text:
This is a short story I wrote. I love reading and writing but I have never once taken any sort of class for writing (not counting highschool creative writing because I ditched that class like crazy) so forgive me if there are errors grammatical or otherwise.

-------

Even at night the shadows seemed sharper in the winter. The snow made a satisfying muffled crunch sound with each step he took and those shadows came pitching and moved quietly with each boot he tread, ringing his hands while tip-top houses and bright fluorescent street lights passed him. He exhaled. A plume of oxygen that quickly disappeared. His steps adjusted to the unpaved trail entrance and he peered back with frigid eyes on the street. Parked cars with white blankets of snow half covering them. White roofs. A few chimneys smoking even though the moon was so high up. Short into the trail he stopped and leaned with his legs crossed like he did against the stone wall linked to the park in addition to the house on the corner of the street. A truck hissed down the main road and he waited till it passed completely to light a cigarette he took out. Standing there, looking, and ringing his hands. "Likely won't see 'er tonight", drawing the lighter from his jacket pocket. He struck the flint wheel and lit it. The air was still and when he blew the smoke lingered under a park light dancing and giving way slowly in the dark.

He finished and kept on the trail. Moonlight beamed through the branches hanging over head like that of a boarded up shed or church window. The houses adjacent to the path rose and stood uniform next to each other - soldier like in their rows - with seasonal lights hanging off of them like overgrow. Their trees were black and scratching the sky leafless and naked as bone. Once he reached the park and entered the clearing he slowed and looked up like he did. The moon wasn't full, but he thought it was, it was so bright and close. It clung there like a tumor and looked as though it could be drained and drawn dry. He strolled more and saw her sitting there on the bench with one hand in her lap and the other puling a cigarette away from her mouth. His stomach turned quickly from the uncertain sight and he briefly felt like throwing up. She sat her cigarette in hand beside her on the bench and raised the other to gesture. There were times when he wouldn't see her for weeks until she turned up somewhere along a walk somehow by chance.

"How ya been?"
"Fair, I guess" setting next to her on the bench "Better'n last time"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. How long you been out here?"
"Bout two whole hours now. Moon's almost full, I reckon. It's pretty tonight"
"It is" He sat there and waited patiently while she finished her cigarette so when the air thinned he could smell her.
"Got any pot?"
"Not on me. Smoked a bit 'fore I came here"
"You stoned?" tilting her head almost annoyed.
"A little bit"
A flood lamp atop a garage door across the park lit up with no clear sight of what triggered the mechanism. They peered toward it and back quickly.
"I don't mind. Don't mind that you're stoned"
He looked at her.
"I'm glad"
"Hows your ma?"
"Drunk"
"Lord, now?"
"No, no, she's asleep now" he said. "She was though. Meaner than ever she can be. I set out earlier when she was first getting' to drinkin' and come back. Thought she'd be asleep but she wasn't"
"What'd she say to you?"
"Nothin' particularly cruel. I'd been gone not twenty five minute and she got to hollerin' about fixin' the drawbar on the mower and we just got to fightin'"
"About fixin' a mower?" lowering her face to peer out above her spectacles.
"Well, sort of. You could hazard a notion that the fight started because I haven't fixed the drawbar on the mower. Or because she was drunk. I think she's disappointed that her first boy is a Navy man and her youngest.." he stopped while the thoughts ricocheted in his head "well, I guess I don't really know what mama thinks of me. Especially when she's drunk"
"It don't matter none" she said quietly.
He gripped his pant leg tightly on the side she couldn't see and fought back trembling. He still couldn't smell her.

She was blanketed in blackness like a mountain or deep well. The only skin he saw was her soft white countenance and her hand when she took her glove off to pluck a cigarette from the pack. It gave little away in the darkness. To him she looked like a monolith set beside him by ancients. An early race of forerunner inventors who choose to cast the obelisk unto one for a lifetime of dissonance. When she spoke her words cut through the cold air stirring in his thoughts and lingered there as he watched her change shapes. He tried best to pay attention but all he thought about was when he would see her again and if he would see her again.

"I reckon she just don't know how to deal with your illness. Or she cain't accept it"
"I don't blame her" raising his head to look away.
"You don't mean that"
"Don't I?" A grin appeared on his face.
"No, you don't" she exacted. "I know I'd be madder'n hell at my ma for getting' on me while she was boozin'; we're same enough that you'd feel the very same. I know you love your ma sure as snows white but if she's a fightin' you just to fight it ain't even worth the breath. You blame her. She's your mother and.. well, she's gotta treat you better. What with your sickness an all. She don't need to be runnin' you off late at night into the cold just because she's boozin'" she spoke in a confident voice and it jarred him a little. He was smiling now.
"What pray tell are you smilin' about farm boy?"
"You been callin' it a sickness or an illness. I just think it's funny"
"Well, innit?" she questioned.
"In a way, I 'spose" he shrugged. They sat there in silence for a moment.
"Anyways, what ran you out this night? You said your ma was asleep so what're you doin' out here in the snow"
"Just felt like walkin' I reckon. It's a nice night, like you said"
"'Tis"

The sun was peeking up now behind the mountains and the fog rolled through thick and pink in the morning light. They'd sat there until night fell and hadn't realized it. When they departed she never looked twice for any sort of physical farewells, not even a handshake. Only a goodbye. When he arrived home he treaded quietly inside as to not wake his mom or get the dog excited. He noted the time, 6:47 in the A.M. He peeled off his layers and placed his boots on the deck out back. When he reentered the sound of nails on hardwood cued and his dog came trudging down the hall excitedly towards him. "Easy girl, easy" he said petting her "don't wake ma up now or you'll catch us both a beatin'" In his room he draped his final coat on the back of the chair at the desk and looked about his room like he did. Small and intimate but he didn't have much anyway. Cheap record player. His guitar and his upright. When he sat on his bed he did just that: sat there. He sat there a while, peering at the shadows and the light leaking in slowly as the sun still climbed. He never did pick up her scent. Finally getting up he went to his bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet and took out a bottle labeled Clozapine - 20mg and downed one with some sink water. Sometimes he forgot to take it intentionally just so he could see her but it never felt like enough. She'd never actually be there but he knew if he watched the shadows enough she would materialize. And as long as he walked there was always a chance.

title: Untitled short story

question: Who is the girl the main character has a conversation with in the story?

answer: She is a hallucination.

question: What is the abusive relationship the main character suffers?

answer: It is from his mother.

question: Why is the main character sensitive?

answer: He has an illness.

question: Where does the main character find his phantom woman?

answer: Out walking in the darkness.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: The story is about a boy who lives with his abusive mother who abuses cough medicine and goes out to talk with an imaginary girl in the woods.


split: train

text:
                                                                                Stay alive; that was the goal. Stay alive long enough for History to remember you… What if I can’t make it that long? What if this rifle I carry becomes too much for me? I shoved those questions into the back of my mind, vigorously, as if slamming a drawer shut in hurriedness. My mother told me to get out, get out of the house and don’t look back, that she and my sister would endure the raids on the homes of our village. I don’t know why they couldn’t keep with me, why they couldn’t follow me through the valleys and mountains I’ve traversed in these past few weeks… Maybe they lost hope? Maybe they didn’t want to wage war with life any longer…
But I am alone now, just a boy and his gun on the run for his life. I had one magazine and a bullet in the chamber, enough to get me through to a new home… or another soldier, you never know out here. But they were after me, The Tyrants, my mother would call them; an organization bent on taking over this entire country. We were just another check in the tallies, our small mining town on the side of a mountain, far off from anywhere. They still wanted us anyway, just for land… Just for land.
                 I lay prone in a bush covered in thorns under a downed tree, the needles piercing through my clothing as I watched the enemy militia sit around a small fire, ranting on about how their Commanding Officer doesn’t give enough food in their daily rations. I could hear my stomach growl in anger at them as I longed for their steaming cups of coffee with a buttered biscuit. My mouth watered from the aroma they gave… But maybe that was just my senses going into over drive. My eyes drooped with weariness, and sank lower and lower with every breath of frozen winter air I took. I thought they were weighed down with lead, and I couldn’t hold them open anymore…
The sky seemed to hold a dark blue hue, fading to light as it touched the horizon. I looked upon the floor, vertical lines seeming to span on forever. I saw two figures in close, one seemed familiar to me. In her hand she held a page, smeared in illegible writings that only her eye could read. Her head hung low, a tear dripping from the corner of her eye, a creek of one drop.  Before her was another woman, but of strange stature, a bouquet of flowers a-many color, but with the grey of steel mixed in with the fibers, showing her tense visage. “Why did he have to die mother?” The first woman asked the other, a tremble in her voice, easily comparable to a warble in the voice of an anxious public speaker.
                “Every person has a role to fill in life, he has done his, my child, and God needs him no longer.” I tried to rush to the both of them, as fast as my weary legs would bear, but my soles seemed to fill with lead, and my feet were encased in stone. The stone seemed to multiply particle by particle around me, panic rising in my blood like bubbles in a boiling pot. By the time it covered my face, I was absorbed in a dark unlike no other, it was a compressed abyss that seemed to never end, like a nightmare that you can’t escape. My sight was restored, oddly, but it seemed dark, every color muffled to its lightest degree. I saw the women still standing there, the first woman now with a rush of tears pouring down her pink pastel cheeks. The woman with her flowery head comforted her to the best extent she could, trying to put on a dance for the crying girl. I opened my mouth and tried to scream, but I seemed heavier, bulkier than normal, weighed down by my own body. I couldn’t utter a sound, it was as if my vocal cords had frozen, maybe they turned to stone themselves. A bright light figure appeared before my frame, slender and tall like an un-bruised birch.
         “Shh…” He muttered before waving his slim fingers before my eyes, making my shift to black again…
I shuttered awake, the queer sense that the dream left behind made my bones rattle under my skin. The soldiers now slept around their dying fire, snoring so loud, it could over power a truck horn. I sighed quietly, relief flowing through my body a wave at a time. “I wonder what that could have meant?” I questioned myself as I pulled my tattered body out of the shrub little by little. The snow crunched as I wiggled out from under the downed tree, to make my get away from these pigs-of-soldiers. But before I could manage to pull myself up and make a break, and hand pushed my back into the ice glazed snow, the water from the melted bits coursing in through the tears in my dress. It rolled my over to face a completely bright man, slim and tall, just like the one in the dream.
“Shh…” He whispered, before his blade stuck in my chest, and my heart rate fell to nothing…

title: [Slim] Inspired by Salvador Dali's Femme a tete de Roses

question: What does the narrator state as the main goal?

answer: To stay alive

question: Who were after the narrator?

answer: The Tyrants

question: How would you describe the setting of this story?

answer: The story seems to imply that it is placed in a war-like setting or in some combat zone.

question: What happens to the narrator at the end of the story?

answer: The narrator is struck down by another man.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator describes being on a battle front, with the only goal to survive. The narrator has one magazine left in his gun. He tries to help the women he sees, but fails. In the end, another man strikes his blade in his chest.


text:
The LINCOLN HIGHWAY in Delaware was a designation that existed from the 1910s to 1938, running from the Maryland border west of Newark to the Pennsylvania border in Claymont by way of Newark and Wilmington. The roadway is now part of the following roads:[1][2]

-   Delaware Route 279 between the Maryland border and Newark
-   Delaware Route 896 and Delaware Route 273 in Newark
-   Delaware Route 2 between Newark and Wilmington (the eastern portion has been bypassed and is now Old Capitol Trail)
-   U.S. Route 13 Business and U.S. Route 13 along Philadelphia Pike between Wilmington and the Pennsylvania border in Claymont

[1]

[2]

title: Lincoln Highway (Delaware)

question: Where is the Lincoln Highway?

answer: Delaware, U.S.

question: What year was it first designated the Lincoln Highway?

answer: 1910

question: Summarize everything relating to Newark.

answer: Newark is a location on the Lincoln Highway's route; it is the Newark side of the Maryland border that the route travels from; and the present Delaware Routes 279, 896, 273, and 2 form part of the roadway that was previously the Lincoln Highway.

question: Which U.S. states are named?

answer: Delaware, Maryland, Pennsylvania.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: The Lincoln Highway was the name of a road in Delaware from 1910-1938, which is presently part of Delaware Routes 279, 896, 273, and 2, and US Route 13 Business and US Route 13.


text:
We live in a fantasy world, a world of illusion. The great task in life is to find reality. ~Iris Murdoch
A blissful color explosion for your walls! Beautiful art for any decor by photographer Omaste Witkowski

Tinkerbell Abstract Macro Glass Photography
by Omaste Witkowski owFotoGrafik.com

In July of this year we moved to Boise Idaho and started a new chapter in our lives. In 2015 I will again start another new chapter in my life (stay tuned for exciting news). Between now and then I will be writing about my early work and working on my new projects. The journey I am embarking on will lead me to the next phase of my life and for now I can�t show any of my new work. It is TOP SECRET and really exciting. I will share progress reports as this new venture progresses and I can�t wait to give some �sneak peaks� as soon as I can�..

Now about today�s Art :-) I am going back to the future. This picture was one of the first I ever put into a gallery. I named it Tinker Bell, and she is looking to the heavens and contemplating life. I took this Macro Photograph almost exactly 2 years ago and now again I am looking to the heavens and contemplating life.This picture was part of a commissioned series created for a local Hotel. I was asked to produce 10-15 prints for Suites on the property and I ended up creating closer to 20 :-) I offered the excess to a local gallery and this one was one of the pieces chosen by the gallery curator.

This painting started out as a picture of handblown glass created by Garth Mudge of Glassworks in Winthrop Wa. Glassworks is located downtown in the beautiful Methow Valley in Okanogan County.

It was taken with a Macro lens and is a very small section of the overall object. I am exploring hand blown glass at a macro level in the hopes of creating fine art from very small pieces of glass.

All of the colors and shapes are created from hot glass. None of these images are created from anything other than hand blown glass objects. I am removing visible specks of dust in Photoshop to present a cleaner look but the overall image is exactly what I am seeing through my camera lens.

The colors are vivid and alive due to the way that I am illuminating the glass art as I am taking the picture. In a way I am photographing the light as it passes through the object. Creating art from light or art from glass art? Either way I see creating art from life and from existing art.

�Tinker Bell (often misspelled as Tinkerbell, also referred to as Tink for short), is a fictional character from J. M. Barrie�s 1904 play Peter Pan and its 1911 novelization Peter and Wendy. She has appeared in multiple film and television adaptations of the Peter Pan stories, in particular the 1953 animated Walt Disney picture Peter Pan. She also appears in the official sequel Peter Pan in Scarlet by Geraldine McCaughrean and commissioned by Great Ormond St Hospital as well as the �Peter and the Starcatchers� book series by Ridley Pearson and Dave Barry. At first only a supporting character described by her creator as �a common fairy�, her animated incarnation was a hit and has since become a widely recognized unofficial mascot of The Walt Disney Company, and the centerpiece of its Disney Fairies media franchise including the direct-to-DVD film series Tinker Bell. In her animated form she leaves a trail of twinkling pixie dust.

Tinker Bell was described by Barrie as a fairy who mended pots and kettles, like an actual tinker.[1] Her speech consists of the sounds of a tinkling bell, which is understandable only to those familiar with the language of the fairies. In the original stage productions, she was represented on stage by a darting light �created by a small mirror held in the hand off-stage and reflecting a little circle of light from a powerful lamp�[2] and her voice was a �a collar of bells and two special ones that Barrie brought from Switzerland�.[3] However, a Miss �Jane Wren� was listed among the cast on the programmes as playing Tinker Bell: this was a joke which also helped with the mystique of the fairy character, as well as fooled HM Inspector of Taxes who sent Jane Wren a tax demand.[3]

Though sometimes ill-tempered, spoiled, and very jealous [4] and vindictive (getting the Lost Boys to shoot arrows at Wendy),[5] at other times she is helpful and kind to Peter. The extremes in her personality are explained in-story by the fact that a fairy�s size prevents her from holding more than one feeling at a time, so when she is angry she has no counterbalancing compassion. Fairies cannot fly in the rain but can enable others to fly by sprinkling them with fairy dust (sometimes called �pixie dust� by Disney, and presented as �starstuff� in Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson�s novel series).[6] At the end of the novel the suggestion is that Tinker Bell has died the year after Wendy and the Darlings leave Neverland, and Peter has no memory of her at all.� � Wikipedia

question: What does the article say about the picture 'Tinkerbel' by photographer Omaste Witkowski?

answer: Witkowski says that the picture was one of the first she ever put into a gallery. The picture was part of a commissioned series created for a local hotel. It started out as a picture of handblown glass. It is a very small section of the overall object. The author is exploring hand blown glass at a macro level in the hopes of creating fine art from very small pieces of glass. The colors are vivid and alive due to the way that then author illuminating the glass art as they are taking the picture.

question: What does the story say about who is Tinker Bell?

answer: Tinker Bell is a fictional character from J. M. Barrie's 1904 play Peter Pan. She  was described as a fairy who mended pots and kettles. Her speech consists of the sounds of a tinkling bell. She is sometimes ill-tempered, spoiled, and very jealous but at other times she is helpful and kind to Peter. She cannot fly in the rain but can enable others to fly by sprinkling them with fairy dust.

question: What does the article say about photographer Omaste Witkowski's education?


text:
CONSTANT TONEGARU (common rendition of CONSTANTIN TONEGARU; February 26, 1919 – February 10, 1952) was a Romanian avant-garde and Decadent poet, who ended his career as a political prisoner and victim of the communist regime. Known for his bohemianism, he was the author of celebrated escapist and individualist poems, characteristic for the World War II generation in Romanian literature, and closely related to the works of his friends Geo Dumitrescu, Dimitrie Stelaru and Ion Caraion. Together with them, Tonegaru stands for one of the last waves to pass through _Sburătorul_, a modernist literary society formed around literary critic Eugen Lovinescu.

At the same time an anti-fascist and anti-communist, Tonegaru participated in culturally subversive activities against the authoritarian Ion Antonescu regime, and contributed to Dumitrescu's _Albatros_ magazine until it was closed down by Antonescu's censorship apparatus. Before 1945, he was also affiliated with Vladimir Streinu's _Kalende_ magazine, and completed work on his volume _Plantații_ (“Plantations”), a large portion of which is dedicated to shocking images of war on the Eastern Front. After the Soviet Union began its occupation of Romania, Tonegaru was also an outspoken critic of cultural persecution, and, with fellow writers Streinu, Pavel Chihaia and Iordan Chimet, created the Mihai Eminescu Association, a charitable organization and cultural forum whose goal was providing help to marginalized authors.

Implicated in a trial of anti-communist resistance fighters, Constant Tonegaru was sentenced to a two-year term, and sent to Aiud prison, where the dire living conditions resulted in a severe lung disease. He died soon after his release, and was fully recovered as a poet only after the Romanian Revolution of 1989, largely owing to the care of his friends and confidants Chimet, Chihaia and Barbu Cioculescu. Tonegaru's biography is often described as symbolic of the fate of his entire generation, which was decimated by communist persecution and prevented from affirming itself culturally.

Biography

Early life

Born into a middle-class family from the Danube port of Galaţi, Tonegaru was the son of a lawyer, ship captain and amateur poet, who cultivated his taste for literature and whom he accompanied on sailing trips to Greece, Turkey and Egypt.[1] Although he was an exceptionally tall man, the young Tonegaru was also plagued with health problems, and was born with mitral stenosis.[2]

He began his education in his native city, graduating primary school in neighboring Brăila, and completed his secondary education in Bucharest, at the Evangelical Lutheran Church High School (1931-1931), at the Saint Sava National College (1932–1935) and ultimately at the Libros School (1935–1936).[3] He debuted as a journalist at the age of 17, when he had several articles published in Nicolae Iorga's _Neamul Românesc_ review.[4] His life changed dramatically after his father was convicted for a crime of passion, an event which also left the young Tonegaru in charge of supporting his mother, forcing him into menial employment by the Railway Company.[5] Between 1939 and 1943, he was employed by the Romanian Post, 1st Bucharest Office.[6]

Attracted into the bohemian environment, and having published his debut poem, _Nocturnă fluvială_ (“Riverside Nocturne”), in a 1942 issue of the regional journal _Expresul de Brăila_,[7] Tonegaru met and befriended poets Stelaru and Cioculescu,[8] while frequenting the modernists at _Sburătorul_.[9][10][11] His work became more experimental, and he came to concentrate on writing poems.[12] Tonegaru also became better known to the public, largely thanks to the appreciation of his work by literary critic Vladimir Streinu, who also helped the poet find employment as a copyist with the Ministry of Education[13] (a job he held between 1943 and 1944).[14] He was by then a popular figure on the literary scene, and, according to literary historian Alex. Ştefănescu, loved for “his candor and humor, his awkwardness which always underlined his fundamental honesty”.[15] Among the young authors who viewed him with noted sympathy were Pavel Chihaia, Iordan Chimet, Mihail Crama,[16] and Ben Corlaciu.[17] He was also close to actor Tudorel Popa.[18]

World War II activism

Like Stelaru, Ion Caraion, Geo Dumitrescu and several other young writers, Tonegaru was structurally opposed to nationalism, fascism and militarism, and questioned the wartime dictatorship of Ion Antonescu, as well as its Axis commitment.[19][20][21] They worked together on Dumitrescu's rebellious magazine _Albatros_, which the Antonescu regime banned after a number of issues.[22] Tonegaru also collaborated on Streinu's _Kalende_, a more conventional magazine published during the war years.[23][24]

In late 1944, after the pro-Allies August 23 Coup overthrew Antonescu, Tonegaru and Stelaru became dominant figures of a bohemian society centered on restaurants in Gara de Nord area, creating links between them and students of the Bucharest Art Academy.[25] Sculptor Ovidiu Maitec, who was distantly acquainted with members of this circle, recalled: “One of [the poets] was in love with a female colleague of ours. Stories of suicide attempts. We amused ourselves. They would be around for a while, then they would disappear. [...] Back then, bohemianism [...] was the pursuit of liberation, of a splash of sincerity, and not total hypocrisy. Such was the need for bohemianism. Not necessarily that of a marginalized or impoverished type. They thought they were much freer, much more sincere, much more authentic toward their condition, toward their creation. There were charming guys, like Tonegaru or Stelaru, charming by means of their intelligence and spiritual games during nights of drunkenness, during which they would lose themselves, but would communicate.”[26]

Following the Soviet Union's occupation of Romania, Constant Tonegaru remained an advocate of freedom, alarmed by communization and the start of political persecution. In 1945, having witnessed the onset of political persecution, he, Chimet and Chihaia set up the Mihai Eminescu Association, which functioned as a charitable organization providing funds for the marginalized anti-communist intellectuals and establishing contacts with the Western Allies.[27][28][29] The project also involved Streinu and the French Roman Catholic cleric and Nunciature Secretary Marie-Alype Barral, as well as Todorel Popa's father, scientist Grigore T. Popa.[30][31] During the same year, Tonegaru received the Young Writers Award presented by Editura Fundaţiilor Regale, a prestigious publishing house,[32][33] and, as a consequence, published his first and only anthumous collection of poetry, _Plantații_.[34][35] It carried a dedication to his mentor Streinu.[36]

Tonegaru's activities brought him to the officials' attention. In late 1946, after Grigore T. Popa was forced into hiding, Tonegaru himself became involved in more clandestine activities, by organizing anti-communist gatherings attended or hosted by dissident intellectuals, such as Gheorghe Anghel, Petru Comarnescu, Vladimir Ghika and Dinu Pillat.[37][38] Suspecting that Tonegaru's home had been placed under surveillance, the Eminescu Association eventually decided to split up and keep activity to a minimum, while providing assistance to the more desperate cases.[39] Soon after the communist regime was established in late 1947-early 1948, the wave of arrests touched members of the group, while Tonegaru continued to expose himself.[40]

Imprisonment and death

In March 1949, he was arrested by the regime's secret police, the Securitate. The latter discovered his name while investigating the Bucharest connections of the armed resistance movement. Late in 1948, Tonegaru had obtained a Belgian Red Cross parcel for Teohar Mihadaş, a poet and former member of the fascist Iron Guard, who, unbeknown to his benefactor, had passed it on to an anti-communist fighter in his native Bistriţa.[41] Caught up in the subsequent Securitate clampdown, Mihadaș was tortured until he implicated his connections.[42] According to one account, the Securitate officers storming into Tonegaru's house treated him like a ringleader, and, having misinterpreted a piece of paper on which the poet had sketched out a piece titled _Pistolul lui Werther_ (“Werther's Gun”), pressed him to hand in his weapons, and repeatedly beat him with a crop.[43]

Once taken to prison in Bistrița, Constant Tonegaru was assigned to Securitate officer Viorel Gligor, who included him in the same lot as some 75 people, all of whom were already subject to beatings and forced to confess their belonging to an anti-communist “White Guard” that aimed to bring back the deposed King Michael I.[44] Accused of “feeding the bandits”, Tonegaru had already been implicated by Mihadaș, and was therefore largely spared violence, but was forced to spend his detention term in a cold cell, where he could only sleep on a cement bed.[45] He was held without trial for the following eight months, which was in violation of even the restrictive legislation passed by the communist lawmakers.[46] The Eminescu Association in its entirety was condemned by the Securitate, who deemed it “a group of saboteurs and spies serving the Vatican and other foreign powers”,[47] while Tonegaru himself was officially charged with “conspiracy against state security”.[48] Once their implication in the Association's activities was suspected by the secret policemen, both Chihaia and Chimet were forced out of professional life, and spent the following decade on the margin of society.[49][50] According to literary critic Paul Cernat, Tonegaru's resistance to violent interrogation saved their lives.[51]

Late in 1949, he was tried in Cluj and sentenced to two years' imprisonment, which was reportedly a lighter sentence than expected.[52] During the procedures, Tonegaru ridiculed the charges brought against him, addressing to his judge Zeno Barbu a promise that “in the future [Tonegaru] will strive to avoid the country's mountainous areas and will do most of his traveling in the fields.”[53] Tonegaru and his co-defendants were chained and taken to Aiud prison, a facility housing much of Romania's former political and social elite.[54] Using an adapted version of the Morse code which he would bang on the walls, Tonegaru soon found out that he shared confinement with writers and former dignitaries of the wartime dictatorships (Alexandru Constant, Nichifor Crainic, Radu Gyr and Mircea Vulcănescu), with sociologist and Iron Guard activist Ernest Bernea, and with the National Peasant Party's Ghiţă Popp.[55]

Ill-fed and exposed to the cold climate, Tonegaru found adjusting to the regimen impossible, and eventually fell ill with a lung disease marked by severe bouts of hemoptysis.[56] His mother made repeated attempts to have her son pardoned, but did not receive a favorable reply.[57] Confronted with his disease, and unwilling to be seen as responsible for his death, the prison officials reconsidered their plans to extend the term of his sentence as an “administrative penalty”, and allowed Tonegaru to go free.[58] The poet died soon after, as a result of complications, and was buried in Bucharest's Sfânta Vineri Cemetery.[59] Modern Romanian critic Ioan Stanomir mentions a “final humiliation” to which the regime exposed Tonegaru, one originally recounted by Chihaia, who was present at the funeral: the poet's body decomposed in his house during the four or five days it took Bucharest City Hall to allocate a casket, and the one it eventually sent was significantly shorter than required.[60]

Work

Context and generic traits

Constant Tonegaru, his friend Stelaru, Geo Dumitrescu and Ion Caraion are seen as the main representatives of the World War II generation in Romanian literature. According to literary critic Daniel Cristea-Enache, these writers “first look on wide-eyed as the old world is being dissolved by the second world war [...]; after which they similarly notice, at their own expense, the birth of a new communized world, with other prisons, forms of censorship and ideological command.”[61] Historian Keith Hitchins notes the writers' connection to the “inter-war effervescence [through] individualism and aesthetics”. This he contrasts with communist-endorsed “conformity”, but also with the verse of ideological rival Mihai Beniuc, whom he sees as the one “authentic and refined poetic temperament” among the Socialist Realists of the late 1940s.[62] The young bohemian poets were all influenced by Symbolism, from its French forerunners Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine to the George Bacovia, the last doyen of Romania's Symbolist movement.[63] Their approach to literature was one of several distinctly new but short-lived trends, standing alongside the new generation Surrealists (Gherasim Luca, Gellu Naum, Paul Păun, Virgil Theodorescu, Dolfi Trost) and the Sibiu Literary Circle,[64][65] as well as the left-wing writers at _Orizont_ review (Vladimir Colin and Nina Cassian among them).[66]

A main characteristic of Constant Tonegaru's style is its imaginative escapism, which has led essayist Ion Vartic to describe him as a “Peer Gynt of poetry”.[67] Hitchins sees the poet as being “absorbed by his own feelings and perceptions of the world”.[68] Defining Tonegaru's tendencies as “romantic and anarchic”, and the poet himself as “a celebrator of Bohemia who advocated the absolute freedom of the artist”, he noted that the poems Tonegaru produced were designed “to be deciphered, to be read over and over in order to grasp [their] meaning.”[69]

As part of an effort to discern Tonegaru's poetic themes, critic Daniel Vighi suggests that, at the core, there is a struggle between the banality of existence, depicted in Surrealist touches, and a poetic elation in the classical sense.[70] Vighi detects in this the influence of Romania's avant-garde herald Urmuz.[71] Cristea-Enache also writes: “[Tonegaru's] poetry, with a strong imaginative tone, with its decompression and the spread of creative fantasy, acts [...] as a compensation factor. The author erases the borders and contours of reality, becomes a character of his own discourse and tirelessly balances between various areas, eras and identities.”[72] In this context, Cristea-Enache argues, Tonegaru invents himself as “at once virile and sentimental”.[73] Casting himself in historic roles or as a preexisting fictional character, the poet wrote about imagining himself as a troubadour, a French Revolution figure, a Don Quixote, or a Cossack warrior.[74] The _Plantații_ poems included specific self-definitions, such as:

Another such reference was present in the poem _Grădina publică_ (“The Public Garden”), where Tonegaru, reflecting back on his early life and education in the province, sees his adolescent self from the outside. The perspective is, according to literary critic Ştefan Cazimir, one of “juvenile cynicism” borrowed from Dumitrescu, with a personal note of “provincial melancholy”:

Escapism and political symbols

The political themes explored by Tonegaru and his bohemian group were underlined by Italian academic Roberto Merlo, who placed their presence in wartime poems in connection with their radical call for aesthetic innovation: “[theirs was] the poetry of revolt, against both the horrors of war and earlier forms of poetry”.[75] Similar points were made by local critics such as Constantin Ciopraga and Ioan Stanomir. Discussing the traits common to Tonegaru and his fellow “insurgents”, Ciopraga mentions “juvenile revelations, banalities, the pursuits of a generation, in other words the signs of recent traumas”.[76] Stanomir believes that Tonegaru was an “escapist insurgent”, and explains his refusal to comply with the Antonescu regime as the source for his revolt against communism, seeing both as a consequence of his moral viewpoints: “the wartime rebelliousness anticipated a radicalization placed under the sign of ethics.”[77] According to Hitchins, while Tonegaru “protested against the social and political conditioning to which he had been subjected”, his protest too was individualistic, and the poet was “simply not interested in politics and the great social issues of the day.”[78]

Much of _Plantații_ comprises early lyric poems in which the setting is Tonegaru's own image of the Eastern Front. Among the best-known is _Plantația de cuie_ (“The Plantation of Nails”), which centers on grotesque imagery which is probably meant to suggest delirium.[79] This is foremost illustrated by concise metaphors such as _Luna ca un ficat însângerat_ (“The Moon like a bloody liver”) and _obsesia mea din clasa a patra primară: rețeaua de sârmă ghimpată_ (“my obsession during the fourth grade primary cycle: the barbed wire network”), but also developed in more complex sequences:

In other pieces, the horrific setting is replaced with other instances of the poet's constant transfer of identities. However, according to Cazimir, the escape “from a mean and hostile ambiance” has “a precarious and provisional character”.[80] He illustrates this with a sequence from _Ploaia_ (“The Rain”), where Tonegaru depicts his tramcar reverie, interrupted shortly after by the violent sounds of a road accident.[81] Part of it reads:

In one of his final poems, composed in prison and preserved by his cellmates, Tonegaru described suffering, death and redemption as lutherie. The poem was titled _Stradivarius_, and read in part:

Legacy

Censorship and persecution have decisively marked the impact and perception of Constant Tonegaru's generation. The group has been defined as an “unfortunate generation”[82] or a “lost generation”.[83][84] Critics have also drawn a direct comparison between them and Poland's “Generation of Columbuses”.[85] According to Hitchins, the rise of a Romanian Socialist Realist school signified that “the creativity represented by a Constant Tonegaru was overwhelmed by a literature often bereft of aesthetic value and intended to promote the social and political goals of the moment.”[86] Political developments influenced differently the lives of all three generational heroes. This process was discussed by literary historian Alexandru George, who emphasized that, while Tonegaru's early choice for “freedom and democracy” made him a victim of “horrible sufferings”, both Caraion and Dumitrescu adapted themselves to communism.[87] The former, George writes, became an official poet who displayed “extreme ability in traversing the harsh years that followed”, while Caraion rejected the communists' “cultural policies”, was himself twice subjected to the “terrible rigors of prison”, and eventually became “probably the most loathsome Securitate collaborator to have ever been known by the writers' caste.”[88]

Nevertheless, Cristea-Enache notes, the general public has since come to see the “mythological” Tonegaru as “a fantasizing poet” and “a tragic character”.[89] He was an immediate influence on his slightly younger generation colleague and _Sburătorul_ poet, Mihail Crama[90] and on Chimet's _ExiL_ cycle of poems.[91] Tonegaru is also seen as the mentor of Stelaru, Cioculescu and Radu Teculescu.[92] With ideological changes within Romanian communism also came more tolerance of Constant Tonegaru's work by the cultural officials. A second volume of works by Tonegaru, titled _Steaua Venerii_ (“The Star of Venus”), was kept in manuscript form by his friend Cioculescu. During a spell of liberalization under the new communist leader Nicolae Ceauşescu, Cioculescu published it, together with all of Tonegaru's known works, in an eponymous 1969 volume (accompanied by Cioculescu's introductory study).[93][94] Nevertheless, his personality and writings were completely absent from the major dictionaries and anthologies of the 1960s and 1970s, including those edited by Mircea Zaciu and Ilie Constantin.[95] Beginning in the 1980s, with the advent of the _Optzecişti_ generation, Tonegaru was recovered as a cultural model, primarily recognized as such by authors who considered themselves Postmodernists.[96] The Romanian poet's work has had its echoes outside Romania: Tonegaru is the subject of a concretist poem by Brazilian author Manuel Bandeira, titled _Homanagem a Tonegaru_ (“Homage to Tonegaru”).[97]

After the Romanian Revolution overthrew communism, Tonegaru's work became the focus of more public attention, and several accounts of his biography were published, including ones by his friends Chihaia and Chimet.[98][99] In 2003, Cioculescu edited another volume of his friend's selected works, titled after _Plantația de cuie_.[100][101] While periodic exhumations in Sfânta Vineri have made tracking down Tonegaru's remains an impossible task, he is honored by the Museum of Romanian Literature with a bust in his likeness,[102] and, on the occasion of his 90th birthday in 2009, was the subject of a special exhibit in his native Galaţi.[103]

Notes

[1]  Alex. Ştefănescu, Cicerone Ionițoiu, “Constant Tonegaru - deţinut politic” , in _România Literară_, Nr. 3/2002

[2]

[3]  _Constant Tonegaru. 90 de ani de la naştere_, at the V. A. Urechia Library of Galaţi; retrieved April 9, 2009

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[11]  Constantin Ciopraga, “Un pelerin – _Dincolo de cuvinte_, Mihail Crama” , in _Convorbiri Literare_, Nr. 4/2007

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[17]  Alexandru George, “Generaţii şi generaţionism (III)”, in _Luceafărul_, Nr. 21/2008

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[19] _Quaderini..._, p.197

[20] John Neubauer _et al._, “1945”, in Marcel Cornis-Pope, John Neubauer (eds.), _History of the Literary Cultures of East-Central Europe_, John Benjamins, Amsterdam & Philadelphia, 2004, p.148.

[21]  Ioan Stanomir, “Memorie şi libertate”, in _Observator Cultural_, Nr. 106, March 2002

[22]

[23]  Ioana Diaconescu, "Vladimir Streinu, 'un pericol pentru Securitatea Statului' " , in _România Liberă_, Nr. 43/2005

[24]  Geo Şerban, “Petre Solomon, confrate şi confident al lui Paul Celan. Prilejuri conjugate pentru a reflecta, din perspective noi, asupra unei prietenii inconfundabile”, in _Observator Cultural_, Nr. 345, November 2006

[25]  Ioan Lăcustă, “Călător prin cenușă”, in _Magazin Istoric_, August 2003

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[29]  Paul Cernat, “Scrisori din Ţara Minunilor”, in _Observator Cultural_, Nr. 25, August 2000

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[48]  _Oameni în memoria Galaţiului_, at the V. A. Urechia Library of Galaţi; retrieved April 9, 2009

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[61]  Daniel Cristea-Enache, “Condotierul Tonegaru”, in _Adevărul_, June 19, 2004

[62] Hitchins, p.527

[63]

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[65] _Quaderini..._, p.86, 87

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[70]  Daniel Vighi, “Constant Tonegaru în note de curs”, in _Orizont_, Nr. 11/2010, p.21

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[79]  “Atelier de creative writing (7)”, in Ruxandra Cesereanu (ed.), _Creative Writing. Literatura Onirică_, at the Babeş-Bolyai University's Center for Imagination Studies; retrieved April 9, 2009

[80]

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[84] _Quaderini..._, p.87

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[86] Hitchins, p.528

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[91]  Paul Cernat, “Întoarcerea peştişorului Baltazar”, in _Observator Cultural_, Nr. 59, April 2001

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[96] George Bădărău, _Postmodernismul românesc_, Institutul European, Iași, 2007, p.67.

[97] Massaud Moisés, _História da literatura brasileira. Vol. III: Modernismo_, Editora Cultrix, São Paulo, 2001, p.96.

[98]

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[100]

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[102]

[103]

title: Constant Tonegaru

question: What kinds of works did Tonegaru author?

answer: He was a poet and authored escapist and individualist works.

question: How did Tonegaru die?

answer: He died after suffering complications from a lung disease.

question: Why was Tonegaru sent to prison?

answer: He was implicated with a former fascist and an armed, anti-communist resistance movement.

question: What are some of the main characteristics of Tonegaru's literary style??

answer: The main characteristic of his work is his imaginative escapism.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: Constant Tonegaru was a Romanian avant-garde Bohemian poet, known for his escapist and individualist works. He was a political prisoner of the Communist regime following World War Two. He died in 1952 from complications from a lung disease while imprisoned.


text:
NATHAN ADLER (1911–1994) was an American psychoanalyst, a lecturer in Criminology and Psychology at the University of California, Berkeley, and professor of clinical psychology at the California School of Professional Psychology at Berkeley/Alameda.[1] Between 1965 and 1970 he conducted extensive clinical studies of drug users in the San Francisco Bay area. He authored the book _The Underground Stream: New Lifestyles and the Antinomian Personality_.[2] In his youth, he wrote for several prominent leftist journals in New York.[3][4]

Early life

[A photo of Nathan Adler circa 1994] Nathan Adler was born in New York City, the second of five children. His siblings were Martha, Irving, Bob, and Ray. His parents emigrated to the United States from a part of Austria that is now in Poland. His father Marcus arrived in 1906 and his mother Celia (née Kress) arrived four years later along with his elder sister, Martha. After moving to San Francisco, he worked for the Jewish Personal Service Committee, providing counseling for inmates at San Quentin and Alcatraz prisons.[5] He began his studies in psychology in San Francisco under the mentorship of Siegfried Bernfeld and served on the board of the Mental Hygiene Society of Northern California.[6] In 1943 he married Elizabeth Haverstock Adler (1912 - 2006), a public health educator who taught at the UC Berkeley School of Public Health.[7]

[1]

[2]

[3]

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title: Nathan Adler (psychologist)

question: What was Nathan Adler?

answer: A psychoanalyst, lecturer in Criminology and Psychology, and a professor of clinical psychology.

question: Where did Adler teach?

answer: The University of California, Berkeley, and the California School of Professional Psychology at Berkeley/Alameda.

question: What book did he write?

answer: The Underground Stream: New Lifestyles and the Antinomian Personality.

question: What did he write for in his youth?

answer: Several prominent leftist journals in New York.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: This article is about Nathan Adler, a psychoanalyst and professor of psychology in California during the 20th century. It details some of his accomplishments.


text:
"Mr. Billingmyer's Seventy-Fifth Halloween" by Ryan Sheffield

The doorbell rang for the first time that evening around half past six, and the excitement that brought Thomas Jacob Billngmyer to his feet was that of a grade school child. This was to be his seventy-fifth Halloween, but with such gleeful enthusiasm in his arthritic bones, one might have easily mistook it for his first. An old man he was, yes, but a child at heart. And how he loved the children.

“Trick or treat!” was the chorus they sang, and to Mr. Billingmyer it was more lovely a sound than any Yuletide carol could ever be. The costumes grew more unrecognizable to him as the years passed—the children of late preferring their popular television characters to the more classic Halloween staples to which he was accustomed—but he loved them just the same. For one night every year they could be anything. For that one wonderful night, they were no longer burdened by the strict rules of school marms or the limits of the adult world. Adults preferred the rules and rigid routine, growing up and out of their imaginations and leaving them behind like a snake’s old skin—much to their own detriment, in the opinion of Thomas Billingmyer. On this night, he could be anything and there were no rules.

“Happy Halloween to you all!” he proclaimed, and dropped a piece of candy in the baskets, bags and buckets of the smiling children. They thanked him and ran off down the drive, back to their imagination-deprived parents who waited in their boring, everyday clothes to lead the little ghosts and ghouls to the next well-lit house on the street.

He watched them go and shut the door, too excited to sit down again. He wished he had had the foresight to purchase a carving pumpkin during the day. But he supposed it was best this way. His searing joints did not share his festive mood. Such spoilsports they were! He missed his youth dearly, and though seventy-five Halloweens were more than most could hope for, he would trade it all to have stayed young. To have never known that awful world of responsibility and toil and boredom that all adults must occupy. To never shed the precious gift of childhood imagination.

 In the two hours that followed his first evening visitors, the doorbell rang but four times. Each time was a grand time—tiny witches and pint-sized devils joyous and shouting and thankful—but it was so much fewer than the year before. And so the pattern had gone for years. Perhaps the children these days grew up too quickly. The world was changing and adulthood intruded on their little lives too soon. The old man wondered if a year would come when there would be no Trick-or-Treaters at all. He wouldn’t likely live to see that terrible night, and for that he was grateful. He would not be alive to mourn the world’s imagination. He would see to that.

It was nearing 9o’clock and Mr. Billingmyer had all but given up when the doorbell rang again. He made his way to the door as quickly as his grumpy, old skeleton would allow. But this time he was not greeted by the shouts of princesses and goblins. The young man that darkened his doorway had long since shed and forsaken childhood, his scary costume nothing more than his own skin and that putrid symbiont, desperation.

The young man pulled a knife from his shoulder bag and pushed Thomas Jacob Billingmyer backward into the house. He locked the door behind him and peeked nervously through the blinds on the window.

“Keep your mouth shut, old man. I swear to God, I will cut you.” He gestured with the knife and Mr. Billingmyer did as it commanded, backing away slowly toward the living room.

“Sit down.” The knife directed him to the wooden chair he had set out for resting between doorbell rings. He did as he was told. The young man dug through his bag and pulled out a roll of duct tape which he used to bind Mr. Billingmyer, most uncomfortably, where he sat.

The young man was desperate indeed. He dug through all the drawers—even the kitchen pantry!—looking for valuables he never would have sought had youthful imagination not been so cruelly discarded. Mr. Billingmyer did not truly blame him. Adulthood encroaches as it will.

He watched patiently as the young man darted into the bedroom, rummaged around, and returned with handfuls of jewelry. Most were obviously “costume” fakes, but the young man did not strike him as someone with a very discerning eye. He felt bad for him, really.

“What time is your wife supposed to be gettin’ home, old man?” he asked as he filled his shoulder bag with the worthless trinkets.

“I never married,” replied Mr. Billingmyer.

“What, are you some kind of fruit? Why you have all this shit? Nevermind. Cash. Where is it?” The young man held out the knife. It wasn’t very threatening. It seemed to be serving more as punctuation than anything else.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any,” said the old man.

“You don’t have any? Bullshit. Don’t lie to me, man. I’m not kidding around here!” The punctuation was sharp but weak.

“I’m terribly sorry. I really can’t help you, son.”

The young man threw his arms in the air and began pacing.

“You’re lying,” he said, though it seemed to be directed more at himself. “Shit!”

He took a few minutes to quickly—and most ineffectively—ransack the house in search of money that was not there. He gave up easily. Mr. Billingmyer assumed the young man had done so a great many times before.

“Shit… shit…” He threw himself into a chair and ran his fingers through his hair. It was a sad and pitiful sight. Mr. Billingmyer wished he didn’t have to see it. After a moment, the young man got up in a huff and grabbed a piece of candy from the Trick-or-Treat bowl.

“That candy is for the children!” shouted the old man. He was incensed and his lip was trembling. “It’s for the children, not for you!”

“Shut the hell up, old man,” he said weakly. He unwrapped the candy and ate the entire bar in one bite. “No money… liar…” he mumbled. And then he fell facedown on the living room floor.

His body shook with spasms and blood began to pour from his mouth, nose, ears, and even his tear ducts. The poison worked so much faster than Mr. Billingmyer thought was possible. And such a mess…

Though his bones put up quite a fuss, the old man was able to wriggle free of his restraints after only a few minutes of trying. Goodness, the place was a mess!

It was getting late and he supposed he should probably be on his way. The night was waning, the little ghouls were returning home with their bounties, and the homeowners would likely be back soon. And to find such a mess! He felt rather apologetic, but there was little he could do but make himself scarce before they arrived.

Thomas Jacob Billingmyer’s seventy-fifth Halloween was going to end as a disappointment. He hoped the next would be better, if fate saw fit to let him live to see it.

Then the doorbell rang. Mr. Billingmyer rushed to the door and opened it just a crack.

“Trick or treat!” sang the children. The old man smiled. Oh, to be young forever. Adulthood was the end of dreams. And no one deserved that.

The children extended their baskets, buckets and bags and the old man gave them each a piece of candy.

“Happy Halloween to you all!” he said. And looking into their smiling faces, all the disappointment and misfortune vanished from his mind as though it were never there.

Yes, he thought. It was a wonderful night.

title: I challenged myself to write a short horror story for every day in October. I thought I'd share one with you guys. Happy Halloween!

question: What is the old man's secret?

answer: He is a serial killer.

question: What first upsets the young man robbing the old man?

answer: The old man has no money or anything worth money.

question: What is shocking about how the robber dies?

answer: He has eaten some seemingly harmless candy, which actually contains poison.

question: What makes the old man happy at the end of this story?

answer: Some children show up after all.

question: Why does the old man poison the children every year?

answer: He doesn't want them to have to grow old and face disappointments and sadness in life.


text:
_FEARLESS FOURTEEN_ is a novel written by Janet Evanovich, the fourteenth in her series featuring bounty hunter Stephanie Plum. It was released on June 17, 2008.[1]

Plot summary

Stephanie Plum apprehends Loretta Rizzi for failure to appear in court, but Loretta, who is a distant cousin of Stephanie's policeman boyfriend, Joe Morelli, agrees to go along only if Stephanie will take care of her son, Mario. Unfortunately, Loretta has no collateral and no relatives willing to sign for her, so she has to remain in jail. Stephanie is now responsible for Mario, a.k.a. Zook, who is obsessed with playing _Minionfire_, a popular MMORPG.

Meanwhile, Ranger needs Stephanie's help with a job: Brenda (a famous one-name singer like Cher or Madonna) is coming to town and she needs security, so Stephanie reluctantly obliges. Stephanie and Ranger's assorted merry men help to protect Brenda from PETA protesters, women protesting Brenda's breast augmentation, and Brenda's cousin/stalker, Gary, who claims to have psychic abilities since being struck by lightning.

Loretta is eventually bailed out, but within hours of her release, she is kidnapped. Stephanie contacts Loretta's brother, Dom, who has a history of anger issues and has just finished a prison term for a bank robbery of $9 million. Dom is enraged to learn that his nephew has been staying at Morelli's, and alleges that Mario is Morelli's son (as Loretta had never revealed the identity of his father) and threatens to kill Morelli.

Stephanie takes Zook to stay with her parents, and he quickly gets Stephanie's Grandma Mazur and two of her friends hooked on _Minionfire_. After Zook upsets Stephanie's mother by decorating the house with graffiti, however, Stephanie has to take him back to Morelli's until she can locate Loretta. Then, Stephanie's ex-stoner classmate Walter “Mooner” Dunphy arrives at Morelli's, revealing that he is the _Minionfire_ player Moondog who has been griefing Zook and Grandma Mazur.

Stephanie is working with Ranger to protect Brenda, and trying to survive Lula's engagement to Tank, Ranger's right-hand man. Brenda tries to start a bounty-hunter reality show and goes with Stephanie and Lula on an apprehension, but causes them to be attacked by the FTA's pet monkey. Gary the stalker also begins to lurk at Morelli's house with Zook and Mooner. After repeated break-ins and the discovery of a dead body in the basement, Stephanie and Morelli realize that either the robbery money or some clue to its location is buried in the basement, which is a problem because Morelli had a concrete floor poured after inheriting the house, which would have gone to Dom, had he not been convicted of robbery.

Stephanie discovers that Dom has been staying with his old friend Jelly Kantner, and breaks into the apartment to investigate, when two men come looking for Dom. She hides under the bed, but hears enough to realize that they're the other two partners in the robbery.

After Brenda, who is now trying her hand as an investigative reporter, suggests on television that the money is buried in Morelli's yard, local treasure-hunters keep showing up with shovels, effectively destroying his yard. Morelli, tired of the chaos and already footing the bill to feed everyone who's begun frequenting his house, pays Zook, Mooner, and Gary to act as security and keep the treasure-diggers away. Then, in a more serious turn of events, Stephanie receives a package containing a severed pinkie toe, purportedly Loretta's.

Figuring out that the corpse in Morelli's basement was one of Dom's three partners in the robbery, Stephanie goes to confront Stanley Zero, the other known partner, but finds him dead. Stephanie is contacted by the unknown fourth partner, who wants to trade Loretta for the money, which is hidden in a van in a location that only Dom knows. The police prepare a duplicate van and fake money, but the fourth partner contacts Stephanie and tells her that he's aware of the deception, and unless she gets the real money to him by noon the next day, he will cut off Loretta's hand.

Stephanie discovers that a camera has been mounted on the house across the street from Morelli's, which explains how the kidnapper has been aware of events at the house. Morelli sends a lab technician to disable the camera, and when Stephanie talks to him, she recognizes his voice: He was the other man in Jelly's apartment, and therefore the fourth partner in the robbery.

Dom arrives, recognizes the kidnapper, and makes a deal to take him to the money. Stephanie tries to get Dom to stall until the police arrive, but he refuses, so she, Mooner, Zook, and Gary (along with their homemade potato guns which they've been using for security) pursue them, followed by Brenda and her TV crew. As the kidnapper is escaping in the van, Mooner shoots a potato through his windshield, causing him to crash into a deli. This makes the van explode, killing the kidnapper and sending the stolen money flying. Loretta is retrieved from the kidnapper's basement, uninjured and with all her toes intact. Gary's prophecy comes true: the explosion at the deli caused Brenda to be hit by a flying frozen pizza.

The story ends at Morelli's house with everyone watching the news. Mooner managed to collect some of the stolen money during the explosion, but gives most of it away. Brenda announces that she's leaving New Jersey to do a reality show with Gary. Dom declares that he no longer wants to kill Morelli, even though he abandoned Loretta after impregnating her. Surprised, Loretta explains that she never slept with Morelli as a teenager, and that Mario's father was a classmate who died in a freak accident the day after he got her pregnant.

Car death(s)

-   Stephanie's Nissan Sentra: not destroyed, but heavily graffiti'd by “Zook”.

FTAs

-   Loretta Ricci: armed robbery;
-   Susan Stitch: assault with a deadly weapon.

Notes

Category:2008 novels Category:Stephanie Plum books

[1]

title: Fearless Fourteen

question: Summarize the primary source of tension in the story.

answer: Stephanie Plum, a bounty hunter, ends up having to look after a target's child when the target cannot afford bail. Then Loretta, the target, makes bail, but is kidnapped and held for a steep ransom. Stephanie takes the kid to stay with her parents. The kid's uncle, Dom, who has anger issues threatens Stephanie. In sum, Stephanie has to find a kidnapped woman while caring for the woman's son, whose angry father threatens Stephanie.

question: Summarize the plot twist in the story.

answer: A lot of the tension revolves around the kid-Mario-and his angry, threatening father. Stephanie has been toeing the line the whole time, trying to keep Dom placated and Mario, safe, but then when Loretta is saved, surprising information surfaces: Dom is not the father. The father was a kid who died in an accident many years ago.

question: Summarize how and when a bounty hunter typically makes their money.

question: Summarize a positive event in the story.

answer: The stories is all over the places-many highs and lows-but the ultimate positive point is the ending, in which all is well save for the demise of the kidnapper, who dies in a car explosion while making a getaway. In the end, Loretta is recovered physically intact, Dom stops being an angry jerk, and the kid is fine. There is also some bit about a singer's becoming a reality tv star, which sounds positive, but isn't featured prominently in this summary of the book.


text:
The sunset cast a pink glow over the horizon. The last few rays stretched across the ocean, casting small shadows on the grains of sand like tendrils creeping from the water. The tendrils kept stretching and stretching as the light slowly faded from view. A man sat on the beach, these tendrils slowly sneaking towards him. His foot shifted, breaking the illusion as he leaned back. The sand softly clinked against the bottle of wine to his right and scraped against the pistol to his left.

The mans name was unimportant. He was easily forgettable. He could blend into a crowd, disappear into the night. He was the guy in the apartment building, in 8B, who you pass every day. Who stares longingly at you as you walk buy but as far as you'd be concerned he's just a part of the tacky wallpaper. But he's always there whether you realize it or not.

This feature of his was excellent in this case. Sitting on a beach in Florida, he was unnoticed by the countless runners and late tourists watching a sunset on a clear summer evening. As the last few stragglers went back to their homes and hotels, the man sat up straight. He grasped the bottle of wine, letting a few mouthfuls of the drink slide down his throat before wiping the bottle down and tossing it into the bushes.

He stood up, the sand filling the void between his toes, as he slowly walked to the pier. Sitting out of view behind a support beam he waited. There was now no light in the sky. The faint glow of the city behind him made the waves visible but if anything was out there it was lost in the inky blackness. But a faint dot could be made on the horizon, a tiny light that could be easily mistaken as a star low on the horizon but the man knew better. He had dealt with this light before.

As the light slid across water, he followed. Walking down the beach and wading through water, all the while making sure the pistol was kept dry. He followed it for what felt like hours, his heartbeat pounding in his ears and his mind filled with anticipation. Eventually it came towards land, near a marina. Hiding behind a pillar once again, the man made sure the gun was loaded and the safety off. The boat grew near, the lights now completely on instead of hiding in the background.

Another man, a Cuban, jumped off the boat, mooring her to the pier and made sure the locks were all locked tight. As he turned to leave he was faced by a man with a cocked pistol pointed squarely at his head. The Cuban could almost see the hollowpoint 9mm round lurking in the barrel. He closed his eyes. A loud pop was heard, birds scattered, and you could hear a thud as his body slumped to the wooden deck. The man quietly slipped away into the night, the black enveloping him.

The police arrived a few hours later, shooing the critters away trying to feast on the Cuban. They checked his pockets, retrieving the keys to his boat and climbed aboard. They found a hollow compartment and using the keys, popped the lock. Inside it was filled with water, they were about to close it when a hand slowly rose to the surface.

After digging through the Cubans information they realized he went by a name that was respected out of fear in the Cuban community. The Coyote. A man who profited off the love of others by smuggling people out of Cuba and into the United States. They identified the remains, 12 in all, in the compartment and looked up their relatives. A stack of files with photos attached sat on a detectives desk as he worked through them. Considering their motive and wondering if they were the man that killed the Coyote.

However in that stack of files was a man. A man who had lost his family to the Coyote. A man who had killed the Coyote. A man who blended into the background, slipping out of reality and disappearing once again into the dark. And as the file was eventually placed into the cold cases, waiting for a solution that would never come, the Man sat smiling on a chair in his small apartment. A man who raised his gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

title: A Man

question: Who are the main characters?

answer:
An unnamed man adept at blending in and going unnoticed; the Coyote's killer.
The Coyote, a smuggler who transports people from Cuba to the US and kills them instead of bringing them to their families.

question: Where is the story set?

answer: A pier in Florida, USA.

question: Why did the man kill the Coyote?

answer: Because the Coyote had killed his family.

question: What was in the compartment?

answer: The human remains of 12 people the Coyote had killed.

question: What does the man do at the end?

answer: Commits (or attempts) suicide.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: An unnamed man kills a Cuban human smuggler known as the Coyote, who has been killing the people he was supposed to transport safely. The man lost his family to the Coyote, and eventually commits suicide.


text:
It was a cold, dark night…

	I lay in the corner of the street, my head in a puddle, a smell of what can only be described as death circling my very presence. I had lost count of how many days it had been, of how many faces I’ve seen pass me, of how many feet I’ve watched shuffle aside, trying their hardest to avoid my very existence. Of how many eyes had looked at me, and burnt hatred so deep it became almost intolerable. Sheer disgust, seeping out of the breath of everyone who passed. That is what my life had become. Ever since that one day. When everything I thought I knew was ripped apart in front of me.

	It was the youngest who took me in. He seemed kind, welcomed me. One of those people that deep down you can tell had a good heart even if they hid it beneath a rough, silent exterior. I lived in his room free to do what I felt, unless the others were around, the older ones. When their voices carried through the door, I was hidden under the bed, its so our friendship will be ours alone I would convince myself, that he wanted me to be all his. But I suppose that should have been the first warning sign. Can a place truly be called your home if you have to hide from its very inhabitants? But sadly, I was naive… no, I chose to ignore it, I was too obsessed, too caught up by this newfound friendship to ever even consider the truth. I thought everything was perfect. Then it happened.  It was late at night, the door slammed behind him as the boy tumbled in. Raised voices instantly burnt through the very walls that surrounded me, through the doors, through everything. I had heard anger in those voices before, the times when I hid, but nothing like this, this was… new. The door crashed open, the boy collapsing to the ground. Eyes bloodshot, his mouth lined with dry, cracked vomit, his shirt, blooded, torn and stained. A sight that I wished I would never see again. As he hit the ground, he looked up at me, but there was no affection any more, just pure emptiness. I heard the voices come closer. There was no time to hide, no time to be hidden. Voices entered the room; eyes were cast down the decrepit shell lying on the floor, then to me. Hatred. Rough hands were placed on me, words crying out that I was to blame, that somehow, this was my entire fault. My protests, my cries of defense, all fell on deaf ears. No matter how much I pleaded, no matter how many times I cried out to them that there was more to me, more I could give to them, it was all to no avail. I was tossed out on the street, my once home fading in my eyesight as I tumbled, seemingly forever, sinking in to my own personal abyss.

	An icy wind blew threw me, bringing me back from the horrid memory. I rolled onto my side, no longer sure if it was by my own personal doing or if I simply lacked the strength to offer any resistance. This is it, I thought to myself. This is how it is going to end. All the things I could have done, the places I could have seen, and now this will become my final resting place, a blotch in the street, surrounded by the ear wrecking sound of traffic and drunks. Some rest indeed. Through all the noise, I heard footsteps walking towards me. No doubt to impose some form of abuse towards me in my final moments I had thought. But no, a hand rested on my body. Warmth that I had not felt since… the boy? I turned around and stared up, locking eyes with an unfamiliar face. It was irrelevant. This man has picked me up in my time of need. He had saved me.

	He took me to some form of haven for my kind. After I adjusted to the contrast of light, I looked around and saw countless amounts of those in the same position as me. It was amazing. I was no longer a freak. No longer an outcast, I was amongst my own kind at last. The time I spent there was the happiest of my life. On occasions, members of our private little community would be taken away by strangers from the outside, I had lost a few good friends through that, but even then the kind man would always bring in new members, new friends to be made, stories to be heard, connections to be formed. I should have learnt. All good things must come to a pass.

	The horrendous noise sounded, the noise that sounded the arrival of a stranger. As usual, our host welcomed the man with open arms, allowing him to take his pick of who he wanted. The stranger cast his eyes along the crowd, passing by everyone I knew, his gaze nonchalant to all. All that is, except me. He looked straight at me, and stopped. Eyes bloodshot, his mouth lined with dry, cracked vomit, his shirt, blooded, torn and stained. The memory flooded through me. It was then I realized just how blind I had been. The night that changed it all, it had not been emptiness in the boy’s eyes. It had been lust! And it was lust again the bore its way inside my soul. The stranger had chosen. I wouldn’t be saying goodbye to a friend this time. I would be saying goodbye to everything.

	The door opened to his building. And a building it would always be, never a home. No place with so much vile hatred seeping out of every crack in the wall, so much murk and gloom pouring out of every shadow, could ever be called a home. He sat in front of me, breathing his horrid breath over my neck, running his fingers down my body, inhaling my breath. I knew straight away, this was never going to end well. He lifted me, I felt weightless and powerless under his grasp. He put his lips around me, and it felt like he drank the very life force from my body. His brown, crusted teeth scraping against me, as his course tongue brought him to the satisfaction he had desired for so long. After what felt like an eternity in the lowest ring of hell, he was done. The door was opened, and for the second time in my life, I was cast out. This time however, there was no remorse. There was nothing. I was resound to my fate.

And that’s how I arrived here, lying once again in a gutter. This time, I know there will be no retribution. I can see my life flowing from my body. It’s coming to an end. If only things had been different. If only we really did have medicinal qualities, then maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be the end of just one more bottle of Buckfast.

title: The first story I wrote, 1196 words. Creative criticism is welcome. :)

question: What was the narrator blamed for?

answer: The boy's drunken stupor and illness.

question: Why was the narrator blamed?

answer: The boy's parents thought the boy had illegally drunk the Buckfast.

question: Who saves the narrator?

answer: Someone who wants to drink a bottle of wine.

question: Where is this story set?

answer: In a place where Buckfast Tonic Wine is sold. [The United Kingdom?]

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: A bottle of Buckfast wine is taken by a young boy and hidden under his bed. He means to drink it, but one night his parents discover him drunk and throw it out of his room. The Buckfast is then picked up by a man who puts it in his wine cellar. The bottle is happy to be among its own kind, until the man drinks it, and then the bottle is discarded and thrown in the gutter.


text:
The Woes of the Smitten

Rick Thorn, as nervous as an Altar Boy, went up the dark and creaky stairs in the neighborhood of Emporium Street, and inspected the name on each of the doors until he found the one he wanted.

He pushed open the door, as he had been told to do, and found himself in a tiny room, which contained no furniture but a plain kitchen table and a rocking chair. On one of the dirty walls were a couple of shelves, containing about a dozen bottles and jars. An old man sat in the rocking chair, reading a newspaper. Rick, without a word, handed him the card he had been given.

“Sit down, Mr. Thorn,” said the old man very politely.

“I am glad to make your acquaintance… but I must ask now, for I will simply collapse if I hold it in any more. Is it true that you have a certain mixture, that has, um, extraordinary effects?”

“Mr. Thorn,” replied the old man, “my stock is not very large. I don’t deal with normal narcotics like pain relievers, anti-depressants, and anti-histamines. I think nothing I sell has the effects which could precisely be described as ordinary.”

“Well, here’s the thing…” began Rick.

“Here, for example,” interrupted the old man, reaching for a bottle from the shelf. “Here is a liquid as colorless as water, almost tasteless, quite imperceptible in coffee, wine, or any other beverage. It is also quite imperceptible to any known method of autopsy.”

“Do you mean it is a poison?” cried Rick, very much horrified.

“Call it a glove-cleaner if you like,” said the old man indifferently. “Maybe it cleans gloves. I don’t know- I have never tried. One might call it a life cleaner. Lives need cleaning sometimes.”

“I want nothing of the sort,” said Rick.

“Oh, that’s probably for the best,” said the old man. “Do you know the price of this? For one teaspoon, which is enough, I ask twenty thousand dollars. Never less.”

“I hope all your mixtures are not as expensive,” said Rick apprehensively.

“Oh dear, no,” said the old man. “It would be no good charging that sort of price for a love potion, for example. Young people who need a love potion very seldom have twenty thousand dollars. Otherwise, they would not need a love potion.”
“I am glad to hear that,” said Rick.

“I look at it like this,” the old man contemplated. “Please a customer with one article, and he will come back when he needs another. Even if it is more costly. He will save up for it, if necessary.”

“So,” said Rick. “You really do sell love potions?”

“If I did not sell love potions,” said the old man, reaching for another vial, “I should not have mentioned the other matter to you. It is only when one is in a position to oblige that one can afford to be so confidential.”

“And these potions,” said Rick. “They are not, just, um…”

“Oh no,” said the old man. “Their effects are permanent, and extend far beyond the mere casual impulse. But they include it.”

“Dear me!” said Rick, attempting a look of scientific detachment. “How very interesting!”

“But consider the spiritual side,” said the old man.

“I do, indeed,” responded Rick.

“For indifference, she will substitute devotion. For scorn, adoration. Give one tiny measure of this to the young lady- its flavor is imperceptible in orange juice, soup, or cocktails- and she will change forever. She will want nothing but solitude with you.”

“I can hardly believe it,” said Rick. “She is so fond of parties and other people!”

"She will not like them any more,” said the old man. “She will be afraid of the pretty girls you may meet.”

“She will actually be jealous?” cried Rick in a rapture. “Of me?”

“Yes, she will want nothing but you. You will be her sole interest in life.”

“Wonderful!”

“She will want to know all you do. All that has happened to you during the day. Every word of it. She will want to know what you are thinking about, why you smile suddenly, why you are looking sad.”

“This is love!”

“Yes, how carefully she will look after you! She will never allow you to be tired, to stand when you could sit, to neglect your food. If you are an hour late, she will be terrified, and think that you have been killed.”

“I can hardly imagine a Diana like that!” cried Rick, overwhelmed with joy.

“You will not have to use your imagination. And, by the way, since there are always impulses, if by any chance you should, later on, slip a little, you need not worry. She will forgive you, in the end. She will be terribly hurt, of course, but she will forgive you.”

“That will not happen,” said Rick fervently.

“Of course not. But, if you did, you need not worry. She will never divorce you. She will never even be angry at you.”

“And how much is this wonderful mixture?” asked Rick.

“It is not as dear as the glove cleaner. No, that is twenty thousand dollars. One has to be older than you to indulge in that sort of thing. One has to save up for it.”

“But the love potion?”

“Oh, that,” said the old man, opening the drawer in the kitchen table, taking out a tiny, rather dirty looking vial. “That is just a dollar.”

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” said Rick, watching him fill it.

“I like to oblige. Then, customers come back, later in life, when they are better off, and want more expensive things. Here you are, You will find it very effective.”

“Thank you again,” said Rick. “Good-bye.”

“Au revoir (until we meet again).”

title: The Woes of the Smitten (Story #1)

question: Describe the main characters.

answer:
Rick Thorn is a young man in love.
The old man is a mysterious potion-seller.
Diana is Rick's unrequited love.

question: What is Rick's goal?

answer: Rick wants to make Diana fall in love with him forever.

question: What is the old man's motivation?

answer: The old man wants to make money.

question: Who said: “But the love potion?”

answer: Rick.

question: What are the prices of the old man's potions?

answer:
A teaspoon of so-called 'glove cleaner' is $20,000.
A small vial of love potion is $1.

question: Why is the love potion $1?

answer: It is inexpensive because the seller knows that by giving it to someone who can only afford the dollar now, he stands to profit from that client returning for a much more expensive potion later, potentially even to solve a problem caused by the first potion.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: Rick Thorn goes to see an old man who sells potions, hoping to find a permanent love potion to use on the object of his unrequited love. The old man sells Rick a love potion for $1 after contemplating on customers returning, having saved up for the $20,000 poison he also sells.


text:
_LOH KOOI CHOON V GOVERNMENT OF MALAYSIA_ (1977) 2 MLJ 187 is a case decided in the Federal Court of Malaysia concerning the rights and freedoms guaranteed by the Constitution, and also involving the extent to which Parliament can amend the Constitution. The decision was delivered by Federal Justice Raja Azlan Shah.

Background

Loh had been detained by the Royal Malaysian Police under a warrant issued under the provisions of the Restricted Residence Enactment 1933 (RRE). Article 5(4) of the Constitution specified that any person arrested “be produced before a magistrate and shall not be further detained in custody without the magistrate's authority” — guaranteeing the right of _habeas corpus_. Loh was denied this right, and sued the Police for damages. However, his claim was rejected on the grounds that the Police had acted in compliance with a warrant issued by a competent authority. Loh appealed to the Federal Court, which heard his appeal four years after the original case.[1]

Before his appeal was heard, however, Parliament amended Article 5(4), adding a provision stating:[2]

Case

Before the Federal Court, Loh's counsel argued against the amendment and its retrospective effect on the grounds that it was not permissible for the Constitution to be amended in such a way that its “basic structure” was destroyed. Loh referred to Article 4(1), which specifies that the Constitution is “the supreme law of the Federation”, and to the Basic Structure doctrine of Indian case law, to argue that the amendment had contravened the spirit and basic structure of the Constitution by invalidating the right of _habeas corpus_.[3]

Decision

Federal Justice Raja Azlan Shah rejected the argument of the appellant, stating that although Article 4(1) declared that any unconstitutional law passed after independence would be void, this did not apply to the Constitution itself — the Constitution could not be internally inconsistent. In his judgement, he stated that law made under ordinary legislative power, and law in the form of Constitutional amendments, were two different things, and as such constitutional amendments were not subject to the inconsistency clause of Article 4(1):[4]

Criticism

The case has been criticised by legal scholars, who have argued that it effectively gave the government free rein to pass unconstitutional laws. One part of Raja Azlan Shah's judgement, which stated that “the individual has certain fundamental rights upon which not even the power of the State may encroach” was subjected to criticism for “hardly (holding) substance” in light of certain legislation, such as the RRE and the Internal Security Act (ISA), that allegedly encroach on human rights. This part of the judgement in _Loh_ has been described as “no more than judicial rhetoric”.[5]

Legal scholars have suggested that the decision in _Loh_ made Article 4(1) insufficient with regard to ensuring the constitutionality of laws passed by Parliament, as:

Legacy

The decision concerning the “basic structure” of the Constitution in _Loh_ was reaffirmed in the 1980 case of _Phang Chin Hock v. Public Prosecutor_. In _Phang_, the case was heard by Lord President Tun Mohd Suffian Hashim, Justice Wan Sulaiman, and Justice Syed Othman, who unanimously agreed, in the words of Lord President Suffian:

[1] Yatim, Rais (1995). _Freedom Under Executive Power in Malaysia: A Study of Executive Supremacy_, p. 123. Endowment Publications. .

[2]

[3] Yatim, pp. 123–124.

[4] Yatim, p. 124.

[5] Yatim, pp. 124–125.

title: Loh Kooi Choon v Malaysia

question: Why might constitutional law be at odds with Islamic law in Malaysia?

answer: Seemingly, Parliament is made up of members who are practicing Muslims-as it is the primary religion of the country. However, the Constitution has stated that laws can be swapped out in accordance with only an approved procedure.


text:
 The Answer Thief
     I walked down the hallway, looking at my old watch with a ripped strap. It was 9:41, nine minutes before break ended. I did not know which locker he had, but I followed him from biology class. What if he did not stop at his locker? No, his next class was gym; he had to stop. When he stopped and started to turn the dial, I stood by, looking intimidating. He was humming something, not noticing me until he was putting his binder away. He then had a look of uninterested surprise.
     “Hmm? Eric, what are you doing?” He was speaking in a tone that showed he couldn’t care less. That wouldn’t be for long.
     “You took my homework sheet.” I said, staring him down.
He scratched the back of his left shoulder with his right hand, his eyebrows slowly raising.
     “Oh, yeah. Well, um... I went to the inbox to get my homework sheet to make corrections. I musta... grabbed yours by mistake.” He didn’t even look me in the eye, the phony he was.
     “No,” I said my, voice slowly raising. “You had your homework on your desk. I SAW you copying the answers from my sheet to yours.” He still looked somewhat out of it, and it pissed me off. Was he high? He did look like a stoner, though. He looked like a guy who had no ambition or care for how his life from here on out would be a downward spiral of despair.
     “Well, er, I had to get this homework done. I-I was busy last night.” He looked very nervous, not showing a sign of dignity. This only fueled my rage. I thought about smacking some sense into him.
     I laid my elbow on the locker, allowing me to rest my neck onto my knuckles. I smiled, knowing he wouldn’t try to fight back. I might as well have some fun.
     “What are you-” I interrupted his insensible rambles.
     “You know Newton’s third law of motion states that all force has an equal and opposite reaction. If someone wanted to exert a great amount of force to someone else, say by punching them so hard their teeth fall out, they would feel the same amount of force upon their closed fist, like the recoil of a gun. You want me to show you a demonstration?” I raised my right fist, feeling very, very powerful. A sense of adrenaline rushed into my fist, causing it to slowly vibrate. I was so excited, I WANTED to punch him. I really did. I was at first just trying to intimidate him, maybe get an apology, some respect or even some homework answers to teach him a lesson, but I didn’t care. The lazy jerk deserved it.
     I suddenly remembered a quote from history class, from ancient greece. The scene set before was so awesome, I had to say it. I leaned close and whispered, “The strong do what they can. The weak suffer what they must!”
     His eyes widened, he grabbed his stuff and started some more rambling. “Alright! Okay! Jeez! I won’t do it again, okay?” He fastwalked away, not turning around once.
     That was perfect! I laughed, the anger and tension now gone. I probably got some sense in that loser’s head for once in his life. I wonder what time it is. I looked at my watch. 9:45. “Only four minutes?” I said to no one in paticular. That felt much longer. I guess time doesn’t fly when you have fun! I laughed and walked back to my locker. My laughter stopped suddenly, as I walked along the wall to avoid the three guys walking past me. I needed to teach them a lesson too. Someday, not today.
 (I had to do this short story in english class. The main character, Eric, is a reference to Eric Harris, one of the shooters at Columbine. Since this is for school, I do not say this, and there is no cursing. It would probably take place during freshman or sophomore year, before he planned the massacre.)

title: The Answer Thief

question: Why does the narrator want to punch Eric?

answer: At first, she only wanted to intimidate him. But Eric's responses (which seemed careless and unapologetic) made her want to punch him, but she didn't.

question: What had Eric done?

answer: Eric had copied his homework from the narrator's sheet and taken her sheet.

question: What does the narrator think of Eric?

answer: She thought of Eric as a stoner. He looked like a guy who had no ambition or cares for his life.

question: Does Eric own up to his mistake?

answer: Yes, Eric does own up to his mistake but not in an apologetic manner. He accepts what he did and says he won't do it again.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer:
Eric had copied his homework from the narrator's sheet and taken her sheet. The narrator wanted to teach Eric a lesson.

After much intimidation, Eric still does not care about what the narrator has to say, and that makes her want to punch him. Eventually, he does own up to his mistake but in a careless manner.

The narrator is happy that she got him to apologize.


text:
My throat was parched, probably due to those kinds of nights. Maybe I didn’t want to rise from those blankets that kept whispering through friction of the textile. Sleep a while longer, It beckoned.

Not today, I replied. Aching muscles hindered too many quick movements; a slow, subtle, fluent motion of my legs escaped the entangling snares of the sheets. The cold wood floor grazed my toes. With a drop of my heels, I felt a jolt of electricity shoot up my legs and into my chest. Mornings were not pleasant. A ray of light emitted through the gap between the window and the bamboo shutters. That light enjoyed blinding me as I rose each morning from my zombified state. My head tilted backwards to experience the new, cloying fragrance that had begun to become more noticeable over the hours.

It was not long before I finally traversed through several open archways into the too-well-lit kitchen. The numbers on the digital stove clock read 9:42. School had started almost nearly an hour ago, but this did not issue me. A late night gave me permission to pass out in my clothes from the night before. Because of the awkwardness of my situation, I had no hunger to spare to the enticing boxes of cereal resting atop my pantry. I directed my attention away and to the high-top Nikes which were always cherished. They slipped on as easily as normal with the laces tucked away underneath the tongue. My bag was packed from the night before and sat in the entryway awaiting to be hoisted as a fisher would his net filled bountifully. I neared the door and extended my arm as if to shake the hand of a friend whom you would be saying your formal goodbye to.

The crisp morning air irritated my throat. I would not be outside for more than a few minutes, meaning the raspiness would soon suffice. While taking my beginning steps towards the gate, I reached for the rusting bar weathered for years. It flaked under the pressure of my fingers brushing it ever so lightly. I pushed the gate back and lifted the latch to close it.

I made my way to the intersection. Cars whizzed past in a fury of nerves and melted rubber. A passage cleared when a good samaritan of a driver paused his actions at the stop sign to part the asphalt sea. My first steps across the crosswalk felt awkward as I focused on the question of if I walk differently than others. The school was within my sight at this time.

Steps taken up to the doors seemed to take longer than usual. Nerves, I thought to myself. Before I reached the doors, the bell had rung. I wouldn’t have to bother any classes this way, good. When I pulled opened the doors, through the window I caught glimpse of figures travelling each to their own destinations. What a shame most of them won’t make it there.

With the office-room on my left, I eased forwards. Around the corner and down the hall I crept. Faces turned; their white-washed faces eyed me down. Bodies parted just as the cars had as I passed. My shirt was still bloodstained; when I walked, my shirt felt as if it were rusting while flakes of dried blood floated to the cold slated linoleum floors. I unzipped the backpack from left to halfway up the top. the sound of zippers always amused me. the way I would vigorously snap my hand back and forth would entertain both my friends and I alike. It’s such a shame how my mother never saw the little things which caused my teacher to give me the look of irritation. What a shame she was no longer. As I dug deep into my bag, eyes not once gazed away. My hand felt the cold metal; its barrel laid in my palm. When I knelt on my right knee, I extended my other arm into the pack and felt for the grip of the handle. Sliding my fingers around it, my forefinger clutched around the trigger. I had made sure to load the magazine the night before after I had dealt with my mother who was still lying happily on the ground back at home. This was my opportunity to give all these people what they truly deserve: alleviation from the horrors of life.

title: [MF] Last Night: Fixed

question: What reason does the story give regarding why the narrator shot his mother?

question: What does the story say was the narrator's motivation for planning to kill his classmates in school?


text:
“What do you think that is?”

“Well, Todo we aren’t in Texas anymore.”

Ella laughs and says,” But really, what is that? The sun is in my eyes.”
The Texas sun is blinding and the air is heavy with humidity. The clouds move as fast as the San Marcos River roiling through the man made pathways. There is not an open spot on the grassy hill, and the sounds of faded conversations fill our ears with the nonsense of college students trying too hard to impress each other.

“I think that it is looking at us,” Ryan says in a whisper with a questioning tone.

As our shadows pass over it, its pleading eyes began to open. Glazed over and too weak to move, it felt our presence. Its legs quiver as it looks up at us with pure pathetic eyes. The thoughts cross our minds that it is given to fly. It is using its last breath to grasp our attention or anyone else who might give a damn.

Ryan looks over to it and says,” You alright there little buddy?”

Ella answers with a sigh and says,” I actually think that it’s dieing. I can’t believe that no one else has noticed.”

Ryan says bluntly, “Oh, I think that people noticed. They probably didn’t care.”

Its pink bare skin and some bone are exposed. Its neck is completely mangled with no sympathy. To say the least, its tortured end of life is disturbing to witness and drawing near. Realizing that we are its last hope not to be forgotten, we decided to notify the park service.

“Sorry guys, I don’t know if there is too much we can do to save it. I mean it’s just a vulture. If it was exotic or rare we would have a better chance.” Reluctantly he says, “But I’ll go ahead and give the animal shelter a ring and, uh, see what we can do for yall. Thanks for letting me know. Um, in the mean time I’ll cover it with a trashcan because I don’t want anyone to be disturbed. You know what I mean?”

As they began to walk away Ella lightened the mood by saying, “ Well, I guess not all birds are created equal either.”

Ryan answered, “Yeah, I agree with you. Who knew that man even created a cast system for birds?”

title: Unthought Known Flaws of Man

question: What were Ryan and Ella trying to save?

answer: A dying vulture

question: What was the Park Service's response to the notice?

answer: There wasn't much they can do to save it and that it was "just a vulture".

question: How did Ella lighten the mood after seeing the dying vulture?

answer: She exclaimed that not all birds are created equal, referring to the Park Service's indifference towards the vulture.

question: What would have given the vulture a better chance of being saved?

answer: If it were exotic of a rare species.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: Ryan and Ella stumble upon a dying vulture but unfortunately the Park Service said there wasn't much they can do as it was only a vulture. They later joked about not all birds are created equal as if there were some kind of cast system for birds.