text:
The scene: An idyllic houshold, with no peculiarities. The cast: A traditional nuclear family, living caricatures from a Norman Rockwell piece. The parents make small talk as they all eat a breakfast of bacon and eggs. The children hurriedly scarf down the meal, eager for school. The mother picks up the dishes and together they walk out the door to begin the day. Their footsteps make no noise as they walk on the black dirt where grass grew once upon a time. The father takes a whiff of the toxic, poisonous air and declares it is a fine day as he waves goodbye to his family and begins the trek to work.

The brown and grey pollution that covers the sky shields the land from the scorching sun. The father whistles a tune as he carefully manuvers around the corpses and trash that litter the road. He decides to take the long way since there is yet another traffic jam made up of destroyed cars and fallen buildings.

“Morning, Jim.” He says to no one in particular as he steps into the decrepit office, with holes in the celing and decomposing bodies at the desks.

“Another day another dollar, eh?” He says for the 5,789th time to his cubicle neighbor. He types on the broken keyboard for a few hours, despite the monitor having a cracked, blank screen. Eventually, he gathers up a few  discarded papers, organizes them neatly, and picks up the suitcase he never opened, ready to go home.

“See ya tomor-”

He stops midsentence. Something…isn’t right. “I…uh…morning, Jim…heh…wait. Uh…”

Suddenly, his head feels like someone has hammered a nail into it. He drops his empy suitcase and looks around. The father of two walks around the office, causing the rats to scurry away from their meal.

 “I don’t feel very good…something the wife cooked maybe? Hah…”

A part of him knows there is no one here to talk to. Yet such thoughts feel …wrong. “Of course everyone's here! Richard, you sly dog, you were just over for poker night last week! Right?”

No response of course, yet he has heard his friend speak millions of times before. Why, he wonders, is Richard…and everyone else so quiet today?

 “I need to go home and lie down maybe. Sorry, guys, don’t let my episodes distract you, haha…haha…ha"

He wanders out the doors and begins walking home, forgetting his car. Glass crunches under his shoes in the very old parking lot. Head still hurting, he walks to the charred skeleton of a tree and sits aganist it.

 “What’s wrong with me…feels like everything is falling apart..."

As he tries to relax, he feels something sharp stabbing him. A splinter? He holds his hand up to see a small blue wire protruding from his index finger.

title: Disrepair

question: How long has the world been dead?

answer: If the father has made the greeting 5789 times then he has followed the routine daily for about 24 years, assuming he doesn't go to work on weekends, but if the bodies are still decomposing then the disaster could not have happened more than a few weeks prior unless there was a deep freeze that followed the disaster.

question: Why is the air still polluted if there are no more people causing pollution?

answer: The air must have been very heavily polluted prior to the disaster or the disaster must have caused the pollution.

question: Why would robots be living among humans before the disaster?

answer: Perhaps some kind of experiment?

question: Was the disaster caused by those experimenting with robotic families?

answer: It is possible

question: How many more such families are living on earth?

answer: it is unlikely that this is the only such family

question: Write a ~15 sentence summary.

answer:
The scene: An idyllic household. The cast: A traditional nuclear family, living caricatures from a Norman Rockwell piece. The parents make small talk as they all eat breakfast. The children are eager for school. Together they walk out the door to begin the day. Their footsteps make no noise as they walk on the black dirt where grass once grew. The father waves goodbye to his family and begins the trek to work.

Brown pollution covers the sky. The father moves between corpses, destroyed cars and collapsed buildings. He steps into the decrepit office, greets his colleagues. Suddenly a pain in his head and he realizes that something isn’t right. The father around the office and the rats scurry away. He chats to his colleagues but a part of him knows there is no one to talk to.

He wanders out the doors. “What’s wrong with me…feels like everything is falling apart..." He holds his hand up to see a small blue wire protruding from his index finger.


split: train

text:
So, sometimes, I wonder if I did the right thing.

The most striking moment was brief. But it was so shocking, so powerful, that it still haunts me. With clarity. One facial expression, omnipresent. The set and slant of the brow, the furrowing in sync with the three quick movements of the pupils darting, processing the news in search of understanding; a quick reality-check to make sure this wasn’t a dream; and, finally, searching for an escape. His mouth attempting three times to find words for the concept, for the emotions that exploded within, for the pain and dread. Words his brain wouldn't provide. And then there it was. Tears formed, and his face became that of an eleven year old boy trying to be a man. A face of silent resignation fighting against a show of weakness and pain.

-

When we had first met, she was in, bad. I inspired her. She quit. We had problems. Bad problems. I don’t think we dealt with them in the ways that normal people do. Sometimes it was less constructive, probably, sometimes more, maybe. She cheated. We reconciled. We were growing up. It started when we were seventeen. In our twenties we left town. I don’t know if things got worse, or if we just wore down the same nerve endings for so long that it seemed worse.

She cheated again. I didn’t know what to do. Where was the line between allowing myself to be used and insulted, and becoming possessive and jealous?

A question seemed to jump out at me from everywhere. In my apartment, which never felt safe and inviting but instead either felt like a prison or a tomb, the question knocked on the door and echoed in the walls at night. From my frustrated and angry family who watched their son and brother drop to dark and painful lows, the question was in arched eyebrows and tight-lipped frowns and the occasional quiet, breathy muttering. It jumped from all the beer bottles of my single friends and from every pretty girl that smiled as she walked past. “Why do you stick around?”

Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing.

How could I know? How could I trust? How could I be comfortable and happy again? How could I leave when I didn't know for sure? When she cried and begged me to stay? When the difference between knowing and not knowing was a decision between staying in spite of my pain only to be used and depressed or leaving and breaking the heart of a girl struggling against her demons in a genuine attempt to improve herself? How could I stay in spite of the rumors? How could I leave and withdraw my support and love? What would happen to me if I stayed? What would happen to her if I left?

What would happen to Eric?

I stayed because it was the right thing to do. Because somewhere I believed that if I could be better, things would get better. I worked hard to provide. I worked hard to be in good humor. I worked hard to show affection. Don’t yell. Don’t judge. Be supportive. Encourage her to go out with friends. Encourage her to get a job. Nothing changed. She cheated again.

And then it was too much. Her life was her own. I couldn’t be responsible for keeping her afloat anymore. Whatever mistakes she would make would be her own. I couldn't be her self-appointed psychological bodyguard anymore. She would have to face the consequences of her own actions. But what would happen to Eric?

-

By the look on his face you might have guessed that I told him his hamster had died. You might have guessed that a favorite toy had been broken, or a zoo trip had been cancelled. That look of dread and sadness – of anguish – and helplessness, it should never be associated with an eleven year old child. I knew that look, and the most heartbreaking aspect was the fear.

-

After we broke up she was back in our hometown within two days, settled in with her mother. Two days after that her new boyfriend had settled in with her. It hurt, but I wasn't terribly surprised, and besides, this isn’t about me.

She was back in. Bad. I wonder how blind I was. I wonder if she ever really quit. She bounced back and forth between the old town, and the new town. Shipping, probably. She looked worse every time I saw her. I tried to talk to her, to remind her that she could choose to be different. We are who we choose to become. She didn’t care. An addict’s primary function is always addict.

Of course she was arrested. She avoided prison, somehow. She’s in Christian rehab for a year. I tried for nine years. I never locked her in a basement and read her the bible, though, maybe brainwashing will do the trick. In the meantime Eric stays with his grandmother, and me on weekends.

And sometimes, I wonder if I did the right thing.

-

So a couple of weeks ago I had waited around until around nine a.m. I could leave town and do my route and end up in the old town around one, drop him off and be home by two-thirty. I walked into his room and turned on the snake’s light. I shut off the DVD player that had been repeating the Futurama title screen for who knows how long. I shook him gently and said “Eric. Hey Eric, wake up, buddy.”

His eyes opened, he looked miffed for a second, then cocked his head as if to ask me what was going on. Eyes wide, but barely focused.

“My route ends up in the old town, I need to take you with me so I can just drop you off and not use up more gas to drive all the way back again.”

By the look on his face, you might have guessed that I told him his hamster had died. The face of an eleven year old boy bottling up what he couldn't change.  Trying to be a man. It was the look of someone pleading against the universe and enduring an internal struggle against the titan of agony. It was the looked of the condemned.

Just the look on his face scared me. I asked him what was wrong; he said “nothing.” I asked him “you don’t want to go home?” He said “No.”

“Why?”

“I just. I-“ Tears now flowed from his eyes. His voice cracked and whined. “They just yell at me."

I know their tempers. I know their ways. I know their alcohol intake. It’s no place for a child to grow up, just look at my ex. I raised Eric for nine years to be willful, intelligent, curious and free. I want him to feel safe and happy. I know what its like to feel unsafe, to tread lightly, to fear the reactions of people bigger than me. I know what it feels like to lose hope. I do the best I can when he is here with me, but I don’t have any power to help beyond that.

“It’s ok,” I said. “Just hang out here, play the xbox or watch TV, I’ll be back to get you after my route.”

“No. I’ll go with you," He was shouldering a burden that wasn't his. "I don’t want to cost you money to drive back and forth too much.”

Tears shot to my eyes. I help up a scolding finger and started to talk, but my throat refused. I had to reset myself and swallow the emotion before I could get the words out, “No, that’s – you don’t worry about that. What I make and how much I spend is my concern, you let me worry about it. Money is garbage next to people.”

Now *I* was fighting back tears and trying to be a man, and for a moment maybe Eric and I had the same expression on our faces.  I gave him some money for lunch and went about my work and all day my thoughts raced and scattered and collected and formed visions and memories and near the end, in the middle of a field of tall milo, alone and invisible, I cried. I sobbed into my palms like a child.

I wanted the day to stop. I didn’t want to have to go home and tell him that it was now time to go. I didn’t want to have to deliver him into unworthy and dangerous hands.

I felt like I was being forced to deliver my little boy to the gallows.

And sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing.

title: The Right Thing. I need some honest and, if necessary, brutal feedback.

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: He is a father to Eric.

question: What is "the right thing" the narrator is referring to?

answer: "The right thing" changes through the essay. At first he wonders if he does the right thing by staying with his girlfriend who is addicted to drugs and cheats on him. Next, he wonders if he does the right thing by finally leaving her. The last time he question if he did the right thing could refer to leaving her, or if he did the right thing for his son.

question: What kind of emotions does the narrator experience?

answer: He feels confusion; he second-guesses himself. He feels sadness for his son. He feels like he's to blame. He feels like he's given all that he can. He feels guilt for his son.

question: What conflict arises? Is it resolved?

answer: The conflict that arises is that his son doesn't want to go to stay with his mother's parents. They are mean to him and they drink. The story doesn't resolve the conflict.

question: Write a ~8 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator is a good man who is in a relationship with a woman who is addicted to drugs and cheats on him. He questions whether he does "the right thing" and the meaning changes through the essay. At first he wonders if he does the right thing by staying with his girlfriend. Next, he wonders if he does the right thing by finally leaving her. The last time he question if he did the right thing could refer to leaving her, or if he did the right thing for his son. His son doesn't want to go to stay with his mother's parents. They are mean to him and they drink. The story doesn't resolve the conflict.


text:
By

Updated May 20, 2014 at 08:55 PM EDT

It was one of the most-watched moments in the Internet’s relatively brief history. When Tom Cruise jumped on Oprah’s couch and declared his love for Katie Holmes, it was the daytime TV moment for a DVR, GIF-ready age.

But, as Amy Nicholson reports for _L.A. Weekly_, the moment we all thought we saw never happened. He never jumped up and down on the couch; he simply stood. The nitty-gritty of the infamous May 2005 _Oprah_ appearance is but one revelation in her fascinating piece, How YouTube and Internet Journalism Destroyed Tom Cruise, Our Last Real Movie Star.

In the article, Nicholson explores how Tom Cruise went from the biggest movie star in the world to an Internet joke (who still manages to open films), with fascinating insight that attempts to explain the context behind the _Oprah_ appearance (for example, that Cruise was playing to an audience that was quite different than bloggers), as well as larger points about that time period — it’s hard to believe all that media craziness was nine years ago.

As Nicholson points out, the Oprah Couch Incident happened at a time with a lot of rapid changes in entertainment culture — the launch of PerezHilton.com, the growth of TMZ, the inundation of camera phones making everyone paparazzi, etc. The piece is interesting from a How We Got Here angle, as well as its ability to shed some light on what publicity meant in the ’90s versus now — Nicholson also gets great scoop about how that infamous Matt Lauer/Tom Cruise interview came to be (never underestimate a good publicist).

For old times’ sake, watch the Cruise clip below, and then go read Nicholson’s full article:

question: What incident is this article about?

answer: Tom Cruise "jumping" on Oprah's couch during an interview and declaring his love for Katie Holmes.

question: When did the incident in question take place?

answer: May 2005

question: Who are the major people involved in the incident?

answer: Tom Cruise, Katie Holmes, Oprah

question: Explain the public misconception about the incident.

answer: Most people believe Tom Cruise jumped up and down on the couch when in actuality he simply stood up.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: An article about the famous May 2005 incident when Tom Cruise professed his love for Katie Holmes on Oprah. The article summarizes another article by Amy Nicholson, which discusses how Tom Cruise became an internet joke and how the landscape at the time (including the launch of sites like PerezHilton and TMZ) contributed to this.


text:
TFDi Design 717

The modern version of a classic favorite.

Boeing Officially Licensed Product

[]

The TFDi Design 717 is a Boeing Officially Licensed Product.

Produced under license. Boeing and Boeing 717, their distinctive logos, product markings and trade dress are trademarks of The Boeing Company.

Avionics

As with most modern aircraft, autoflight takes a major focus in the everyday operation of the aircraft. If you are familiar with the MD-11, you will feel right at home in this aircraft. Great care has been taken in recreating all AFS modes found in the real aircraft, such as NAV (lateral navigation), PROF (vertical navigation), and VOR tracking mode. In addition, full Takeoff Guidance and Autoland capabilities have been integrated with a complete Autothrottle system and Speed Protection modes.

[]

MCDU

The flight management system features full weight and balance calculations, including take off and landing performance, climb and descent performance, as well as fuel, time, altitude, and speed predictions. Program your entire flight, with SIDs/STARs, Airways, and HOLDs, complete with company route support, all through 31 simulated pages.

[]

DISPLAYS

All 6 primary screens have been recreated, featuring a fully operational switching and testing system. In addition to all 11 system display pages, the master caution and master warning systems are simulated with over 100 different alerts and relevant consequences. Also included are full CAWS, GPWS, and TCAS simulations.

Controls

The electrical, hydraulic, pneumatic, fuel, and flight control systems are thoroughly simulated, allowing proper operation of the aircraft in various scenarios. The highly automated nature of many systems on the aircraft give it a straight forward but thorough list of features.

[]

PHYSICAL SYSTEMS

Many distinct features of the aircraft's systems, such as the electrical no-break-power-transfer system, the DC start fuel pump, APU fuel consumption, and the auxiliary hydraulic pump, have been simulated. The IRS and GNSSU can be independently used as navigation sources. The cockpit can be illuminated by 15 independent and dimmable (where applicable) lights.

[]

FLIGHT SYSTEMS

The flight controls have been custom-built to accommodate the unique aspects of this aircraft. The dial-a-flap system allows for a selection of a range of flap settings for better takeoff performance. The aerodynamically-positioned flight controls offer an incredibly smooth hand flying experience. Hydraulically-assisted rudder and elevator deflection is also simulated.

Flight Dynamics

The aircraft flight dynamics are tuned according to published charts and established aeronautical performance information. This includes proper EPR simulation and accurate fuel consumption.

Details

The detailed interior and exterior models, 2K textures (4K exterior textures in P3Dv4), and realistic sounds will capture the feeling of flying a modern airliner.

[]

VISUALS

The cockpit and exterior models include details like accurate flight deck dimensions, detailed buttons, switches, and knobs, inner-wing control mechanisms, and realistic surface materials. Other key features include wing flex, hundreds of custom animations, and the ability to interact with nearly every control in the cockpit.

[]

SOUNDS

A high fidelity engine sound pack provided by Turbine Sound Studios is included. The aircraft also features over 750 mastered warning, ambient, and switch sounds recorded from the real flight deck.

Learning and Expanding

In addition to the aircraft's core functionality, included technology and information help provide a more enjoyable experience.

[]

TECHNOLOGY

The aircraft features a tablet in the flight deck to assist with preflight setup, aircraft settings, Aircraft Sharing, and allows for viewing of documents in-sim. The aircraft also comes equipped with TrueGlass and RealLight. Integration with the REX WX Advantage and Active Sky provides a working weather radar.

Technical Information

The minimum and recommended specifications for optimum performance are listed below. An internet connection is required to download, activate, and install the product.

Minimum Specifications

-   CPU: 2.5 GHz Dual Core
-   GPU: DirectX 11 compliant, 2 GB video RAM
-   Memory: 4 GB
-   Hard drive space: 1.8 GB
-   Operating system: Windows 7 32-bit

Recommended Specifications

-   CPU: Intel Core i7 6700K
-   GPU: NVIDIA GTX 1070
-   Memory: 8 GB
-   Hard drive space: 2 GB or greater
-   Operating system: Windows 10 64-bit

Please enter a number between 8 and 64 for the password length

question: What is TFDI Design 717?

answer: The TFDi Design 717 is a new Boeing Officially Licensed Product.

question: Which aircraft is TFDI Design 717 similar to?

answer: It is similar to the MD-11.

question: How does TFDI Design display 717's look like?

answer: The master caution and master warning systems are simulated with over 100 different alerts and relevant consequences.

question: How do TFDI Design physical systems 717's look like?

answer: The electrical no-break-power-transfer system, the DC start fuel pump, APU fuel consumption, and the auxiliary hydraulic pump, have been simulated.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: A new Boeing Officially Licensed Product, The TFDi Design 717, has recreated all AFS modes found in the real aircraft, such as NAV (lateral navigation), PROF (vertical navigation), and VOR tracking mode. The electrical no-break-power-transfer system, the DC start fuel pump, APU fuel consumption, and the auxiliary hydraulic pump, have been simulated.


text:
JEREMY CAM THOMPSON (born October 9, 1985) is a former American football linebacker who played for the Green Bay Packers of the National Football League (NFL). He was drafted by the Packers in the fourth round of the 2008 NFL Draft. He played college football at Wake Forest. He is the younger brother of former New York Giants offensive lineman Orrin Thompson.

Early years

Thompson played high school football at Charlotte Christian School. He was ranked 40th nationally at defensive end by Rivals.com and ranked 19th among North Carolina prospects. He was listed as the country's 37th-best defensive end by TheInsiders.com and also ranked 90th on the “Atlantic Hot 100” by the same publication.[1]

College career

Thompson played college football at Wake Forest. Thompson started 32 of 46 games that he played in at Wake Forest at right defensive end, recording 112 tackles (73 solos), including 8.5 sacks and 20.5 stops for losses. He added one quarterback pressure, two forced fumbles and eight pass deflections and he intercepted two passes for 86 yards in returns and a touchdown.

As a true freshman in 2004 he started three of the 11 games at right defensive end. During the season, he tallied 15 tackles (8 solos) with a sack and three stops for losses. He has an interception and one pass deflected. Thompson started his first 8 games of his 2005 sophomore campaign at right defensive end, but a left knee anterior cruciate ligament tear cost Thompson the final three games of the 2005 season. During those 8 games played he posted 21 tackles (15 solos) with two stops in the backfield and a pass deflection.

During his junior season, Thompson played in 14 games at right defensive end in but only started eight contests due to a shoulder contusion suffered in a late November battle with Maryland. During the season, he recorded 30 tackles (15 solos), a sack and 4.5 stops for losses. He broke up three passes and had a highlight 86-yard interception return for a touchdown vs. Connecticut. As a senior, Thompson led the team with 6.5 sacks and ranked second on the squad with 11 stops in the backfield. He finished sixth on the team with 46 tackles (35 solos). He also caused two fumbles and batted down three passes. He was one of 10 finalists for the National Sportsmanship Award, given to the college player who best personifies the spirit of sportsmanship.[2]

Professional career

  -------------------------- -------- -------------- --------------- --------------- -------- -------- ------- ------------------ ------ -----------
   _Pre-draft measureables_
            Height
            6-4 *
  -------------------------- -------- -------------- --------------- --------------- -------- -------- ------- ------------------ ------ -----------

395-pound bench press. 450-pound squat.

Thompson was drafted by the Green Bay Packers in the fourth round (pick 102) of the 2008 NFL Draft. On December 30, 2009, Thompson was placed on injured reserve due to a neck injury. On April 26, 2010, Thompson reported he would be retiring due to an undisclosed medical condition.[3]

Statistics

  Year   Team                Games   Tackle   FF   FR   INT   Yards   TD
  ------ ------------------- ------- -------- ---- ---- ----- ------- ----
  2008   Green Bay Packers   9       8        0    0    0     0       0
  2009   Green Bay Packers   6       1        0    0    0     0       0

Personal life

He married college sweetheart Adele (Mitchell) in March 2010 and they now live in North Carolina. He graduated from medical school at University of North Carolina. He is currently a 3rd year orthopedic surgery resident at the Mayo Clinic.

[1]

[2]

[3]

title: Jeremy Thompson (American football)

question: What does the text say about Thompson's professional football career?

answer: Thompson was drafted by the Green Bay Packers in the fourth round of the 2008 NFL Draft. On December 30, 2009, he was placed on injured reserve due to a neck injury, and on April 26, 2010, he reported he would be retiring due to an undisclosed medical condition.

question: What does the text say about Thompson's education?

answer: Thompson attended Charlotte Christian School for high school, where he played football. He also played college football at Wake Forest. He graduated from medical school at the University of North Carolina, and he is currently a 3rd year orthopedic surgery resident at the Mayo Clinic.


text:
JULIÁN DE CORTÁZAR Y CARRILLO (15 January 1576 – 31 October 1630) was a Spanish-born prelate of the Catholic Church in the part of New Spain that is now Colombia. From 1618 to 1627 he served as Bishop of Córdoba in Argentina, and from 1627 to 1630 as Archbishop of Santafé en Nueva Granada in New Spain.

Biography

Julián de Cortázar y Carrillo was born on 15 January 1576 in Durango, Biscay, Spain.[1] His father was Juan Martínez de Cortázar.[2]

Education and priesthood

Cortázar graduated from the University of Oñati, and then taught theology there.[3] He later worked as a professor at the Colegio de Santa Cruz in Valladolid, Castile, and later was the canon of Santo Domingo de la Calzada.[4]

Bishop of Córdoba

In 1617, King Philip III of Spain proposed Cortázar to be Bishop of Córdoba,[5] and Pope Paul V appointed him on 10 April 1617.[6] He immediately sailed to the Argentina, landing in Buenos Aires in March 1618.[7] He then traveled to Asunción, Paraguay, where he was consecrated as bishop by Bishop Lorenzo Pérez de Grado, Bishop of Paraguay.[8][9][10] He then returned to Argentina, beginning his term as bishop with a pastoral visit to many of the cities in his diocese.[11]

Cortázar arrived on 28 September 1617 in Santiago del Estero, the seat of the diocese, where he found the cathedral destroyed by fire and only half rebuilt.[12] He spent the first few years of his episcopacy there, rebuilding the cathedral and correcting certain customs of the local clergy.[13] He then moved on to Córdoba, the namesake of the diocese, where he helped develop the recently founded Jesuit-run University of Córdoba.[14] In March 1620, back in Santiago de Estero, Cortázar was the principal consecrator of Pedro Carranza Salinas, the first bishop of Buenos Aires.[15][16]

In 1620, Cortázar continued his pastoral trip throughout his diocese, visiting La Rioja, Londres, San Miguel de Tucumán.[17] During a visit to Calchaquí Valleys, the presence of an armed escort with Cortázar alarmed indigenous people, causing them to flee and refuse to meet with him.[18] From there, he visited Salta, San Salvador de Jujuy, and Nuestra Señora de Talavera.[19] He returned to Santiago de Estero in 1621.[20] In the capital, he founded a seminary for the diocese and entrusted its administration to the Society of Jesus.[21]

Throughout his tenure as bishop, Cortázar came into frequent conflict with the governor of Tucumán Province, Juan Alonso de Vera y Zárate, with it once reaching the extent of Cortázar excommunicating him for several weeks.[22]

Archbishop of Bogotá

On 9 January 1625, King Philip IV of Spain presented Cortázar to be Archbishop of Santafé in Nueva Granada (now the Archdiocese of Bogotá),[23] and Pope Urban VIII appointed him on 7 April of that year.[24] He traveled through Peru and arrived in Bogotá on 4 July 1627,[25] and was installed as archbishop that day.[26] As archbishop, Cortázar expanded the episcopal palace and made a pastoral trip throughout part of the archdiocese.[27]

After three years as archbishop, Cortázar died in Bogotá on 31 October 1630, at the age of 54.[28][29] He was buried in the Bogotá Cathedral.[30] His legacy includes a street in Córdoba, Argentina, that bears his name.[31]

Episcopal lineage

-   Bishop Agustín de Carvajal, OSA
-   Bishop Lorenzo Pérez de Grado (1616)
-   Archbishop JULIÁN DE CORTÁZAR (1618)

[1]

[2]  banrepcultural.org|last=1612-1692|first=Florez de Ocáriz, Juan|website=www.banrepcultural.org|access-date=2016-12-24}}

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[31]

title: Julián de Cortázar

question: When was Julián de Cortázar born?

answer: 15 January 1576.

question: Where was Julián de Cortázar a prelate?

answer: In the part of New Spain that is now Colombia.

question: When was Julián de Cortázar proposed to be Bishop of Cordoba by King Phillip III?

answer: 1617.

question: Where did Julián de Cortázar die?

answer: Bogota.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: This article is about Julián de Cortázar, a Spanish Catholic priest who was active in the region that is now Colombia.


text:
_VOLUMES OF BLOOD: HORROR STORIES_ is a 2016 American horror anthology film consisting of segments directed by Sean Blevins, John William Holt, Jon Maynard, Nathan Thomas Milliner, Justin Seaman and James Treakle. The film's screenplay was written by Sean Blevins, Nathan Thomas Milliner, P.J. Starks, and Jason Turner.

A sequel to the 2015 film _Volumes of Blood_, _Volumes of Blood: Horror Stories_ was produced by Eric Huskisson, David Justice, P.J. Starks, and Devin Taylor. Like its predecessor, the film was shot in Owensboro, Kentucky.

Reception

Jerry Smith of _Fangoria_ called the film “hands down, the most entertaining anthology in years.”[1] It was also listed in _Fangoria's_ “Year in Horror: Top 10 Horror Films”[2] Matt Boiselle of _Dread Central_ awarded the film three out of five stars.[3] _Halloween Daily News_ proclaimed the film to be a “Killer Anthology” and “highly recommended as one of the most ambitious anthologies and independent horror releases in recent years...”[4] _Crytptic Rock_ lauded the crew by saying, “those involved in the making of these films are skilled with the rather rare gift of taking coal-like resources and turning them into cinematic diamonds” and also awarded the film 4 out of 5 stars.[5]

Awards

The film won “Best Horror Anthology” at the 2016 Fright Night Film Fest.[6]

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

title: Volumes of Blood: Horror Stories

question: What is 'Volumes of Blood: Horror Stories'?

answer: Volumes of Blood: Horror Stories is a 2016 American horror anthology movie.

question: Who is Volumes of Blood: Horror Stories directed by?

answer: Volumes of Blood: Horror Stories is directed by Sean Blevins, John William Holt, Jon Maynard, Nathan Thomas Milliner, Justin Seaman, and James Treakle.

question: Who wrote the screenshot for Volumes of Blood: Horror Stories?

answer: Sean Blevins, Nathan Thomas Milliner, P.J. Starks, and Jason Turner wrote the screenshot.

question: Where was Volumes of Blood: Horror Stories shot?

answer: Volumes of Blood: Horror Stories is shot in Kentucky.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: Volumes of Blood: Horror Stories is a 2016 American horror anthology movie directed by Sean Blevins, John William Holt, Jon Maynard, Nathan Thomas Milliner, Justin Seaman, and James Treakle, and Sean Blevins, Nathan Thomas Milliner, P.J. Starks, and Jason Turner wrote the screenshot. The movie won “Best Horror Anthology” at the 2016 Fright Night Film Fest.


text:
The tears of the woods

Like every Sunday, the woods were waiting for the man and the child. It was during this time of the year that the hikes of the pair became more regular. You could see them climb up the path early in the morning, when the sun behind the mountain barely managed to filter through the golden trees, which had already started to lose their leaves. Or later in the afternoon, when the light flooded the mountain with a red more intense than the color of the few remaining maple leaves playing hide and seek among the oaks.

Only a couple of the older trees, over there, in the tangle of the interiors, remembered perhaps the first time that a man of that family had come up this way. The man was walking and touching the trees and brushing his feet to make the leaves squeak and fly, creating odd effects with the lights and swirls with the help of the wind. After a few years of lonely walks, the man had started to come together with a child. The two of them walked, the child holding the man’s hand at first, slowly and painfully; then with increased agility as the years passed. And the man was showing the boy the leaves, and calling the names of the trees, pointing at the birds, telling stories of witches and dragons that had long ago lived in those woods, and that maybe – who could deny this with certainty? – were still hiding there, appearing only to those who were afraid.

When autumn arrived, the pair gave the impression to choose the paths where the leaves on the ground were plentiful. And the cracking noise made by their joyful and purposeful stomping filled the terse air.

The years passed, and that first man had time to become old, his beard white, while the boy became a man. But they kept on walking together up these woods, sometimes silent, sometimes playing the fallen leaves as an instrument, with their feet. Then, one day, the man who had been a boy came on his own, without the old man. Still, he followed the same paths, caressing the old barks, following the plants’ scents…until a new boy appeared with the man, holding hands, up the same roads. And the woods were listening to the man telling the boy the same stories of dragons and witches. And in the rapt eyes of the boy, the woods felt as if they were young again: every bark was new, every leaf a symbol of knights of old lineages fighting for princesses; and every broken twig a sword strong enough to defeat monsters.

And so it went, for years and years: until the boys became man, the men grew old, and the new men showed up on the paths alone again. And new boys appeared next to the new men, with new stories of dragons and knights, in a cycle whose length the woods could not quantify, but that it had become an important part of its seasons.

And today the woods are waiting: the man and the boy didn’t come last week, and the woods are trying to retain their colored leaves as long as possible, so that they can cast their shadow over the path of the pair, and fabricate wonder in the mind of the boy, swirling down touching his golden hair.

And here is the footstep of the man, and the woods move their fronds with delight. But a quiver comes to ruin the joy. The woods cannot hear the footsteps of the boy: perhaps the man has him on his shoulders?

The wind brings the news from the valley floor, up until the trees that are waiting on the mountain peak: *the man is alone*. The first trees already saw him coming: he walks curved, as if in his backpack a heavy ballast of years yet to live had suddenly accumulated. But the boy is not with him.

The woods are angry: where is the boy who should have been accompanying the man for many years to come, to learn the secrets of these trees, to make sure that the story of invincible dragons didn’t dry out, forgotten, as dead leaf at the end of November?

And yet the man *is* walking alone. And he doesn’t stop to caress the old barks; nor does he stir up the dead leaves that the woods had purposely hastened this morning to shake from the trees’ branches, to please the boy.

The man pushes forward. His beard is long, gray like the hair on a muzzle of an old dog, his hat down on his forehead. He doesn’t pay attention to the sky veiled by the leaves, nor does he care about the tunnels of lights that reach the floor. And he doesn’t explain to the woods why he is alone.

Suddenly, fast clouds come to darken the sky and the wind shakes the branches of the trees rabidly, as if the woods had called upon the wind’s aid to punish the man for his solitude. The tenderness that the wind had used in the past, to make sure that the boy stopped in awe at the sight of a rain of yellow and red and orange is gone.

Maliciously, the wind channels down the path, cold, running over the man with strength, tearing away branches, throwing them at him. And yet the man keeps on going, head down. Tears seem to obscure his vision, perhaps caused by the strong wind; but the wind is too enraged to even notice.

And the trees of the woods keep on asking loudly *where is the boy? Who will we tell our stories of dragons?* But the man – who had always been able to talk the language of the woods – does not answer. He continues to walk, even now that the rain manages to pass through the branches and hits the ground with a noisy clatter.

A sudden strong noise (a broken branch hitting the ground? One of those monsters that his dead father used to talk about?) forces the man to look for shelter.  Away from the path, he sits down with his back against a huge oak, covered by the thick branches that create a cone of quietude against the impending storm.

And it seems as if the oak is trying to pull its branches closer to stop the rain from hitting the man, as if the rage of the woods had suddenly morphed into compassion. While the man lies there, leaning with his eyes closed. Is he asleep? Or is he intent in listening to the tears of the woods for his lost boy?

title: The tears of the woods - first story here

question: What does the story say about the son's absence?

answer: Last week, the boy and his father did not come for their usual walk in the woods, and today the man has come alone, without his son. He seems to be older, possibly grieved, implying the son has died. The woods and wind are initially outraged by the absence and lash out against the father, but eventually see his distress and treat him with compassion.

question: What does the story say about the language of the woods?

answer: The story personifies the woods, along with the surrounding winds and mountains, so that their natural cycles are partly conscious acts. The woods seem to communicate with movement and sensation, sensing the presence of people and offering joys of nature for the boys, such as leaves dancing in the wind.

question: What does the story say about family?

answer: Generations of men in the same family walk these woods throughout their lifetimes, fathers bringing their sons along from childhood to adulthood, until the child is the man, at first alone and then a father himself with a new boy to walk through the woods.

question: What does the story say about the narrator?


text:
SATISH RAMNATH SHETYE (born 1950) is an Indian geophysicist, oceanographer and a former vice chancellor of the University of Goa.[1] He is a former director of the National Institute of Oceanography (NIO)[2] and is known for his researches on the monsoon-driven currents along the Indian coast.[3] He is an elected fellow of all the three major Indian science academies viz. Indian National Science Academy,[4] Indian Academy of Sciences,[5] National Academy of Sciences, India[6] as well as the Indian Geophysical Union.[7] The Council of Scientific and Industrial Research, the apex agency of the Government of India for scientific research, awarded him the Shanti Swarup Bhatnagar Prize for Science and Technology, one of the highest Indian science awards for his contributions to Earth, Atmosphere, Ocean and Planetary Sciences in 1992.[8]

Biography

[National Institute of Oceanography] [Goa University] Satish Ramnath Shetye, born on 25 October 1950 in the Indian state of Goa,[9] did his master's degree in physics from the Indian Institute of Technology, Mumbai in 1973 and moved to the US to secure a PhD in Physical Oceanography from the University of Washington in 1982.[10] He continued in the US to complete his post-doctoral work at the same university during 1975–82 and returned to India to join the National Institute of Oceanography (NIO) in 1982 as a research associate.[11] He served the institute in various capacities; as Scientist-Grade C (1984–89), Scientist-Grade E-I (1989–92), Scientist-Grade E-II (1992–97) and Scientist-Grade F (1997–2004) before becoming the director in 2004.[12] In 2012, he was appointed as the vice chancellor of the University of Goa with his tenure running till 2015, but was given an extension of one year.[13] He retired from service in 2016, succeeded by Varun Sahni.[14]

Legacy

Sheteye's researches cover the physical oceanography of the Arabian Sea, Bay of Bengal and the Indian Ocean and e is known to have undertaken several ocean expeditions in the Indian coastal waters for his studies.[15] His work on the monsoon-driven currents along the Indian coast enhanced the understanding of the phenomena and assisted him in proposing mechanisms impacting their existence.[16] He elucidated annual variations in the sea surface temperature in the Arabian Sea by developing a mixed-layer model, reportedly for the first time. His other studies included the coastal circulation of the entire North Indian Ocean, especially around India, the thermal fields in the North Indian Ocean and their relationship with the Indian summer monsoon, variability of sea levels along Indian coasts, dynamics of Indian estuaries and a first-time study of the hydrology of rivers feeding those estuaries.[17] His studies have been detailed in several peer-reviewed articles;[18] ResearchGate, an online repository of scientific articles, has listed 95 of them.[19]

Sheteye has been associated with the Earth Commission, a body constituted by the Ministry of Earth Sciences for policy formulations, and their implementation, where he sat during 2007–09.[20] Earlier, he had been a member of the council of Indian Academy of Sciences (1998–2003),[21] the council of the Indian National Science Academy (2005–07) and the Governing Body of the Council of Scientific and Industrial Research (2004–07). He is also a former member of the council of the Indian Institute of Science (2006) and a former editor of the Proceedings of the Indian Academy of Sciences (Earth & Planetary Sciences) and the Journal of Earth System Science. He is an incumbent member of the Peer Team of National Assessment and Accreditation Council, a national body of the University Grants Commission of India overseeing the accreditation and assessment of institutions of higher education in India.[22][23] He has delivered several featured lectures and plenary addresses which include the IX Kumari L. A. Meera Memorial Lecture of 2000.[24]

Awards and honors

The Indian Academy of Sciences chose Sheteye as a Young Associate in 1984;[25] the academy would honor him again with an elected fellowship in 1992.[26] The Council of Scientific and Industrial Research awarded him the Shanti Swarup Bhatnagar Prize, one of the highest Indian science awards, the same year.[27] The Indian National Science Academy and the Indian Geophysical Union[28] elected him as their fellows in 1998 and the National Academy of Sciences, India followed suit in 2000,[29] the same year as he received the New Millennium Science Medal of the Indian Science Congress Association.[30] He received the Distinguished Alumnus Award of the Indian Institute of Technology, Mumbai in 2006[31] and the Ministry of Earth Sciences awarded him the National award for Ocean Science and Technology in 2012.[32][33]

Selected bibliography

-   -   -   -   -

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

[12]

[13]

[14]

[15]

[16]

[17]

[18]

[19]

[20]

[21]

[22]

[23]

[24]

[25]

[26]

[27]

[28]

[29]

[30]

[31]

[32]

[33]

title: Satish Ramnath Shetye

question: Who is Satish Ramnath Shetye?

answer: An Indian geophysicist, oceanographer, and former vice chancellor of the University of Goa.

question: What is he known for?

answer: Being former director of the National Institute of Oceanography, for his work on monsoon-driven currents along the Indian coast, for being an elected fellow of all three major Indian science academies, and for his earning the Shanti Swarup Bhatnagar Prize for Science and Technology.

question: Where did he study?

answer: The Indian Institute of Technology and the University of Washington in the US.

question: What awards has he earned?

answer: The Indian Academy of Sciences chose Sheteye as a Young Associate in 1984; the academy would honor him again with an elected fellowship in 1992. The Council of Scientific and Industrial Research awarded him the Shanti Swarup Bhatnagar Prize, one of the highest Indian science awards, the same year. The Indian National Science Academy and the Indian Geophysical Union elected him as their fellows in 1998 and the National Academy of Sciences, India followed suit in 2000, the same year as he received the New Millennium Science Medal of the Indian Science Congress Association. He received the Distinguished Alumnus Award of the Indian Institute of Technology, Mumbai in 2006 and the Ministry of Earth Sciences awarded him the National award for Ocean Science and Technology in 2012.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: Satish Ramnath Shetye is an Indian geophysicist, oceanographer, and former vice chancellor of the University of Goa. He is known for being former director of the National Institute of Oceanography, for his work on monsoon-driven currents along the Indian coast, for being an elected fellow of all three major Indian science academies, and for his earning the Shanti Swarup Bhatnagar Prize for Science and Technology. He studied at the Indian Institute of Technology and the University of Washington in the US. He has earned several awards including the Swarup Bhatnagar  Prize for Science and Technology, and the New Millennium Science Medal.


text:
Another client was in front of me, filling out the same form they always do. I forgot she was there. Must have only been a few minutes—the paperwork here is simple, concise, and wholly unnecessary for the function of our office. For all I know, it might have been the same woman coming in and writing up fifteen identical forms since 8 A.M. this morning. I hazily recall a man here, but that may have been yesterday.

She paused and looked up. I considered eye contact, but didn't want to risk remembering her face. I mustered the courtesy to gaze briefly through her vague shoulder region before pretending to sort my documents under no organizational guidelines whatsoever.

"Hey, what is today?"

There's a day-to-day calendar between us. Noon had come and gone, so I knew it was current. My supervisor either chirps or grumbles something passive-aggressive at me every day on her way to lunch while she tears off the top leaf. I wanted her to just look at the damned calendar and leave me alone. Still, I stared obliquely at that bold-faced number and failed to derive any meaning from it, so I couldn't very well criticize her.

"I don't know, the usual."

title: Day-to-Day

question: Who asks "what is today?"

answer: The narrator's client

question: How does the narrator feel about their supervisor?

answer: It is implied that they do not get along well

question: In what time period is the story set?

answer: Vaguely, the present (possibly a few years ago, since the narrator uses a paper calendar, which are becoming less common)

question: What is the narrator's job?

answer: It is some sort of white-collar job which involves watching clients fill out forms (possibly a DMV employee, or something like that)

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator has a client in front of them who is filling out a form. The client asks the narrator what today is. The narrator looks at the calendar between them and responds "I don't know, the usual"


text:
This will be the 3rd time in as many nights she's tried to suffocate me.

Almost time to start looking for a new girlfriend. It always turns all dark and troublesome once they find out. 5 minutes.

In all seriousness, she's probably tried it more then 3 times. I just started waking somewhere in her last three attempts. Being suffocated isn't so bad, it's the headaches in the morning that are the worst. I'll never understand why women can't just break up with someone.

They always have to bring murder into the whole thing and I suppose if I was anybody else I'd be a little mad about it. I've been murdered way to many times to take it personally, although it's almost always disappointing.

Regardless of how or when or where I expire I always wake back up, roughly 5 minutes later, usually with a little neck pain.

I have yet as to explain the neck pain.

I can only imagine what psychopath caused that lingering malady.

But seriously, I just wake the fuck back up. Wrap your head around that real tight and think about it. One second you saw me take a 10 story drop onto blistering hot saturday afternoon pavement and five minutes later I just pop back up and dust myself off. I've been shot, stabbed, poisoned, electrocuted, drowned, burnt, crushed, blowed up in all manner of spectacular fashions and suffocated.

One time, I woke up with a wooden stake in my heart. Shit you not. Crazy bitch thought I was a vampire. I had to move to another city. I had to move to another city and change my name.

They still found me. Every so often I get jumped by some weird cultist thinks I'm the antichrist and I either wake up pulling some kind of artifact out of my chest cavity or standing naked on a pile of ashes loosely chained to a burnt ember in the middle of some god awful field somewhere full of mosquitos.

No shit, one time I woke up. I guess the fire went out a little early and well, I woke up and they where all still there. Fucking. In costumes.

That was a shit your pants moment for everyone involved.

Ha! You like my stories? Good.

Then listen my friend.

I need a job. For the very reasons above I can't give you my real name, I can't tell you where I'm from, and I can't fill out a tax form.

I can clean, plumb, cook, mop, serve, sweep and install a computer. Whatever you need help with, I can probably do. I can't be a bouncer though. Which is sad because I was an amazing bouncer, but it's to obvious now.

Huh? Those stories? Ha! Yes of course. Maybe tomorrow, I'll tell you after work, yes?

I'm serious sir.

I desperately need a job.

title: Candid Interview at an Adult Bookstore

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: The narrator is an immortal being who is looking for a job.

question: Who is suffocating him and why?

answer: His girlfriends suffocate and try to kill him when they find out who he is.

question: Who is the narrator talking to?

answer: He is talking to the person interviewing him for the job.

question: Why does he keep waking up in weird situations?

answer: Every time people try to kill him, regardless of the method (burning, stabbing, shooting, etc) the narrator just gets back up after 5 minutes.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator is an immortal being desperately looking for work. He tells stories to his interviewer about how people have tried to kill him when they learn who he is, but he just gets back up after 5 minutes each time, regardless of the method. He says he can't give his real name, where he's from, and fill out a tax form.


text:
Spot the winger. It has been the easiest game in Portuguese football over the past couple of decades and they almost always tend to have rolled off the Sporting Clube de Portugal academy production line – Luís Figo, Simão, Ricardo Quaresma, Cristiano Ronaldo and the rest. A nation starved of top-quality centre-forwards has become handcuffed to a self-fulfilling prophecy. Why would a kid want to be the next Hélder Postiga when he could mould his game on Ronaldo or Figo?

So it is extraordinary that Fernando Santos has steered Portugal to Sunday’s Euro 2016 final in Saint-Denis using a formation of wingless wonder. Not that there is a paucity of wingers in the squad. Six of the group have spent a sizeable part of their careers playing out wide. Even Raphaël Guerreiro, the young left-back born and raised in France and newly signed by Borussia Dortmund, spent half of last season playing wide on the left for Lorient.

Hoping that one of those wingers might eventually fill the void in the centre is not a new sentiment, but nobody expected it would be Nani. While Ronaldo’s changing role has attracted much of the attention during the tournament, it has been his former Manchester United team-mate and fellow Sporting product who has been the real spark in Portugal’s attack.

Santos’s move away from the traditional 4-3-3 to a 4-4-2 aims to conserve Ronaldo’s energy by bringing the game to him, rather than requiring the Real Madrid _galactico_ to come and get it. It also needs the second striker to move close to him in support. Nani has followed those instructions to the letter. That the last two of his three goals in the tournament have been laid on by Ronaldo is a firm nod to exactly how well he has clicked in his unlikely partnership with the captain.

There has always been the feeling that a little more might be dragged from Nani’s talents – he was even briefly tried out as a No10 by Paulo Bento during the preparations for Euro 2012 – but finally, at 29, it seems as if he might have found his place having moved inside. With his pace, smart runs and decisive thrust, he looks several times removed from the player who had driven onlookers back home to distraction, constantly showing flashes of brilliance but then making poor choices with the ball.

Nani
The sublime backheel to help create Renato Sanches’s equaliser in the quarter-final against Polandwas perhaps an even better indication of an intuitive talent well served by his new role than even his goals have been. This is a player who, absolved from the responsibility of thinking too hard about the game, is having a real second wind.

It is something that Nani has been quick to acknowledge. “I’m in one of the best moments of my career,” he said after the Poland game, smiling, “and I’m hoping to carry on in this way so we can achieve our ambitions.”

If those ambitions, now a game away from being realised, would have been dismissed as a fantasy pre-tournament, the idea of Nani being a prominent figure in any success seemed equally fanciful less than two years ago. One of the first (and most perplexing) decisions of David Moyes’s reign at Old Trafford had been to award Nani a lucrative new five-year deal after a season when he started seven times in the Premier League. It looked like an even worse call when he made seven league starts in 2013-14 and – stuck with an expensive, apparently bust flush that they could not move on – United were forced to loan him back to Sporting and cover all of his wages simply to begin his regeneration towards being of some sort of value.

It worked, but it was not easy. On his second debut for Sporting, at home to Arouca, in August 2014, Nani was so eager to please that when Marco Silva’s side were awarded a penalty, he took the responsibility – and the ball – from the regular taker Adrien Silva. He missed.

In February 2015, after scoring a stunning long-range effort against Gil Vicente, Nani broke down in tears. “I thought about all I’ve been through,” he said, somewhat enigmatically. “My things that nobody knows about.”

He ended the season vindicated, guiding Sporting back to the Champions League and winning the Taça de Portugal. He has since continued to flourish at Fenerbahce, before securing a move to Valencia this week. At Mestalla, he will be expected to embrace a leadership role for the club’s promising younger players, including his compatriots João Cancelo and Rúben Vezo. “I always admired him, ever since I was little,” said Vezo this week. Nani’s explosiveness on the pitch often obscures that he is a measured, mature presence off it.

That has come across throughout this tournament, with Nani always polite and available in Portuguese, English and (already) Spanish. He has been sanguine about his change in fortunes, too. “I work hard for the team, whether I’m playing or not,” he said after his man-of-the-match display in the opener with Iceland. “Now I’m playing centre-forward, because the coach has put his trust in me and it’s going well.”

He spoke knowing full well that had Quaresma not strained a thigh muscle leading up to that opener, then he would have started alongside Ronaldo in Nani’s stead. Quaresma’s sparkling form in the pre-tournament friendlies had made him a shoo-in but his role has now been restricted to that of an impact substitute.

Nani and the equally resurgent Quaresma (now 32) continue to fascinate. Luís Fernández, part of France’s midfield of Michel Platini, Jean Tigana, Alain Giresse and Bernard Genghini that broke Portuguese hearts in the 1984 semi-final on their way to winning the last European Championship here, spoke of the pair having the talent to match Ronaldo, their illustrious former stablemate. “There are some players,” he told _O Jogo_, “like Nani or Quaresma, who had the same potential as Cristiano when they left Portugal but, after, lost themselves. Nani and Quaresma are a mystery.”

A mystery, it seems, that Santos has figured out. They will feel, as will Ronaldo if Portugal bring the trophy home, that it’s been worth the wait.

question: What is the Portuguese football teaming preparing for?

answer: Sunday's Euro 2016 final.

question: Explain what is unique about Fernando Santo's new formation?

answer: He will be using a formation of wingless wonder while there has been no shortage of wingers.

question: What is Santos' aim with the new formation?

answer: To conserve Ronaldo's energy

question: Who is expected to fill the void in the centre?

answer: Unexpectedly, Nani.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: Over the past couple of decades in Portuguese football, there has been no shortage of wingers. It is surprising to see Portuguese manager, Fernando Santos, move to a wingless formation for the upcoming Euro final. The aim is to conserve Ronaldo's energy. However, not having strong centre-forwards would leave a void that would eventually have to be filled by a winger.


text:
[This was written five years ago as part of my GCSE English coursework when I was fifteen, so excuse the melodrama.  Feel free to tell me what you think!  My writing style will have no doubt changed since then, so don't think of this as a good example of what I can or can't do.  It's just a self-indulgent little story.]

Jens Silbermann; Traditional Austrian Metalwork.  That’s what the sign on my stall said, and that’s what everyone called me.

“Herr Silbermann!  Guten Morgen!” echoed the voices of Someones I vaguely remembered.  I knew their faces, at least.  I waved back to each one of them.  You rarely got to learn names around here, only faces and voices.   In fact, I think that I was one of the only ones in the entire Christmas market who had a more elaborate sign than just ‘Cakes’ or ‘Candles’.  By appearing to run a more serious business, one which would continue all year round rather than seasonally, I was looked up to by many of the other stallholders.  They could tell that this was my main source of income, and that afforded me respect.  They knew that I stuck it out all year, wherever business went, whatever the weather.

To my constant chagrin, at Christmastime, the business went where it was snowing, where alcohol is consumed to stay awake, and where, if inadequately dressed, one could get frostbitten by looking out of the window.  Why couldn’t we celebrate Christmas in summer?  It’d save us a great number of pains; the ache in my back only one of them.  Insanity comes in many forms, but none so worrying, nay, bewildering, as that of the Christmas shopper.  Working at this stall felt a damn sight like feeding animals, albeit slightly deranged animals with a permanent ‘It looked like fun in the brochure’ frown on their faces.

As it did every year, the towering buildings of the Dresden Old Town loomed over us, their tall and narrow windows threatening to eat us if we looked too closely.  I’d always thought of them with disdain.  After World War Two, most of the original architecture, such as the grand FrauenKirche (The Church of Our Lady) and the Zwinger were left as smouldering ruins.  Since then, massive reconstruction had taken place, restoring the FrauenKirche and others to their former (If not slightly tackier) glory.  One would not have to study the history of Dresden too closely to find out that the New Town was in fact, older than most of the Old Town.

Excavation still went on, to find the foundations of old buildings left under the cobbles of the Old town.  All they were doing was putting off the inevitable; that all the cities would become concrete and metal, places where rainwater would have to flow for miles before it could be absorbed by the earth.  I suppose that some people would prefer to cling to the past, what they used to know, rather than kneel at the feet of change.  Feet that could crush you.

And so, as I worried about feet, and why numbness had already reached mine this early in the day, I looked around to see if I had any potential customers.  Luckily, none happened to be around, six in the morning being a little early for most.  Thank goodness.  God forbid that I’d actually have to socialise yet, I thought, noting how grumpy I was feeling.

To my dismay, another ‘Silbermann’ was setting up on the opposite side of the square, but he didn’t need a sign for people to know his name.  ‘Silber’ meaning silver, and ‘mann’ meaning, well, man, the silver-painted living statue seemed more genuine than me.

He soon noticed that I was paying him attention, and swapped his regal pose for one more comical, in which he was pointing at me in melodramatic horror.  I was curious as to why he was already putting on a show, there being no children or other passers-by to laugh at him.  He’s probably just practising, I surmised, but I changed my mind as I watched his expression change from stricken, to woeful, to that of frozen hysterics.  He was mocking me, and I was quickly becoming unappreciative of his antics.  I told myself that I didn’t have time for his act; that I could ignore him until he got bored.  I focused myself on my work, and managed to attract two customers within the next couple of hours; none bought anything, but I felt a better man for getting on with work, rather than indulging this joker.

I was soon to find the small flaw with that plan.  He didn’t get bored.  My ignoring him only seemed to encourage the madness that this silver man was made of.  Never had I felt the urge to throw something heavy and sharp so greatly.  Luckily for him, I valued the things on my stall too much to use them in offence.  Even luckier, I’d have been arrested for wearing knuckledusters in a place like this.  This being Germany, I suspect a man would be arrested for even contemplating anything the same size, shape, or colour as a set of knuckledusters.  So, I decided, as what little sun we could see rose higher over the marketplace, to sort this matter out personally, man-to-man.  Fist-to-face if needs be.

It took longer than I had anticipated in reaching him; my anger reached its peak before I got there, and fizzled out as I faced him.  His silver doublet, and long, white-blonde hair made him look not feminine, as one would expect, but more statuesque, unreal.  All desire for conflict had left me, and all I could do was clench my fists at my sides, shame shadowing me, enveloping the both of us as if the high flats next to us were blocking out the sun.

title: Silbermann: Traditional Austrian Foolery

question: What is the setting?

answer: Germany

question: What does the narrator's surname mean?

answer: Silver Man.

question: Why is the narrator looked up to, in his estimation?

answer: He runs his business year-round, as opposed to just during Christmastime.

question: What is the city called?

answer: Dresden old town.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: Jens Silbermann is setting up their traditional Austrian metalwork stall in a square on a morning in Germany. It's post-World War II, with some of the relics from bombings and other destruction still present on this chilly day. Passersby call out good morning to the narrator, who notes a potential rival named Silbermann as well is setting up a stall or pretending to be a silver statue.The narrator gets angry at the competition and approaches the man/statue, but finds any resolve has dissipated by the time they reach their possible nemesis.


text:
Streets were dead. As silent as haunted hill. As deathly quiet as a wake with only the sound of mourning played by the rustling tree branches. The puddles were un-jumped in. The sidewalk as still as the stars and the streetlights shined forlornly upon nothingness. It was then that the dead rose from their holes that man had dug for them. It was then, when Halloween spirit had died, that the dead took their vengeance.
The bodies clambered door to door on weak and knocking bones. They trouped through the night, stopping at every house, gathering every pumpkin as their helmets, for their fleshless skulls. And it was the living they preyed on. Stronger and more alive they grew, more like their former selves with every morsel of life they devoured.
Soon enough, the dead had more life than the living and the victims of this Halloween night crawled into the holes they dug for their loved ones. They snuggled down into their new homes, covered themselves with earth and awaited the next Hallow's Eve for the revenge that would taste as sweet as candy to their tongueless mouths.

title: In light of Halloween, here's my short about the lack of trick-or-treaters in my neighborhood.

question: Why

question: Write a ~0 sentence summary.


text:
_FRIENDLY ENEMIES_ is a play written by Aaron Hoffman and Samuel Shipman. Producer Albert H. Woods made it the debut play for his Woods Theatre in Chicago, where it opened on March 11, 1918. It played successfully in Chicago for several months before Woods opened a production on Broadway at the Hudson Theatre on July 22, 1918.[1]

Plot

Henry Block and Karl Pfeifer are old friends who both immigrated to the United States from Germany. Karl's son Billy and Henry's daughter June are engaged to be married. Henry has assimilated as a patriotic American, including changing his name from Heinrich. Karl refuses to change his name and remains a German patriot. The entry of the United States into World War I against Germany creates conflict between Karl and the others. Karl is secretly giving money to Walter Stuart to fund what Karl thinks is an effort to defuse anti-German propaganda, but Stuart is actually a German agent who uses the money to fund sabotage. Billy enlists in the United States Army against Karl's wishes. When Karl discovers that his money has funded a bomb that sinks the troop transport carrying his son, he changes his position on the war. The play has a happy ending when Billy returns home, having been saved from the sinking ship.[2]

Cast and characters

The characters and cast from the Broadway production are given below: [From left to right, actors Mathilde Cottrelly, Sam Bernard, Louis Mann, and Regina Wallace on the set of _Friendly Enemies_]

  Character         Broadway cast
  ----------------- --------------------
  William Pfeifer   Richard Barbee
  Henry Block       Sam Bernard
  Marie Pfeifer     Mathilde Cottrelly
  Walter Stuart     Felix Krembs
  Karl Pfeifer      Louis Mann
  Nora              Natalie Manning
  June Block        Regina Wallace

  : Cast of the Broadway production

Reception

Although a few critics thought the play was too positive in its portrayal of the pro-German position, it generally received positive reviews.[3][4]

Dorothy Parker gave the play a positive review in _Vanity Fair's_ October 1918 issue, saying: “_Friendly Enemies_... is simply driving them wild over at the Hudson Theatre. The audience just can't contain itself. The propaganda is so coated with humor that you've taken it before you can stop and think about it. Every time you begin to feel that it would be rather considerate if they'd turn off the war talk for just a moment, please, and talk about something else, the authors put in a line that gets a laugh, and so the audience has the time of its life.”[5]

Adaptations

The play was adapted to film twice, first in 1925 and then in 1942, with both versions retaining the title _Friendly Enemies_. The 1925 adaptation was a black and white silent film directed by George Melford. The 1942 adaptation was a black and white sound film directed by Allan Dwan.

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

title: Friendly Enemies (play)

question: Who wrote Friendly Enemies?

answer: Friendly Enemies was written by Aaron Hoffman and Samuel Shipman.

question: Where did the play make its debut?

answer: The play made its debut at Woods Theatre in Chicago.

question: How many characters were cast from the Broadway production?

answer: According to the article, seven characters were cast from the Broadway production.

question: What were a few of the critics views on the play?

answer: A few critics thought the play had a too positive portrayal of the pro-German position.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: This article describes in detail the synopsis, the characters, reception, and adaptations of the play, Friendly Enemies.


text:
**Life, in a Couple Paragraphs**

I wake up one morning feeling adventurous. I hop out of bed and shamble in to the bathroom to take a shower, stopping to pick up my blanket and tuck it into the covers my Mommy had tucked me in the night before.

~

When I exit the shower, I run my hands through my hair and toss my head around like a wet dog to get rid of the water. I go into my room to put on some clean clothes and decide on a green Power Ranger shirt that I get when my family went to Disney last February Vacation and a pair of Lee Jeans, topped off with light up Spiderman sneakers. As I enter the kitchen, I ruffle my dog’s fur and talk to her in that “baby” voice people use on dogs to make them seem more human-like. My brother asks me if I’d make him something to eat and I ask him what he wanted.
	“Cereal, I guess,” is his response. “Lucky Charms,” he adds as I reach for the Oatmeal Squares he usually eats on Saturday mornings before he heads off to his girlfriend’s house on the 11:35 a.m. Subway that takes you Downtown. I pour his cereal and milk on top of it; he only drinks 2% for some odd reason.
	“Thanks,” he says as he wipes his mouth with his long sleeve thermal and seizes his bag from the chair next to him. I ask him what’s in the bag, but all he says is, “stuff.” It takes me a few years to realize what my brother meant, but when I get to junior high I start to understand.

~

“You tryna hit this, dude?” Jed says. I haven’t smoked Marijuana, or “weed,” before, but I don’t wanna look like a pussy. I say “I’ll hit it” and when I inhale I choke for a good two minutes --while Steve and Jed sit on the rock where we hang out after we finish our homework on weekdays.
“First time, huh?” Steve says as he exhales a plume of smoke that makes me gag. I say “yeah” and throw my hand over my mouth.
 “You’ll get used to it,” Jed says exhaling and coughing. Steve points at him and laughs, spitting out the insult, “whatta bitch,” between fits of laughter.

~

“Where is it?” the cop asks. I tell him that I don’t know what he’s talking about and he tells me to “shut up.” He bends me over the hood of my 2005 Acura TL and cuffs my hands together. I know I’m gonna get fucked, even though none of it was my fault. 300 kilos of Heroin “wasn’t my fault?” They wouldn’t buy it, my story. I mean, it starts off sketchy and continues to grow, progressively, worse: like the life of a person that, a few years ago, I would ridicule and make fun of. Society will do that to you. Life will, too. You think you’re “someone” and then, after a couples bad (or good) decisions you’re someone completely different.
The penalty is in after a few brief moments of the jury talking: GUILTY. It wasn’t even close. I had a terrible lawyer. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not the time for excuses, though.

~

“Ten years,” says the Judge. Cheers fill the room and I’m escorted out into a police car, in cuffs.

~

It’s hard to write in here. I’ve been here ten years, come tomorrow. Everyone else is out going to college and getting jobs. Hell, even Jed went to Italy to work with some architects or something. But I’ve been here. Writing all these thoughts on spare pieces of napkins and, well, I’m on to the wall now. Words cover my cell. The guards think I’m planning some assassination or something. They ask me what I’m writing and all I say is “stuff.”

~

It’s so much different on the outside. So many things have changed. We have electric cars now? And we’re in another war? A black guy is President? How many things did I miss? Nothing changes on the inside: Herb’s always playing cards, 10:22 a.m. to 6:37 p.m., every day; Matt’s lifting weights and listening to some new country song when you think he’d be more into Rap and that kind of shit; Scott’s tattooing people, un-professionally, of course. It’s all the same. All the time…

~

Been out from behind bars for thirty-two years now. Met the girl of my dreams, finished school, got a job, dumped the girl of my dreams for some skank I’d been hooking up with from a nearby high school for the past two months, worked for her dad doing something with cars, broke her heart and her dad came after me with a shovel, moved out to Cali, started a surf shop with some guys off the street, got addicted to coke, went to rehab, met another girl on a run through the park when her dog’s leash tripped me, moved back East to Philly with her, got hitched, moved to Southern ME, started working for a fisherman, retired, had an affair with our house maid, got divorced, started smoking Pot again, met another girl, got re-married, got cheated on, followed by another divorce, then I started writing. Got through most of my life without much of anything or anyone. My only prized possessions are an old acoustic guitar that’s always a little flat, an old 60-gig iPod, and a pair of vintage jeans I bought at a Salvation Army a few years back when I found out my youngest child had Leukemia.

~

I’ve written a few best sellers now. And from time to time, people mention my name in the newspaper. I’m long gone in the Caribbean, though; in a small three-room cottage with shitty Internet service and some illegal immigrant I think I’ve fallen for. People stop by every once in a while, looking for a story or something, I don’t know. It’s like they think I wrote it all down.

title: Life, in a Couple Paragraphs.

question: Why was the narrator sentenced to ten years in prison?

answer: For carrying 300 kilos of heroin

question: Why did the narrator accept to smoke marijuana with Jed?

answer: He hadn't smoked marijuana before but didn't want to look like a pussy.

question: Explain everything that happens to the narrator after being released from prison.

answer: He finishes school, gets a job, meets the girl of his dreams and then dumps her for another. Moves to the west coast and becomes addicted to cocaine. Moves back to the east coast and gets married/divorced a couple of times before he starts writing.

question: Why is the narrator mentioned in the newspaper?

answer: The narrator has now written a few best-sellers.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator gets caught and charged for carrying 300 kilos of heroin and is sentenced to 10 years in prison. Upon being released, the narrator goes through many rough phases before he starts writing. He later writes a few best-sellers and moves to the Caribbean.


text:
“We are receiving word now that the shooter was in his Mid to Late Twenties, Had Glasses and Tattoos, liked Rock and Dubstep music…” Damon was already sick of hearing about it, even though this was the first time. “Fuck man, will this shit ever stop?”, he wondered as he made his way out of bed. It was a public bus in Reno this time. A 25 year old man who you would assume was going to college and enjoyed mocha frapps took a pistol out of his backpack at a stoplight and went to town. He murdered 15 people and took his own life. Damon made his way to the closet to pick out a suitable outfit for work. “I love you, baby.” his wife sleepily whispered while cuddling the blankets. ” I love you, baby girl” he replied. She noticed he wasn’t as cheerful this morning. “Is something wrong, sug?” she asked. “I’m just getting goddamn tired of hearing about these mass shootings..” He racked his brain looking for a way to express his frustration more clearly, but he did realize it was a bit early for a rant. “Come here baby” she whispered in a low tone. Damon shook his head and smiled a bit as he sat by her on the bed. As he sat she pulled him in close and kissed his neck, and then looked into his eyes. “You stop worrying about things you can’t control. Things like this are gonna happen all the time…” Hearing her say that made him uneasy. What a horrible truth to hear, especially so nonchalantly. “…Besides, you get distracted to easily as it is” she said with a mischievous smile. He shook his head and joked “Yea, especially with you around all the time” and got up. He got dressed and made his way out. “Have a good day, baby” she whispered. “Love you, baby girl” he said with a kiss to her cheek. And then he was gone.

The commute to work was what he expected, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Details of the shooting came through the radio, and the media coverage took its usual course of exploitation. Talk of the victims and who they were, setting them up to be martyrs, and everything remotely under the sun blamed for what happened. Maybe he was just a nut, thought Damon. Aren’t people satisfied anymore? He pulled into the parking lot of the school he taught at. It was a lower income school with some of the rougher kids in the county. Still, from what he noticed of richer students at other high schools, at least these kids were down to earth, and realistic. Walking down the hallway he spotted Mr. Epstein, the gym teacher. Older man with a grey, bushy mustache  he had a reputation to make off-color remarks and occasionally downright inappropriate things to female students.  As Damon passed him he waved. “Hey Epstein.” “Hey Williams, bet you’re glad you didn’t take the bus!” he said with a laugh. Damon didn’t acknowledge the joke. People handle tragedy in different ways, but some methods are just plain fucked, he thought.

As he entered the classroom, the class was abuzz with talk of the shooting, as he figured. “Yo, you hear how one of them was an old lady, man? Shiiiit, who does that, shootin up grandmas?” one of the students said.Damon cleared his throat loudly and silenced a good majority of the classroom. Tyrell, the student who was just remarking about the elderly woman, piped up “Damnnn, Williams, sounds like you need a lozenge or sum’in!” The classroom laughed. Damon continued, “Tyrell, when I walked in here, how did you refer to the victims of today’s shooting?” Tyrell stared blankly and answered back with, “Uh, I don’t remember dude” which elicited another laugh. Seeing as how he was a history teacher, Damon thought that he should maybe just go on with regularly scheduled syllabus. But with the way History repeats itself year after year, he figured now would be a good a time as any to speak on how he felt. “When I walked in here just now, I heard you refer to one of the victims as ‘one of them.’ Right?” The room was totally silent now. Tyrell shook his head , almost in a regretful fashion. “That’s what one of the main problems with our society today” he continued.

“We have a knee-jerk reaction to make everything impersonal. And it’s not your guys’ fault, We adults messed up, you know what I mean. Our neighbors aren’t neighbors anymore. Those whose lives are taken to quickly are reduced to poster children used to promote someones viewpoint. And this needs to stop.” The classroom was fully engaged now, they had never seen this side of teacher before. “I won’t carry on about this much longer. In the next few days we will see the usual banter on gun violence and the effect of the media. I’m not saying I am a saint, when I was around your age I listened to NWA and Pulp Fiction is still one of my all time favorite movies. But when you walk around the hallways today, think about how violence has affected you through the years and see if you feel like you’ve had enough. Now, your assignment today is read Chapter 2-1 and 2-2. Also,  today I would like you to read a section about the St. Valentines Massacre..”

Damon grew up in the ghetto. He had seen violence. He had gotten into a few scraps himself when he was younger. But what could drive a person to enter a school with an assault rifle or a public bus with a 32. millimeter, he will never truly understand. I love this country, he thought, I do. But he couldn’t grasp what was happening anymore. How a society maintains being so violent would always be a mystery. Damon saw the flashing police lights directly behind him. Aww shit, he thought, pulling over on the side of the road. He sat there and watched two officers exit the car. He figured that they would obviously need to see his registration, so he reached for the glove box so he-

The car lay deadly silent. Bullet holes were scattered along the back of the window, and two lay in Damon’s shoulder and one through his eye. The next few days, the news media would turn the situation into a matter of race regarding Damon’s ethnicity. There would be debate about deadly force and the police. Discussions would come up about teacher salaries due to the fact that he drove an older Subaru. In the end, Damon would wind up a face plastered on the news and in the papers to provide conversation during breakfast or at work about how “fucked up this country is.” And elsewhere, A golden retriever nursed new puppies. A young woman jumped up and down with tears in her eyes after being accepted to the school she wanted. A young man taught his little brother how to skateboard. And over at Damon’s house, his wife received news that she would be expecting her first child. And another american story was set to begin.

title: Another American Story

question: What state does this take place in?

answer: That information can't be found

question: How old is Damon?

answer: That information can't be found

question: What is the name of the teacher?

answer: Damon Williams

question: What is the name of the school Damon goes to?

answer: That information can't be found

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: Damon wakes up to a news story about a mass shooting in Reno. He says goodbye to his wife and goes to his job as a teacher. He talks to his class about the shooting. As he drives home, he is stopped by police who shoot and kill him, and the news reports on his death.


text:
A few years ago, a friend of mine had a bachelor party. I'd forgotten about it until about two weeks before it happened, so I'd entirely forgotten to save up. Luckily, I made enough money that I could afford to go on the trip, but I knew I'd have to be a bit frugal. Unfortunately, it was Vegas, and I have a generally addictive personality...
Well, lucky for me, we were staying in Reno, a little ways out of Vegas, so the hotel was pretty cheap. It at least allowed me to have a little fun gambling. We had a pretty good time the first few days. Hell, I actually ended up about $300 after the second day, of a five day trip. The third day was pretty relaxed... Mostly just relaxing by the pool, not much gambling... at that point I had about $400 to blow for the weekend, which was nice.

The fourth day, though... Fuck, the fourth day...
Started off like any other day in Vegas. We got up, hungover as hell, at about 8am (well, I got up, and woke the rest of the lazy amateurs up). Did a few lines of blow, pocketed the rest, and headed back out to Vegas. Well, they did. I decided I was gonna check out the Reno scene, if only to give my body a rest for a day. What a fucking mistake.

I started out in some little diner. Made smalltalk with the young waitress there. Part of me wanted to flirt with her, because, well, she was Reno-cute, but I still felt like death warmed-over. Hell, maybe I was flirting with her and didn't realize it, because she gave me her number, and after I told her I was just there for a few days, said she'd pick me up that night and we'd have a good time.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not an idiot...but I was out of town, and it seemed like a great idea in my booze/coke filled mind. So I barhopped the rest of the day, until about the time she was supposed to pick me up, when I went back to the hotel. I waited around the room, doing the last of the blow, drinking the last of the booze, until she finally called, said she was downstairs.

Hell, I was so jacked up I didn't give a damn what happened, but in that coked-up frenzy, I kinda wanted to get fucked. Went down, hopped in her beat up red Honda civic, and let her drive. Sober, I'd'a taken count of where we were going, but at this point all I could do was stare at the tits on that waitress, who's name I still didn't know. Couldn't tell you how long it was, but we ended up in some shitty neighborhood. Didn't strike me wrong at the time, because, well, I was distracted by a piece of ass, and a shitty neighborhood wasn't gonna get between me and getting my rocks off.

She pulls me out of the car, and leads me up to this little shotgun house. The porch light was busted, I remember that. I remember it, because it wasn't just burnt out, like every non-working light you've ever seen... It was actually busted. The lightbulb itself was broken. Don't know why that struck me, but for some reason it made me really uneasy. Still, I was drunk and coked up, and really wanted that waitress ass. I followed her in the place.

Now, I've been in some shitty places in my life, but this place was something different. Dirty shag carpet, barely illuminated by cheap red lightblubs clinking in their housing as the fan above them spun away, sweeping the rancid smoke of tobacco, and god knows what other substances being exhaled into the stale air of the small house. Still, I wanted to get some.

She pulled me back into a little bedroom, and threw me on the bed. Finally, after all this shit, I was gonna have this slut ride me for a few minutes until I got bored and pretended to cum, because, let's be honest, I was too coked up to blow. It was all an ego thing. Of course, my goddamn dreams didn't get too far, when a couple of shady motherfuckers jump out of the closet of the little damn room. Looking back at it, I can't believe I let that stupid little tramp play me like that, but, well, looking back at it, I'm sober.

Well, you wouldn't know it to look at me, but I come from a pretty shitty past, and this wasn't the first time I'd been jumped. It was pretty obvious these two wannabe gangster pricks played me for some out of town pussy, they took the time to try to make some big show of how they 'got me.' Well, I wasn't having any of that shit. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the blow, all I know is I blacked out.

A minute? An hour? At some point, I came to. Standing up, a pain in my chest, nose, my right hand. My blood was boiling, heart pounding out of my chest, dizzy as hell... Couldn't say how long I stood there, confused, before the world filled around me. It was the strangest experience. The shitty, lounge-lizard music waving through the place through some cheap, probably-stolen speakers, eased through the pulse in my ears. The crying. Fuck, the crying. That bitch that brought me here was crumpled up in a corner crying. Sensations perked back up in my limbs, mostly pain. I took in the situation.

The two guys. The two fucking guido pieces of shit that thought they'd have the best of me. They were on the floor. One of the bastards, I remember he was bald, had a fucking fedora on, he was closest to me. All I can really say about the guy was that he was bald. Don't really remember what he looked at before I blacked out, and... Well, he didn't have much of a face left when I came out of it. The faint smoke of a pistol, obviously shot faster than it was made to, escaped a barrel, next to his body. He was left, limp, on the ground, more blood than skin showing.

His friend was a little better off, if you can consider it as such. His left arm hung pretty limp next to him, as he crouched over the fedora fuck. His hand was on the bald prick's neck, he was screaming, "He's dead. He's fucking dead. You fucking killed him!" This big, strong guy was crying, and apparently it was my fault. I ditched.

I wasn't about to be charged with a damn crime I couldn't even remember. I ran the fuck out of there. I had no idea where I was, but I knew I needed to be out of there. My vest, my button-up, they went out to the side of the road. Looking back, I was still probably covered in blood. Especially considering my thumb was facing the wrong direction, my nose was pretty much flat, and I had a couple broken ribs. God knows how I ran with those ribs... Adrenaline's a helluva drug.

I'd say the adrenaline wore off after a while, because I ended up blacking out again. Woke up sometime the next morning, to the freaked-out screams of my delinquent friends... Must have looked worse than I remember. I told'em I didn't remember a thing, and decided to stay in the hotel 'til it was time for home.

I guess what I'm getting at is... I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.

title: Not sure if this is the right place for a true story, but here's the tale of my trip to Vegas...

question: How did the narrator end up with $300 extra on the second day of the bachelor party he was attending?

answer: He was gabling in Vegas on the first day.

question: Explain how the narrator ended up doing drugs and drinking by himself.

answer: He was waiting to be picked up at his Reno hotel by the waitress he met at the diner while his friends went to Vegas.

question: Summarize how the narrator put himself in the situation to get jumped.

answer: He let himself get taken to a random house by the waitress where he blacked out.

question: What was the narrator's reaction when he woke up next to a dead man?

answer: He ran out of the house, back to his hotel where he decided to stay until it was time to go home.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator goes to Reno for a friends bachelor party and has a good first couple of days. However, on the fourth day he accepts to go out with a waitress who takes him to suspicious house where he blacks out. He wakes up in a scene of a crime, next to a dead man. Without any recollection, he runs out of there and goes back to his hotel until it was time to go home.


text:
It was the first rain of the season and it poured relentlessly.

Water rushed down the roof, with only the gutter to break its fall.

Among the debris, the water gained character.

In tiny beads, it slithered along the gutter, making its way through nooks and crannies.

Continuing its journey through the blackened downspout, it carried the dust of summer away.

Tumbling out the end, it scattered away from its brothers into the garden.

Jostling its way downward through the soil, the water ached to find a root.

Faintly, it could hear the call of its lover.

The two finally met in a passionate embrace, it was home.

Its only fear was that it would one day have to leave again.

title: I wrote a short story. Let me know what you think and if this is the right subreddit to post this in.

question: What are some of the themes of this short story?

answer: Nature and connection.

question: How did the water droplets change over time?

answer: From their fall as rain, they began to collect debris and dust before finally making their way through the soil and to the root of a plant.

question: What is the "passionate embrace" that is referred to in the penultimate line?

answer: The root soaking up the water.

question: What might have happened if the water droplets got stuck in the gutter?

answer: They would not have reached the root and meet in a passionate embrace.