, stood in the shadows watching the girl. He knew she was loved and that someone must be missing her, for her hair was tied up in ribbons, and her clothes, despite her trek through the woods, were clean. Stepping into the light he called out to her  “Hey, you!”

The girl jumped in fright, spinning around to see who was there. When she saw the boy, his own clothes dirty and ripped, she rushed to him, feeling great sadness the sight of him. She gave him a hug and told the boy how they were going to find her father, and he would wash and fix his clothes, “because that’s what daddies do.” She took the boys hand and gave a pull on his arm. “Come on,” she complained. “He can’t help you if you don’t come with me” The boy didn’t understand, but knew the woods were no place for such a girl, especially a nice girl. Giving in, he held her hand tight and together they looked for her father.

Another hour passed, and the little light left soon turned to darkness. The girl was growing scared her, only comfort in the boy still holding her hand. He whispered to her that everything would be okay. Shortly after, the children noticed long sweeping lights, filtering through the trees. A search party was out looking for the lost little girl. When the children were spotted by the a member of the search team, they were scooped up and brought to the search base. The news soon spread, and the girl was rushed into her fathers waiting arms. She twisted to find the boy in the celebrating crowd, so her daddy could help him wash and sew his clothes, but he was no where to be found. The boy was gone.

The girl was brought home, and while she and her father still walked the forest, it was impressed upon her that she never leave the path. The passing days turned to weeks, the weeks into months, until many years had passed and the girl was no longer a girl, but a woman. And as the woman walked the woods, staying on the familiar path her father had taught her so many years ago, she came across a blue butterfly. The second blue butterfly she had ever witnessed in these woods.

Without a second thought, she took off after the butterfly. Her shoes, tripping her as she ran were quickly discarded. Her clothes caught and tore on stray branches, but the woman did not stop. She ran and ran until the sky had darkened, and the butterfly finally stopped to rest on a yellow flower.

Recognizing this place she spun around, just in time to see a man step into the moonlight. “Its you,” she whispered, breathless. The woman had finally found the boy who had saved her so many years before. She ran to him, took his hand, and together they walked through the forest once more. This time the woman was not afraid, for she knew she was safe, and the man felt no need to reassure her, instead they walked in silence knowing they had finally found their home.

EDIT: Thank you to /u/SurvivorType, /u/crimsonire92 and /u/theworldwithin for offering reviews and edits!

title: [RF] Finding Home

question: Summarize everything to do with plantlife.

answer: A little girl stands in a forest looking up at the trees in awe. She is amazed at the texture of the bark and the colours of the leaves. Her father swings her up into the air then plops her down into the foliage on the forest floor. They walk through the forest, touching the leaves and the moss growing on the tree bark. The girl chases after a butterfly, which lands on a single flower the colour of the morning sun. Years later, she returns to the woods as a woman and chases a butterfly that stops to rest on a yellow flower.

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

answer: The girl's father swings her through the air and she squeals in delight. He warns her not to run off again, as she could get lost in the woods. After getting lost and rescued by the search party, the girl is rushed into her father's waiting arms.

question: What does the story say about the type of person the boy is?

answer: His clothes are dirty and ripped, and the narrator feels a great sadness at the sight of him. He knows that the woods are no place for a nice girl like her and walks with her to search for her father. He whispers to her that everything will be okay.

question: What does the story say about how the boy wound up in the forest?


text:
Coon}} COON is the Australian trademark of a cheddar cheese produced by the Warrnambool Cheese and Butter company (WCB). It was launched in 1935 by Fred Walker.[1] Coon cheese is named after its American creator, Edward William Coon (1871–1934) of Philadelphia, who patented a method, subsequently known as the Cooning process, for fast maturation of cheese via high temperature and humidity.[2][3][4][5][6]

LD&D Foods (who also held a stake in the company) were the previous operator of the brand, until May 2015 when it was sold back to WCB which is majority-owned by Canadian dairy company Saputo Inc.

Origin

In August 1923, _The Journal and Republican_ of Lowville, New York, reported the sale by “E. W. Coon of Philadelphia, maker and shipper of cheese”, of five milk plants in villages around Watertown to the Dairymen's League Co Operative Association, Inc. It also stated that

On 27 February 1926, Coon filed an application for a Process for Ripening Cheese. Patent No 1579196 was issued on 30 March 1926.[7] Coon's patent claimed:

1.  A process for ripening cheese, consisting of supplying, through suitable means, humidified air to a room or chamber set aside for the purpose, the humidified air to have a range of temperature from 45° to 75° F., and a moisture percentage of from 65% to 95%.
2.  A process for ripening cheese having an original moisture percentage of 36% to 40% and subjecting it to a temperature of 55° F., to 70° F., in combination with a humidity percentage of from 75% to 90%.[8]

From 1933, a cheese was marketed by Fred Walker as _Red Coon_, and was coated with red wax. The wax was later replaced with cellophane, and the red stripe in the logo is a residual reference to the original packaging.[9]

Naming controversy

The product name, which it shares with a racial slur, was defended by previous manufacturers Kraft and Dairy Farmers despite decades-long campaigns to change it,[10][11] including through challenges to the Australian Human Rights Commission in 1999 and Advertising Standards Bureau in 2001 by activist Stephen Hagan.[12][13] Amid Australian involvement in 2020 Black Lives Matter protests, on 24 July 2020 Saputo Inc. announced the name would be changed.[14][15]

[1] Coon Cheese – The Full Coon Story at coon.com.au

[2]

[3]

[4] _Reports of the Tax Court of the United States_, vol. 21 (1954), p. 543: “Among the assets acquired from Coon was United States Patent No. 1,579,196, issued to Edward William Coon on 30 March 1926. The patent covered a process for curing cheddar cheese at specified ranges of temperature and humidity.”

[5] Lucius Lincoln Van Slyke, Walter Van Price, _Cheese: a treatise on the manufacture of American Cheddar cheese and some other varieties_ (New York: Orange Judd Publishing Company Inc., 1952 edition) p. 296: “He cited the process patented by Coon (1926) for producing the black, wax-coated cheese which was known in the trade as 'Coon Cheese'.”

[6] [http://patft.uspto.gov/netacgi/nph-Parser?Sect1=PTO1&Sect2=HITOFF&d=PALL&p=1&u=%2Fnetahtml%2FPTO%2Fsrchnum.htm&r=1&f=G&l=50&s1=1579196.PN.&OS=PN/1579196&RS=PN/1579196 USPTO]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

[12]

[13]

[14]

[15]

title: Coon cheese

question: Explain why the naming of a cheese containing a racial slur would be seen as problematic.

answer: The slur is a constant reminder of negative emotions for a certain part of the population, carrying the implicit meaning that their history and suffering aren't worth considering.

question: Why would the company try to defend its naming for so long?

answer: They probably have invested a lot of marketing effort and budget to establish the brand and the name. Changing it would mean the loss of that reception and renewing their efforts to re-establish their brand recognition.


text:
He walked like a man who had conquered every challenge he had ever faced. His large shiny forehead, a bulwark against those foolish enough to oppose him, glistened in the sun. His sat down at the table across from me. This guy certainly didn’t dress like I imagined most men of his trade would dress. His red leather jacket was hardly inconspicuous and his flashy black sunglasses looked expensive. This is a man that is so good at what he does he doesn’t have to blend in.

“Hello Mr. Smith. How are you?” I posited.
“I don’t have time for that shit.” he puffed back.
“I’m sorry I don’t do this kind of a thing very often, you are the first guy we have had to hire”
“The target is Martin Pierce Lepnick, is that correct?”
 “Yes.”
I have seen this exact scene play out in movies a million times and in the movies it looks cool, but I can’t help but feel like a complete dipshit. This whole thing is dumb.
…

Six days ago my boss the fucking president of the United States of America called me into his oval shaped office.
He said, “William I need you take have someone taken care of for me”.
I tell him “I’m sorry Mr. President I don’t understand. Like you want me to make sure they are taken care of? Do I need to have Sandra check the Lincoln Bedroom’s availability this month because I think you already have it booked till next Spring”.
“Fuck Lincoln and his shill of a bedroom! I need someone whacked!”
“This sounds like something you might want to talk to Director Schiller about. I can get him on the line…”
“Fuck that fat fuck Schiller! I want you to handle this.”
“Sir, that’s really not my specialty. I don’t think it’s even appropriate for me to hear about matters of national security”
The President gets up from his sofa and walks right up to me. I can smell the whiskey emanating from the large flapping orifice that resides above his presidential chin.
“This has nothing to do with national security” He pulls out one of his flasks from his suit pocket and dumps the contents into his mouth.
“William do I need to have something happen to you to? That would be a shame.”
“Sorry Mr. President”
“I’m sure you’d like to bang that blonde girlfriend of yours a few more times, wouldn’t you William? I know I would”
“What would you like me to do Mr. President?”
“I need you to set up a meeting with my guy. Sean Smith”
…
Sean let out an annoyed sigh.  He repeated “Martin Piece Lepnick?” “I just want to confirm that I am being set up by the president of the United States before I stage my coup and hang our beloved commander and chief in the streets”
“Wait WHAT?”
“Shut your fucking cock mouth up for a moment and listen” “Lepnick is the guy who books whores for Republican Congressman.” “When a newly elected guy arrives in D.C. they send their finest whore to fuck him. Sure she will pretend to be some unwitting intern or a slutty secretary but they paid to ensure they fuck the new guy” “Then they have blackmail to call in when they need it.” “It’s an effective system to control your lackies and the President has a lot of lackies to control, that’s where Martin comes in” “Mr. Lepnick finds the right girl for each job. He also makes sure to dispose of the girl once they are done to keep things quiet. He is the only other guy that knows about this whole shitshow.”
“Well that sounds awful, but I don’t understand. How exactly is he setting you up?”
“Because last week they found one of Lepnicks botched disposal jobs floating in the Patomic. They have called him in for questioning and the jig is up. He probably wants to cut a deal.”
“That makes a kind of perverted sense though. How is he betraying you?”

title: Eagle Vs Potus

question: Why did William call Sean Smith?

answer: Because his boss, the President of the United States, asked him to "whack" Martin Pierce Lepnick.

question: Why does Smith think POTUS is setting him up?

answer: Because he knows about POTUS' blackmail operation against newly-elected Republican Congressmen involving Lepnick's whores and is considered a loose end.

question: Is POTUS doing an ethical thing with regards to the Republican Congressmen?

answer: No, he is not, because blackmailing people by exploiting their weaknesses is wrong.


text:
I can’t keep living like this. And it’s not your fault—it’s mine. I’m living for you when I should be living for myself, for evenings with friends and holidays with family. Because there isn’t a we. I have to live my own life.

And it isn’t you. I’ve been living in a fantasy, that’s the problem, a fantasy of you and me. I keep thinking that one day you’ll wake up and see me waiting here for you and everything will be like it’s supposed to. You’ll say hi and I’ll say hi and you’ll run your hand through your hair and the spikes will flip back up and I’ll laugh cause it’s cute and you’ll tell me I have a nice smile cause you like the way I squint and my freckles squish around my eyes. We’ll go to the docks, like we always do, and I’ll say the sea smells nice and you’ll say it looks a bit green like its sick and I’ll say that’s the way it’s supposed to look cause this isn’t Hawaii and you’ll say well it doesn’t look good for swimming and I’ll tell you of course it’s good for swimming and we should go sometime and you’ll promise we will someday. Someday isn’t going to come though. You’ll never get to read the notes or see the orange roses with the peeling petals I bought you. I wrote them every day, you know, little haikus and couplets. I thought you’d like that. They’re all stacked on the nightstand under the roses with wilting petals.

I guess we’re just not meant to be. I was so sure we were, yet here we are. Here I am, spilling my guts. Honestly, I can’t stand that we aren’t meant to be. It’s like losing faith. But I guess I have to let go of that the way I have to let go of you. You know, every day I dream about you and me. And you and me don’t exist. At least, not like that. I have to shake that out of my head. So it’s me. It’s my problem.

I can’t forget that time we stayed on the phone till two in the morning, just talking, and the way you laughed at my crappy jokes. That was wonderful. I won’t forget that. I was the most in love with you in those moments. Those were the moments you could have asked me to do anything for you and I would have said yes without hesitation. I was too afraid to tell you this before, but you left me breathless. I should have told you sooner. I guess I’m telling you now, though, and that must count for something. But I can’t help but feel like it’s too late. It’s so hard to find that place between too soon and too late. I’m not sure it exists, really, if there’s a right time to say I love you. I haven’t found it anyway. I know this is terrible timing but I have to tell you that I love you.

But I have to stop thinking about it, because it won’t bring you to me. So I’m going to try to forget how it felt when you smiled at me and how it felt when we spoke in unison. I have to move on, even if it’s without you, even if it hurts. I have to move on.

I’m sorry I’m telling you all this, but I feel like I should explain myself. I need to tell you why I can’t see you anymore. We’ll meet again someday, I’m sure, but at least for now I need to let you go. I don’t know if I can forgive myself for letting you go, but I have to try to live my own life. I hope you can forgive me.

I love you, but it’s not enough. Sometimes love doesn’t conquer. Sometimes it dies. And I’m going to let it, because we can’t save it. I can’t save it. So I’m going to let them unplug you now. They said you’ll stop breathing and your heart will stop beating and it will be slow, but you won’t feel a thing. I’m glad. I wonder if you can even feel this right now. If you can feel me leaving you. Well, in case you can, here’s the ring. I can’t keep it. Not if I’m going to keep going. Not if I’m going to live.

I’ve stayed with you through everything—rich and poor, sickness and health—but I can’t watch you die. I’m not going to stay, so this is goodbye. See you later, love.

title: Halcyon

question: Who is the narrator addressing?

answer: Their unresponsive romantic partner who is on life support

question: Why does the narrator feel that they were too late saying "I love you?"

answer: Their partner is on life support, and the narrator has made the decision to take them off it, killing them

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: That information can't be found

question: What did the narrator love about the addressee?

answer: The narrator loved their mannerisms, the way that they laughed at their jokes, and just talking with them

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator tells his partner, who is on life support, that they love them. They recall the good times with their partner, before saying they can't watch them die. They leave before the life support is shut off.


text:
My mommy is the best mommy in the world. She’s making me my favorite chocolate chip pancakes. And today is especially special so I know she’ll make the smiley face. Last time she made it, she made the smile with the whipped cream that makes those funny noises when it comes out of the can. And the eyes were bananas with a chocolate chip right in the middle. To make it look like the black part of your eye. My mommy never lets me have any chocolate chips while I’m waiting for them to cook, but she said today is special so she brought me a few on a plate.
Today is special because it’s my day. It’s my birthday. I’m seven. That’s nearly ten. I’m not a little kid anymore. I’m pretty much a grown up.
That weatherman on the TV is really funny looking. His nose is kinda big and he talks really funny. Now he’s pointing at the pictures of the rain. I think that means it’s supposed to rain today. I hate it when it rains. Sometimes when it rains, the water gets through the holes in my shoes and it gets all the way to my toes and I don’t like it when it does that. It makes me cold and I don’t like being cold.
Now they’re talking about money or those credit card things or something. I like credit cards. They’re magical cards. All I know is that when you swipe them on that machine at a store, you don’t have to give them any money for all the stuff you’re getting. It’s like a get your stuff free card. It’s really cool. I don’t think I like money though. It makes my daddy yell at my mommy sometimes. The only kind of money that I know I really like is that colored money that you play with in Monopoly. The board that we have was falling apart and I think we lost some of those red and green houses and some of the money. I really like that game. It’s pretty much my favorite. No, it is my favorite game in the whole wide world. That’s why I asked for a new one for my birthday and that box on the counter over there looks like it’s just the right size. And it’s wrapped in Spiderman paper. Spiderman is my favorite super hero. He can climb walls and spray the bad guys with a spider web. That’s just so cool. It’s so much fun when my mommy and daddy play games with me. They haven’t played with me in a really long time. I can’t wait until I get to open my present after school. I hope school goes by fast today. I hope Sadie doesn’t copy my answers. And I hope Miss Brown doesn’t make me wear that silly hat that she makes you wear if it’s your birthday. It looks itchy. I don’t like wearing things on my head anyway. Like when my mommy makes me wear that cherry hat that makes it looks like I have red cherry on top of my head. It’s not a real cherry, or else I would eat it. My mommy says that it keeps the heat from coming out of my head or something.  I think that’s crazy. My head doesn’t have a hole in it!
My pancakes are ready. And he even has a nose! It’s made out of chocolate chips. I told you my mommy was the best mommy in the world. I’m about to gobble him up. First his eyes. Then his nose. Now, the fun part. The whipped cream. Why is everything more fun to eat with your fingers? Licking your hands all in between your fingers is the best part. It’s almost as good as getting to lick the brownie batter off the spoon. That’s more fun than eating the brownies normal. I really like it when my mommy puts the frosting and sprinkles on top of the brownies when she makes them.
I should go get ready for school now. I think I’m gonna wear my shirt with the rocket on it. My daddy it for me at the mall last week. I really like rockets. I hope the bus isn’t early today.

I wish school would only be on two days instead of five. I don’t really like school. Sadie is cheating from my answers again. She should know how to add numbers with double digits by now. We learned about them last week. She’s a girl. Girls are dumb. She doesn’t know any better. I know I should tell on her, but I don’t think Miss Brown likes me very much. When she asks a question and I know the answer and I raise my hand, she never calls on me.
I bet my mommy gave me Oreos in my lunch today. I love Oreos. Especially dipped in milk. That’s my favorite. You dip them in milk and then you lick all the cream out of the middle and then you eat the two cookies. I hope Aaron doesn’t want to trade at lunch today. I like animal crackers, but everybody knows that Oreos are better than animal crackers.
Now we’re doing spelling. I did my spelling words last night, so I already know how to spell ‘birthday’ and ‘shove’ and ‘without’. I like spelling though. I can spell the days of the week too. My favorite day of the week is Friday. That’s what today is. And it’s my birthday tot. That makes today extra cool.
My mommy is gonna let me open my present when my daddy gets home tonight. I can’t wait to rip the paper off and see what I got, even though I already know what they got me.

I knew they would get me a new Monopoly game. I just knew it. And mommy and daddy even said that they would play with me tonight if I set up all the pieces. Mommy said she wanted to be that thing you put on your finger sometimes when you sew. I think it’s called a thimble. And daddy said he wanted to be the shoe. They always let me be the boat. I’ve never been on a boat, but I bet it would be fun. Maybe someday I’ll get to ride on a boat.
Wait a second. There’s no board in this box. Or boat. Or thimble. Or shoe. Or even any of those red and green houses. All that’s in this box is money. Not even the kind that’s all different colors that usually comes with the game either. This is all real money. The kind that I don’t like. I didn’t get my game after all. All I got was this stupid money. Stupid, stupid money.

title: Monopoly Money

question: How have the parents and child misunderstood each other when it comes to playing the game?

answer: The boy loves Monopoly and is hoping to receive a new set as a birthday gift. The parents know of his love of the game so they tell him that if he sets up the board, they'll play with him. He thinks that they want to play because his present, which he has still to open, contains the new game that he had hoped for.

question: What can we deduce about the narrator's personality?

answer: The boy doesn't really like school but he seems quite bright. The girl next to him copies the answers to his sums and he is able to spell well because he does his homework. This boy is a bit of a softy. He swops the Oreos that he loves for animal crackers which he likes less because Aaron wants to trade lunch.

question: Why doesn't the narrator tell on Sadie?

answer: Sadie is cheating by copying the boy's answers. He doesn't tell the teacher because he thinks she doesn't like him. He bases his reasoning on the fact that the teacher doesn't call on him when he raises his hand to answer a question.

question: Why have the narrator's parents given him money when he asked for a new monopoly set?


text:
TPX (also known as TPX COMMUNICATIONS, U.S. TELEPACIFIC CORP; formerly TELEPACIFIC COMMUNICATIONS) is a privately held leading national provider of managed services. Founded in 1998, TPx delivers Unified Communications as a Service (UCaaS), Managed IT services and Managed Connectivity services to approximately 25,000 customers with more than 50,000 locations across the U.S. TPx’s customers span every business sector and include many government and not-for-profit enterprises.[1]

Company background

Founded in 1998, TPx Communications is headquartered in Los Angeles and has regional offices across the country. It changed its name to TPx from TelePacific Communications in April 2017. On February 12, 2020, The company was acquired by affiliates of Siris Capital Group, LLC (“Siris”), a leading private equity firm focused on investing and driving value creation in technology and telecommunications companies.[2]

TPx is currently headed by Joe Cozzolino. Other key executives include Russ Shipley, Chief Operating Officer; Brent Novak, Chief Financial Officer; Kyle Seiter, Chief Information Officer, Greg Daily, Chief Revenue Officer; David Zahn, Senior Vice President of Marketing; Jim Delis, Senior Vice President of National Channel Development.

Services

TPx Communications offers a range of services. These services include:[3]

-   MANAGED IT
-   MANAGED SECURITY
-   MANAGED CONNECTIVITY

Recent acquisitions

TPx Communications expanded its markets, customer base, and service portfolio by acquiring a number of communications companies.

In September 2016, TelePacific acquired leading managed services provider DSCI. With the addition of DSCI's Northeastern presence and customer base, TelePacific accelerated its transition from a regional to national managed services provider. Key DSCI products include Unified Communications and Managed IT solutions.[4]

In August 2010, TelePacific purchased Sacramento-based 01 Communications Inc's retail customer business as well as its downtown Sacramento data center.[5] With the acquisition of 01 Communications, TelePacific gained 50 new employees, an additional 1,000 business customers and enhanced IP assets in California, as well as 01's data center. The purchase increased TelePacific's total footprint to 1.18 million access lines, serving about 38,000 business and wholesale customers in California and Nevada.[6]

In December 2010, TelePacific announced the purchase of Covad Wireless, also known as NextWeb, Inc., from MegaPath, allowing TelePacific to offer more services to enterprise customers in California and Nevada.[7][8] With the acquisition of Covad Wireless, TelePacific was able to provide customers with more choices of high-bandwidth data products, having symmetrical uploads, retain a maximum download speed of 100 Mbit/s, special event Internet access and new redundancy options.[9] More specifically, through this acquisition, “TelePacific [gained control of] WiMAX-featured wireless broadband network, a licensed microwave backhaul network, and a high bandwidth wireless network operating in licensed LMDS spectrum. The new network assets [complemented] TelePacific's existing footprint and [allowed] the company to broaden its product offerings..”[10]

TelePacific Communications announced plans to acquire Orange County Internet Xchange in May 2011 and finalized the acquisition in June 2011. This acquisition gave TelePacific an extra SAS 70 Type II certified data center, located in Santa Ana, California.[11] TelePacific also announced plans to expand the OCiX facility to to accommodate current customers with more private meeting space and storage space. The acquisition also helped OCiX customers consolidate their voice and data services with one provider.[12]

TelePacific also announced the acquisition of Tel West in Texas in June 2011, which expanded TelePacific's footprint into Texas. Tel West brought TelePacific about 3,400 Small and Medium Business (SMB) customers across Texas, as well as a service portfolio of high speed Internet and other telecommunications services, including nationwide capabilities. Enterprise customers and governments gained by TelePacific through this acquisition spanned across six major metropolitan areas in Texas, including Dallas, Austin, San Antonio, Houston, Fort Worth, and Corpus Christi. Assets purchased from Tel West included nationwide PCI compliant MPLS/OC-192 backbone, cloud-based security services, managed network services, and a hosted PBX platform.[13]

Sales Organization

TPx distributes and sells its services through a mix of independent sales channels: midmarket (direct), wholesale, and indirect. The wholesale channel reports to Russ Shipley. The company's top performing indirect sales agencies in 2015 included Sandler Partners, Top Speed Data Communications, Bridgepointe Technologies, World Telecom Group, Intelisys, PSI Networks, Datatel Solutions, Network Consulting Group, Telecom Brokers Solutions and Telarus.[14]

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5] Anderson, Mark (August 2, 2010) “01 Communications sells retail business to TelePacific” _Sacramento Business Journal_. Retrieved August 16, 2011

[6] Buckley, Sean (October 4, 2010) “TelePacific's 01 Communications acquisition strengthens its SMB service ties” _Fierce Telecom_. Retrieved August 16, 2011.

[7] Powell, Rob (December 23, 2010) “TelePacific Purchases Covad Wireless” _TeleCom Ramblings._ Retrieved August 12, 2011

[8] Buckley, Sean (April 4, 2011) “TelePacific finishes acquisition of Covad's wireless unit” _Fierce Telecom._ Retrieved August 12, 2011

[9] Azuri, Calvin (April 4, 2011) “TelePacific Communications Acquires Covad Wireless” _Mobility Techzone_. Retrieved August 16, 2011

[10] (April 4, 2011) “TelePacific Communications Completes Acquisition of Fixed Wireless Internet Service Provider Covad Wireless” _The Street_. Retrieved August 16, 2011

[11] (May 5, 2011) “TelePacific Communications to Acquire Orange County Internet Xchange” _PR Newswire_ Press Release. Retrieved August 11, 2011

[12] Shanbhag, Jyothi (June 3, 2011) “TelePacific Communications Acquires Orange County Internet Xchange” _Financial Tech Spotlight_. Retrieved August 16, 2011

[13] Buckley, Sean (June 29, 2011) “TelePacific establishes Texas market presence via Tel West acquisition” _Fierce Telecom_. Retrieved August 16, 2011

[14] TelePacific Facebook Page Posted March 13, 2015

title: TPx Communications

question: What does the text say about TPX services?

answer: TPx offers management services for I.T., security, and connectivity.

question: What does the text say about TPx's recent acquisitions?

answer: TPx Communications expanded its markets, customer base, and service by acquiring multiple communications companies:

question: What does the text say about TPx's Sales Organization tactics?

answer: The TPx distributes and sells its services through a mix of independent sales channels: midmarket, wholesale (Russ Shipley), and indirect (Sandler Partners, Top Speed Data Communications, Bridgepointe Technologies, World Telecom Group, Intelisys, PSI Networks, Datatel Solutions, Network Consulting Group, Telecom Brokers Solutions, and Telarus).

question: What does the text say about TPx's company background?

answer: TPx was founded in 1998 and headquartered in Los Angeles. Its original name used to be TelePacific Communications and was changed to TPx in 2017.


text:
I realize that, by their very nature, dreams are mysterious and not wont to easily part with their secret meanings. Yet each and every time I slide into the arms of Hypnos, I am overcome with this serenity that has so captivated my soul and heart. It is quite beyond words to describe; it is a sense of being home, at ease, a veritable emotion of well-being so pure and unadulterated that it has become an object of desire in my waking hours. Indeed, I long for the hours in which I may again temporarily leave this world which deigns not to bestow upon me this same miraculous form of bliss, and my great regret is that no matter how firmly and gently I grasp at this wanting ev'ry single night, it manages to escape my clumsy earthly fingers in the morn thereafter. I am then left with this ever-bleeding longing, a wish for time to pass me by gently but quickly, so that I may soon resume my reverie, and preferably close to the place and time where I left off previously. Alas, this wish is seldom granted. Lord Hypnos seemingly has other plans for me those nights, as I am both fond and reluctant to find out time and again.

The scapes themselves are as different as one could imagine. One could be the plain and downright opposite of another, and even if that other was a magnificent picture of calm, peace and beauty, this new discovery shan't be of any shock or worry to me; the great bliss that envelops me in these scapes keeps me safe, as if I am but an observer of magnificent world-lines and divine possibilities far beyond the scope of our own private physical existence. Eyes through mist, so does it seem to present itself in those dreams, though the only regrettable part is always the waking up; the doing away with the security and safety of a world that was created by ourselves, in our proper minds, free from foreign influence or taints that do not originate with our own psyches.

'Tis almost as if those countless lives that I have been offered glimpses of are no less real than this tortuous dwelling in sorrow, just... not quite as accessible. At least not from my current position. So I must contend myself with the glimpses alone, but wond'rous they are indeed. My flesh cannot know the pleasures these worlds provide my mind, the endless and aetheric entertainment that swirls forever in the mists of my own spirit. But lo! Offsetting this sheer joy and freedom is the knowledge that I cannot grasp at it, cannot touch what I feel and see, cannot summon it at will to enjoy it. I must wait, always, for it to come to me, to visit me through the veil of dreams and waking. It must flow across the aether into the streams of consciousness that are human minds caressed by Hypnos' soothing hands. For only under his watchful eye are the streams permitted to mingle and create the dreams we long for. Only by his grace do we experience what it is to be more than what we are.

We are dreamers.

Does this world - so real and solid that it needs no dreamers to keep it aloft in the skies that contain all the celestial bodies - not recoil at the touch of equally solid and dream-free creatures? Does matter not beget matter, and dreams beget dreams?
Then why can I not do away with those thoughts, those memories, that ever-present longing for the next dream, a next chapter in an endless book of magnificent stories, never before told, written only for my eyes?
Can any one creature tell or feel, where is this dividing line?
Are there any who were once part of that other world, but then pushed or pulled, mayhap by sweet-talk and words even lulled, into the next against their will, thereby forfeiting their identities, everything that made them creatures of matter or muse?

How would one tell the difference?

title: Under Hypnos' watchful gaze

question: What is uncomfortable about having an "ever-bleeding longing", in the words of the author?

answer: The longing lasts longer than it should- but this is speculation.

question: How does one tell the difference between dream and wake, according to the author?

answer: They can't, because in both we lose track of our identities.

question: Where does the author indicate they are lucid dreaming, or are at least capable of doing it?

answer: Throughout the text it seems they possess a certain self-awareness throughout the dreaming, but this experience is pronounced in the paragraph about psyche and influence.

question: Why might Lord Hypnos be personified in this writing?

answer: The author seems to imbue their observations with agency, removing the possibility of their own perception from the existence of happenings in a flow of consciousness.


text:
HAFURSEY () is an inselberg in Southern Iceland. It has a length of and a width of .[1]

Location

Hafursey lies to the north of the black outwash plain of Mýrdalssandur, south of a side glacier of the Mýrdalsjökull, called Kötlujökull.

Shape

The mountain, which is approximately triangular in shape, has some peaks and is also divided into two parts by a gorge called Klofgil. This extends as much of a mountain as a whole from southeast to north-west. The western part of Hafursey is the highest and is called Skálafjall (), to the north is a secondary peak called Kistufell ().[2]

Geology

The mountain was created during the Ice Age and consists of palagonite.[3]

However, it probably does not belong to Katla, but feeds from its own source of magma. One can imagine its origin in one or more eruptions similar to that of Surtsey, but it far surpasses this real island in size. In addition, it was not born in the sea, but under an Ice Age glacier.

After the end of the Ice Age, the mountain was temporarily an island, which is still recognisable, hence the name. However, in the case of an island of a special kind, the numerous jökulhlaups of the Katla repeatedly remade it and contributed to its erosion.[4] Kötlujökull plays a leading role in this, because it has the largest amount of glacier ice and water, which can then be released with a volume of up to 100,000 or even 200,000 m2 / sec. running over the outwash plain.[5]

Agricultural benefits

The land is fertile and good pastureland. For this reason, the farmers of the now abandoned farm Hjörleifshöfði used the mountain as a summer pasture for their sheep.[6]

Accommodation for travellers

In earlier times the main route to southeast Iceland was across Mýrdalssandur at the foot of the mountain, a shelter was built there at the beginning of the 20th century. Previously, travelers had used the Stúka cave on the mountain for the same purpose.[7]

Hiking

Hikers can go to Skálafjall, for example, first following the road track from the hut about to the west and then ascending via an incision, which in a certain way represents the extension of the Klofgil to the southeast.[8]

In popular culture

The area was used for location filming for the 2016 _Star Wars_ spinoff film _Rogue One_.[9]

[1]

[2]

[3] cf.

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

title: Hafursey

question: Where is Hafursey?

answer: Southern Iceland

question: What in an inselberg?

answer: The reader might infer that it is a type of mountain

question: When was the mountain created?

answer: During the Ice Age

question: How was the mountain once used by farmers?

answer: As a summer pasture for their sheep

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: Hafursey is an inselberg in Southern Iceland. It was formed during the Ice Age, and consists of palagonite. The soil there is fertile, and the area was once used by farmers as a summer pasture for their sheep.


text:
Paul sat at the table in his living room scribbling down a few last sentences on his scratch piece of paper. The words started out neatly written, but as your eyes travelled down the page they became smeared and unrecognizable.  As he folded up his work, Jack came stumbling down the stairs into the living room. He was in a hurry trying to get to work. As Jack grabbed a half-eaten sandwich from the fridge he yelled:

“Hey bud! Look I know you’ve been in a rut for the past few months but after I’m done with work today you and I are gonna hit the bars, find a hot piece of ass, and get you laid! You’ll be in a better mood in no time!”

“Yeah, okay dude. Hope work-”

“Alright see ya man!”

Jack walked out the front door scarfing down the sandwich. The car outside made a terrible noise then the engine roared to life. Paul picked up the gun on the table in front of him and shot himself in the head.

Blood ran over the note on the table. Even the perfectly crafted words at the top of the page became defiled and tarnished.

title: Short story/script. Please leave feedback. Also need help with the title.

question: How can you describe Paul's mental state?

answer: Paul's mental state seems to be very fragile and he seems to be in a very dark place.

question: What can you infer from Paul and Jack's relationship?

answer: You can infer from Paul and Jack's relationship that they are friends and Jack is trying to look out for Paul.


text:
I honestly don't know how long I've been sitting here, waiting. It's getting kinda cold but the sky's still blue, almost as blue as the ocean. I've only been there once, when I tried running away from home and I saw a sliver of it behind the buildings. Then my aunt found me and her tears washed the ocean away.

I check my watch. I don't remember when I got here. Let's guess a few hours. I've seen the same old man hobble by around five times. I don't know if he's trying to look at me or what.

My legs have fallen asleep. I shift my weight and ow, ow, ow, pain is shooting up my body. I know it'll fade in a couple minutes, but I'm almost in tears. It hurts.

The more I think about it, it's not about my legs. It's everything- something's come into my life and tinted it all gray. Even silver linings are pretty slim: my friends don't have time for me and I can't say I care too much for them either. At one point they just became background noise. Hung out without me, had conversations that left me out. Bang, bang, hey, I'm still here.

Got no talents, got no friends. Just this promise that I'm banking on and sore feet. I walked all the way here and now my legs have fallen asleep. Tears are sticking to my cheeks. Hell, I probably look a lot grubbier than I usually do. Dirty cheeks and hair, gold jewelry in my pocket. I can sell it if I have to, if he decides that we're running off somewhere. He's not the kind of guy to just drop everything and run off, though, while I'm kind of like that. Just run. Or drive.

I imagine he's talking to me. About the ocean, and the future. The future is this big, grim shadow looming over my head but when he talks about it, he's got it all planned out. It's simple. He'd say, "Hey, five seconds ago, when you came over, that was the past. And five seconds from now, it'll be the future and we're going to still be sitting together, right? The future'll become the present. That's not too scary, right? Too fast for you to even notice it."

Right. But he's not sitting next to me now and everything's gray. The future is scarier - will it go by so fast I'll miss it? Suddenly I'll be some hunched old crone, trying to remember, what happened at the bus stop that day? Or maybe I'll be sitting here forever.

Why didn't I bring my phone? I could really use some music right now. No lyrics are coming to mind; the whine of cars is too loud. I curl up on the bench and squeeze my eyes shut.

It's even darker under my eyelids. When I was little, I wasn't really scared of the dark; I wanted to know why the monsters under my bed didn't want to talk to me. I thought, why don't they like me either? We're supposed to be alone together.

Footsteps -- his car -- no, it isn't him. But he'll come. He's just running late, I know it. I've sat up so fast that my head is spinning.

He likes my hair. My face. He says I have funny arms. I don't get how you can have funny arms, so I told him he can't talk because he has a crooked nose. He'd shrugged. Loads of people have crooked noses according to him. It just makes him blend in more.

He says I'm smart for my age. He won't let me down, he wouldn't dare. I hope I'm smart enough to be right about this.

What did my sister say about him? I think she likes him. Actually I'm pretty sure she does. She's always turning red and speaking really, really softly when he's around. But there was something she'd said about him, something that was odd, twisted, and true - what is it?

This'll bother me all day. The cars speeding by are starting to blend together into this black streak. No red. Not even white.

At least it isn't gray. I can't remember if his eyes are blue or gray - or what the rest of his face looks like. Suddenly he's a blur just like everything else.

Is he just someone I've imagined? Am I waiting for someone who'll never show up? I don't even have my phone to see the words he's written me. But those could've been imagined too, maybe.

Everything's just one big maybe. Maybe he'll show up and maybe my aunt will be here too. Maybe she'll wash the ocean away again.

My sister. Cute little idiot. Where's she? Probably thinking I'm in a mood again.

One, two, three, four, five. I'm in the future. The present.

Whatever. He still isn't here.

title: no buses

question: Did the narrator run away?

answer: Information not found

question: Who is she meeting?

answer: She is waiting for a man.

question: Will she reconnect with her friends?

answer: Information not found.

question: Will the person she is waiting for show up?

answer: Did not show up by the end of the text.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator is waiting for a man. She's thinking about her estranged friends and what she talked about with her sister. She's been waiting for so long that she starts to wonder if the man she's supposed to meet is even real.


text:
ALAMITOS BAY YACHT CLUB is a yacht club located in Alamitos Bay (Long Beach, California), United States.[1] The club belongs to the Southern California Yachting Association.[2]

History

Alamitos Bay Yacht Club was founded on August 14, 1924, by twelve local sailors and boat builders. On May 30, 1926, ABYC was formally organized with Richard L. Russell, Sr., elected the first Commodore, and ABYC was incorporated within the laws of the State of California on January 28, 1928.[3]

Racing

Besides many National and North American Championships, the Clifford Day Mallory Cup in 1976 and the 2002 Snipe Western Hemisphere & Orient Championship, ABYC hosted the following World Championships:

-   Finn Gold Cup in 1974
-   Tornado World Championships in 1977 and 1993
-   International 14 Fleet Racing World Championships in 1979 and 2006
-   Snipe Worlds in 1981
-   ISAF World Women's Sailing Championship in 1991
-   International A-class catamaran Worlds in 1997
-   Melges 24 Worlds in 1999

Sailors

Chuck Kober, who started sailing Snipes in the 1930s,[4] was continental champion in Dragon in 1964 and became president of the United States Yacht Racing Union (USYRU) in 1982.[5] Peter Barrett was gold medallist in Star at the 1968 Summer Olympics and silver at the 1964 Summer Olympics. Steve Bloemke and Gregg Morton won the Snipe Junior World Championship in 1982. Allison Jolly, also a former Snipe sailor, became the first-ever Gold medalist in the women's 470 event at the 1988 Summer Olympics while John Shadden won the bronze medal in the men's 470. John Latiolait, Jerry Montgomery, Jim McLeod, Don Reiman and Dave Thompson won the Transpacific Yacht Race in 1997. Howard Hamlin and Mike Martin won the 505 World Championship in 1999. Sarah Glaser won a silver medal in the 470 class at the Summer Olympics and was named US Sailor of the Year in 2000.

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

title: Alamitos Bay Yacht Club

question: What is Alamitos Bay Yacht Club?

answer: a yacht club located in Alamitos Bay, Long Beach, California, United States

question: Who became president of the United States Yacht Racing Union in 1982?

answer: Chuck Kober

question: Who was US Sailor of the Year in 2000?

answer: Olympic silver medalist Sarah Glaser

question: When was the Alamitos Bay Yacht Club founded?

answer: August 14, 1924

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: The Alamitos Bay Yacht Club is a yacht club located in Alamitos Bay, Long Beach, California, United States. It was founded on August 14, 1924.


text:
*This was inspired by a dream i had. I woke up and decided to write it down as true as I could to my dream. What do people think? I'm no writer, but any comments would be appreciated*

“I’m no hero” he said as he remembered picking Cpl. Glasser’s brains out of his hair. As he remembered the thunder of the pistol as it scattered blood and bone and skin and hair all over the boiler room. As he remembered the thump of the lifeless body hitting the metal floor. Blood squirting from the crater on the cpl’s head as the heart clamored for life.

“I’m no hero”, tears began to streak down his face, he contorted as he sobbed uncontrollably. He remembered scurrying into the corner behind the engine as he saw shadows slide by and the metallic beat of footsteps. Flashlights glazing over the boringly painted room. Voices of some strange dialect.

“I’m no hero”, he was still in the corner. Crashing inside his chest, looking down he was struck by the way he could visibly see his heart beating. The engine of the ship had long been turned off, but his own engine had been awakened by primordial fear. Fear of the shadows. Fear of the footsteps. Fear of the gunshots he could hear coming from distant corners of the battleship.

He remembered blackness. Then other voices. Lights swam in his eyes as frantic, not confident footsteps, began to surround him. Shouts. Hope. Cheering. The rhythmic swatting of helicopter blades against the virgin ocean air. Then blackness again.

Three years passed. Over his heart which once nearly tore itself out, over the tailored military dress suit now were adorned medals for bravery. Citations and medals of honor. Everywhere he went he was celebrated. On sticky summer days on the boardwalk his face obligated children to salute and their parents to nod.

He was content to mask his internal trauma with a smile and waving. Feigning interest in what other people had to say about his ordeal.  The air conditioned auditorium that smelt of learning and childhood brought some serenity. He pointed at hands in the sea of bright faces, and whoever he pointed nearest to would stand up and belt a question at him. This was fine. Was fine.

“Mister, are you a hero?”

title: I'm No Hero

question: What did the narrator do in the boiler room?

answer: The narrator killed someone in the boiler room and turned off the ship's engine.

question: Where is the narrator talking at the end of the story?

answer: The narrator talking at a school auditorium at the end of the story.