text:
Via Mark Jeftovic of EasyDNS.com,

  “The conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses is an important element in democratic society. Those who manipulate this unseen mechanism of society constitute an invisible government which is the true ruling power of our country. We are governed, our minds are molded, our tastes formed, and our ideas suggested, largely by men we have never heard of…. It is they who pull the wires that control the public mind.”

– Edward Bernays, Public Relations

[]

I’ve been trying not to write this post, because really, who needs a bunch of shrill, hysterical snowflakes calling you a racist nazi for committing the egregious sin of pointing out the many contradictions in the #deleteshopify boycottand the wider witch hunt mentality that pervades social discourse these days?

The main factor holding me back is not cynicism but actually fear. For the first time in my life I’m afraid to speak my mind. The possible ramifications of exercising my inalienable right to free speech frighten the crap out of me. So much so that I really don’t want to do it. I’ve become known as the type of person who speaks candidly and frankly about some tough issues and I’ve never had a problem doing that in the past. I’ve gone up against some pretty intimidating forces such as the City of London IPCU and the US FDA, but I’ve never been as scared as I am now to speak out.  For that reason I’m just going to have to suck it up and do it.

There is a cultural purge in progress.

It is directed against not only those who are perceived as “pro-Trump” (which as a card carrying Libertarian I am not. I think that he’s no friend to free speech, privacy or the internet), but targeting even those who are not “anti-Trump enough”.

This cultural purge has a two-pronged approach, from one side, from elements within the corridors of power (or those recently ejected from it) who have successfully floated the concept that free speech is not inviolable and that it would be a good thing for “truth” to be curated by “somebody” who knows better:

  “We are going to have to rebuild within this wild-wild-west-of-information flow SOME SORT OF CURATING FUNCTION that people agree to… There has to be, I think, some sort of WAY IN WHICH WE CAN SORT THROUGH INFORMATION THAT PASSES SOME BASIC TRUTHINESS TESTS AND THOSE THAT WE HAVE TO DISCARD, because they just don’t have any basis in anything that’s actually happening in the world…That is hard to do, but I THINK IT’S GOING TO BE NECESSARY, IT’S GOING TO BE POSSIBLE,”

— Barack Obamain speech atFrontiers Conference, Pittsburgh, PA, Oct 13, 2016 (emphasis added)

The other half comes from the trenches, comprised of manic flashmobs directing enmity against, literally, anything remotely connected to those deemed responsible for the greatest political upset of our time.

The mainstream media, outlets like Washington Post and the New York Times, among others, are complicit, providing the glue or the lubricant between this pincer movement and its chilling effects. The combination gels into an echo chamber drowning out all rationality and renders differing philosophies and legitimate dissent as blasphemous.

Let me explain my choice of title for this post and how it captures what I see going on here:

This post title is obviously a riff on Gil Scott-Heron’s song ‘The Revolution Will Not Be Televised’, and the backstory behind this song is quite instructive to times like these:

Gil Scott-Heron saw first hand how altruistically motivated social activism can turn ugly when a campus protest action he initiated went horribly overboard. After the death of one of Gil-Heron’s schoolmates, he started a grass roots movement with the goal of improving the medial conditions on his campus, including making the college infirmary operate 24×7, something he felt would have saved his friend’s life.

The laudable aim of improving conditions on campus with the possibility of saving future lives derailed into a menacing fracas. A mob congregated on the front lawn of the infirmary’s doctor’s home where they proceeded to burn him in effigy:

  “The protest grew angry, culminating with some students hanging the doctor in effigy from a tree in his front yard and setting it on fire. The doctor came out of his house and swore that he wasn’t responsible for the deaths. As he proclaimed his innocence, he had tears in his eyes.

  When Gil arrived at the protest, he stood between the students and the doctor, looking at the doctor’s children staring out the window in fear. ‘A cold flash scampered across the back of my neck, ‘ wrote Gil later to describe his sudden fear that events could spiral out of control into violence, a fear which was allayed only when the students went back to their dorms.

  The realization that radical action sometimes leads to unintended consequences and violent overreactions haunted Gil, and that image of a distraught Dr. Davies lingered in his mind for months to come. The experience reinforced Gil’s instinct to avoid violence and militant action in the struggle for social change.”

One should easily concede that today there are many reasons to petition for change. Our governments still have us all under wholesale surveillance, we are still involved in numerous unsanctioned wars, continue to provoke toward new ones, and the government continues to methodically destroy the economy via financial repression.

But we should all take Gil Scott-Heron’s lesson to heart and try to keep in mind that we are all human beings. We all have rights, we should all be secure in our ability to speak and associate freely.

BUT THAT ISN’T WHAT’S HAPPENING.

Today, the mainstream media, rather than objectively and rationally report on facts, are instead complicit in a sustained, wide-ranging campaign of demonization of “all things non-Democrat”. There is blanket categorical denial of any valid basis for why the citizenry worldwide are rejecting what they increasingly see as an “Establishment Elite” agenda.

Greece, Brexit, Trump and quite possibly soon, Marine Le Pen in France are all continuations of a theme. These events are referendums unto themselves and those “Global Elites” are on a losing streak. Instead of trying to understand the basis of these rejections (that the populace are sick and tired of having a two-tiered society in which their civil rights are eroded and they get saddled with all the debt, while the elites get to operate under a different set of rules and gobble up all the assets); they have mounted a concerted campaign of outright propaganda and mind-numbingly nonsensical narratives to dismiss away these acts of “defiance”.

As alt-market.com’s Brandon Smith commentary  observes:

  “One of the most favored propaganda tactics of establishment elites and [those] they employ … is to RELABEL OR REDEFINE AN OPPONENT BEFORE THEY CAN SOLIDLY DEFINE THEMSELVES. In other words, elites [and their media] will seek to “brand” you (just as corporations use branding) in the minds of the masses so that THEY CAN TAKE AWAY YOUR ABILITY TO DEFINE YOURSELF AS ANYTHING ELSE.” (emphasis added)

And this is exactly what’s happening. For example, when you say “Breitbart”, your average person is so inculcated from the repetition of the words “white supremacist”, “racist”, and “ nazi” that people just assume that’s what it is. From there people think that it’s ok to #boycottshopify simply for supplying basic online ecommerce services to them (where does it stop? Btw, Breitbart derives 100% of it’s revenues from the internet, perhaps everybody in a twist about it should do us all a favour and boycott that too).

Is Breitbart really white supremacist, racist nazi hate site? Actually, no it isn’t. Most people think it is however, because they’ve been conditioned to believe it, and they’ve never actually gone there to see for themselves.

_HOW DO I KNOW THAT BREITBART ISN’T REALLY THE WHITE SUPREMACIST, NEO-NAZI HATE-SITE THAT WE ARE INCESSANTLY BRAINWASHED  TO BELIEVE IT IS? WELL FOR ONE THING, I’VE SEEN THE REAL DEAL. THEY LOOK LIKE THIS:_

[]

This place is called “Shitskin Plantation”. They wound up on easyDNS (my company’s system ) for about a week by the time we kicked them. The fact that we did eject a real honest to god racist, neo-nazi hate site doesn’t bolster the #boycottshopify movement for three reasons:

  #1) Shitskin is clearly racist and contains actual language condoning violence toward an identifiable group. It was right there for anybody to see. Here in Canada such material is codified into law as “hate speech” under the Criminal Code.

  #2) We chose. We assessed our AUP, found them in violation and kicked them. Specifically we found them in violation of “the Non-Aggression Principle” in our plain english Terms of Service. The NAP has grey areas and subjective rabbit holes. Libertarians debate it relentlessly. But the important thing is that nobody else forced us to do it in the absence of due process. We made our own determination, and that’s important. Sacrosanct, in fact.

  And #3) Breitbart is an ultra-conservative, hard-right political opinion site. That’s all. They seem also have a penchant for inflammatory, click-bait headlines (who doesn’t these days?) You may not like it, I may not like it, but they absolutely have the right to be online and to publish.

That anybody who has even the most tenuous affiliation with them is fair game for having their rights curtailed, their livelihood sanctioned or sabotaged is indefensible. The only legitimate mechanism for these people to suffer in their fortunes is through the failure of their ideas in the marketplace of thought. By being rejected, not through being repressed (see below).

It is entirely reasonable for Shopify, or  any other vendor to keep supplying services to Breitbart (at present they have no services with easyDNS)

It is also reasonable for any of those vendors to choose not to supply services to them of their own volition (you can’t have it both ways folks, you can’t force Shopify to dump Breitbart and simultaneously force some Bible-thumping redneck to bake a cake for a gay wedding).

What isn’t reasonable is to coerce or compel anybody else to take any action they would not themselves take under their own judgement. It’s truly frightening that there is a growing sentiment that this is acceptable behaviour.

_DO YOU REALLY WANT TO LIVE IN A WORLD WHERE PEOPLE SEVER BUSINESS AND PERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS BECAUSE A LITERAL FLASH MOB DEMANDS IT? WHERE MOBS GET TO PICK AND CHOOSE WHO YOU ARE ALLOWED TO ASSOCIATE WITH?_

Shopify has over 300,000 customers. You honestly expect them to sort through those and kick out the ones that you think are morally objectionable?

In 2010, when easyDNS was itself embroiled in the Wikileaks debacle I was absolutely appalled when ranking politicians applauded the vendors for severing ties with them. Senator Lieberman congratulated Amazon and Paypal by name for “breaking their contracts”, he literally used those words. A ranking politician applauding behaviour that should rightly get you sued. The public backlash then was huge and pro-Wikileaks. In our own small way, we stood up for Wikileaks then, we maintain a congruent position now. I applaud Shopify for standing firm and refusing to sever their ties for the same reason.

The “Right Side” of History

Whenever I hear a lot of activists whining about the current situation I frequently hear references to being “on the right side of history”. Nobody wants to be on the wrong side of that. Actually that’s a nonsensical statement since history is amoral, or as Winston Churchill famously observed, “One damned thing after another”.

However there is one rule of thumb I’ve formulated over the years which I think can keep one onside of the grand currents sweeping through time and society and helped me understand my sympathy with Libertarianism and anarcho-capitalism. That is to know the fine line between rejecting an idea that one finds immoral, unethical, obsolete or otherwise objectionable and repressing it.

MORALITY IS LARGELY SUBJECTIVE. Very few people act in a way they themselves consider immoral. Almost everybody thinks that whatever they’re doing, they’re on the side of the angels. The tiny sliver of participants who are fully cognizant of their own immoral action and proceed anyway are criminals and sociopaths (the majority of them gravitate into politics).

When enough people’s ethical compasses align you get a cultural or societal norm. One of the cultural norms that we fought hard for over the ages was that people have a right to free speech and free association. You can disagree with what I have to say but respect my right to say it.

These rights were so hard won that they were codified into universal laws and into the very Constitutions that govern most civilized nations. I believe one of the more well-known words for it was “inalienable”.

Until now. Now people are putting conditions around “free speech” and “free association”.

THE IDEA THAT FREE SPEECH HAS ITS LIMITS SOMEWHERE AROUND THE POINT WHERE IT HURTS SOMEBODY’S FEELINGS IS BEYOND IDIOTIC AND DANGEROUS.

[]

_Tweet of person exercising her free speech to encourage economic harm to others…_

THE WORLD IS NOT ONE BIG FOAM INSULATED, BUBBLE WRAPPED SAFE SPACE. This may come as a shock to you but there is a widespread sentiment, a backlash dare I say, against the idea that a Saviour State should watch over everything and smooth out all the world’s sharp edges.

Besides…

Boycotts usually backfire.

Back in the mid-90’s, Bob Rae was the Premiere of Ontario and I was in a failed metal band out of London, Ontario. Mr. Rae wrote a nice song about multiculturalism called “Same Boat Now” and submitted it to various record labels who promptly rejected it and told him not to quit his day job. My band recorded a power-pop version of his song and released it on 7” vinyl. Our label  put an open letter to Mr. Rae on the back sleeve that was highly critical of his socialist political platform (albeit quite tame by today’s standards). I was mortified, fearing a media backlash but felt trapped. I called Jack Richardson, my former college prof from Fanshawe College’s Music Industry Arts program and widely credited with having single-handedly created the Canadian music industry and asked his advice.

Before I finished relaying the details he was laughing. “Mark”, he said, “The only thing that truly matters is that they spell ‘Landslide’ right. That’s it”.

This has been bourne out countless times since that event. I could list them here but the point is, boycotts usually invoke The Streisand Effect and actually bolster the target of the boycott. We can cite a couple brief examples:

-   During the Bob Parsons era of Godaddy, when he shot the elephant, or when he aired some super-sexist Super Bowl commercial, Godaddy numbers, in terms of net-new domains-in or registered usually  went up not down, in the face of consumer outrage and boycotts.

-   Wikileaks, again – when we did help their mirror sites get back online there was a counter-reaction against that. Every once in awhile I check the emails from the customers who sent me extremely hostile emails telling me they were leaving, and almost all of them remained (and some still do) customers to this day.

-   Shopify itself, who is publicly traded, has been on a tear in share price for most of the year, and it’s continued unabated since  #deleteShopify began.

[]

So what can you do?

YOU CAN ONLY GOVERN YOURSELF. Your only recourse is whether to associate or disassociate with somebody. Yes, you are perfectly within your rights to #boycottshopify but as I’ve outlined, you’re being naive doing so and will likely have the exact opposite effect if you’re enough of a loudmouth about it .

But if this Cultural Purge proceeds we will actually, for real, lose what used to be inalienable rights. Our right to free speech, our right to free association and our rights to our own minds. If something you say is considered “hurtful” (which will more closely resemble dissent or criticism of the Official Narrative than anything else) you will be sanctioned. You will tow the line or you will be penalized – contracts severed, vendors disassociate themselves, boycotts ensue. Whatever you do, just don’t say or think the wrong thing, because not going along with the crowd will make you a pariah.

If you want to prevent that:

1) you have the duty to look at the issue first hand and decide for yourself if it has any merit. Don’t ever come to me and tell me “XYZ is white supremacist, neo-nazi hate speech” unless you can show me an article that has the hate speech in it. Show me the white supremacist rhetoric. If you tell me you believe it simply because that’s what Wapo told you then you are a fool. You are Wapo’s useful idiot. A Wapobot.

2) you have to be prepared to call b/s whenever some whining snowflake demands safety from any contrary opinion, whenever some pundit robotically repeats the “white supremacist, hate speech, homophobe, Russian hackers” mantra, and whenever you’re asked to jump on some witchunt bandwagon against someone who dares to dispute the Official Narrative.

3) you have to be able to take the heat. Guess what? You’ll be next. Speak out against this nonsense and you’ll be subjected to hysterionics, character assassination, guilt by the most tenuous of associations, distortions of fact and a co-ordinated piling on by mobs of unquestioning ideological berserkers.

-   You’ll be Peter Thiel (there was a popular outcry to remove him from Facebook’s board, why? Because he endorsed Trump.)

-   You’ll be Scott Adams (his crime? Correctly predicting that Trump was going to win)

-   You’ll be Ivanka Trump (facing a co-ordinated attack on her livelihood for her transgression of being born a Trump).

THAT IS A CULTURAL PURGE.

Hell, I’m probably next just for writing this piece. So be it. My credibility as a non-racist, free-speech Libertarian are unassailable and am categorically unaffiliated with Russian intelligence. My duty is to speak out precisely because it is becoming more dangerous to speak out.

_“IN TIMES OF UNIVERSAL DECEIT, TELLING THE TRUTH IS A REVOLUTIONARY ACT”. — UNKNOWN_

question: Who is the author of this post?

answer: Mark Jeftovic of EasyDNS.com

question: Why did Mark write this post?

answer: Because of the #deleteshopify boycott and the wider witch hunt mentality that pervades social discourse.

question: What is Mark saying?

answer: Mark says that there is a cultural purge in progress led by flash mobs and directed to anyone they perceive as pro-Trump and racist.

question: What does Mark want to accomplish?

answer: He is sharing his opinion to educate people that the right to free speech and free association are inalienable and cannot be curtailed with conditions.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: Mark Jeftovic of EasyDNS.com writes a post about the cultural purge that is happening in America, where flash mobs persecute anybody they perceive as "pro-Trump" or racist, regardless of the facts.


split: train

text:
_THE SONG OF NIGHT_ (German: _DAS LIED EINER NACHT_) is a 1932 German musical comedy film directed by Anatole Litvak and starring Jan Kiepura, Magda Schneider and Fritz Schulz.[1]

It was made at the Babelsberg Studios in Berlin. The film's sets were designed by Werner Schlichting. A separate English-language version _Tell Me Tonight_ was made, also directed by Litvak.

Cast

-   Jan Kiepura as Enrico Ferraro
-   Magda Schneider as Mathilde
-   Fritz Schulz as Koretzky
-   Otto Wallburg as Pategg
-   Ida Wüst as Mrs. Pategg
-   Margo Lion as Manager of Ferraro
-   Julius Falkenstein as Balthasar

[1] Murphy p.381

title: The Song of Night

question: Who directed The Song of Night?

answer: Anatole Litvak directed The Song of Night.

question: What is the English language version of The Song of Night called?

answer: The English language version of The Song of Night is called Tell Me Tonight.

question: Who designed The Song of Night's sets?

answer: Werner Schlichting designed The Song of Night's sets.

question: When was The Song of Night released?

answer: The Song of Night was released in 1932.

question: Who played Enrico Ferraro?

answer: Jan Kiepura played Enrico Ferraro.

question: What character did Fritz Schulz play?

answer: Fritz Schulz played the character Koretzky.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: The Song of Night is a German film directed by Anatole Litvak. There was also an English language version called Tell Me Tonight. A list of the cast is included.


text:
The Lost Treasure

A great and priceless treasure was said to exist and a young man spent his youth looking for it. He said unto himself, ‘If only I find this treasure I will be happy with myself forever.’

After many, many years of searching the man found a map that was to lead him to the treasure he had been seeking.

The map took him up, and up the tallest mountain in the land. It led him through the most dangerous terrain anyone had ever traversed. Finally though, near the peak of the mountain, in the very back of a deep, dark cave, the man found the treasure that he had dreamed of.

It was a chest filled with gold and precious stones. Even though the chest was heavy and he was tired, the man carried it all the way out of the cave. He carried it through the treacherous terrain and back down the mountain.

Once at the bottom of the mountain the man decided that he would build his home there at its base, to remind him of where he had taken the treasure from. So there he built his home, and he built a room just to put his great treasure in.

And there it sat, in the center of the room. Every day the man would come in and clean each and every piece of his treasure, he would think about how happy he was to have found it and how happy he was to have it now.

After many years the story of a crazy, old, miser living at the bottom of the great mountain was told by many. One day someone broke into the man’s home, found the great treasure in its room, and stole every last piece of it.

When the man woke up, and went to his treasure to gaze upon it, he was devastated. He was so distraught that he didn’t know what to do next. So for many days the man went about his same routine, only instead of cleaning his treasure he would stand in the empty room and look upon the place where his chest of glittering gold and stones used to sit.

Then one day, when the man was staring at the place where his chest of glittering gold and polished stones had once sat he had a thought. He walked to the window and looked at the mighty mountain and realized that the treasure he searched for, the treasure he found, and the treasure he lost were not all the same.

The treasure he searched for was gold and stones.

The treasure he found was happiness.

While the treasure he lost was the ignorance between the two.

The man was very joyous of the treasure he had lost.

title: The Lost Treasure

question: What was the man's treasure?

answer: It was a chest filled with gold and precious stones.

question: Did he go looking for his treasure after it disappeared?

answer: No

question: Did he find his treasure again?

answer: He did not find the treasure that was stolen from him, but he found a different kind of treasure.

question: How did he find the treasure in the first place?

answer: He followed a map.

question: What was the man doing for a living?

answer: Information not found.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: A young man had a dream of finding the great treasure that was said to exist. He eventually finds a map that leads him to the treasure. He carries the treasure down the mountain, builds a house around it, and spends his days cleaning the treasure. One day it gets stolen and the was is devastated, instead of spending his days cleaning it he now just stares at the space, where the treasure used to be. In the end, he made peace with it and was happy.


text:
[September 5, 1994 P. 62]

[September 5, 1994 P. 62]

_The New Yorker_, September 5, 1994 P. 62

A REPORTER AT LARGE about The Citadel, a military college in Charleston, South Carolina, and Shannon Faulkner, a woman who was recently the first female admitted to the cadet corps. Writer attends the first day of fall classes of the 1993-94 academic year. All permanent instructors, regardless of their sex (about 15% are women), wear uniforms as part of their required affiliation with a largely ceremonial outfit once known as the South Carolina Unorganized Militia. Tells about the famous cadet shirt tuck, so exacting a cadet cannot perform it without assistance. Even so, the gray cadet uniform, with the big black stripe down the side of the pants, and nametag above the left breast, is the sort more often seen on high-school band members than on fighting soldiers. Tells about the issue of Faulkner. Weighing heaviest on the cadets' minds, it turned out, was the preservation of the all-male communal bathroom. The sharing of the stall-less showers and the stall-less toilets is "at the heart of the Citadel experience" according to more than one cadet. Tells about Faulkner's legal trials to be admitted to the college, founded as an arsenal in 1822 in response to a slave revolt purportedly planned by the freed Charleston slave Denmark Vesey. Tells about various violent and homophobic acts of hazing. In recent years, enough bad news leaked out locally to become a public-relations nightmare, and the school appointed a committee of Citadel loyalists which concluded in January 1992, that the practice of physical abuse of freshmen, along with food and sleep deprivation, had gotten out of hand. Mentions that Vice-Admiral James B. Stockdale resigned less than a year into his presidency when he attempted to stymic hazing. Writer visits a nearby gay bar where it is reported that some cadets have transvestite lovers.

View Article

question: Where is the military college, The Citadel?

answer: In Charleston, South Carolina.

question: Why was the school going trough a public-relations nightmare?

answer: A committee concluded physical abuse of freshmen had gotten out of hand.

question: Who was Shannon Faulkner?

answer: The first female admitted to The Citadel military college.

question: What was the military college originally built for?

answer: It was founded as an arsenal in 1822 in response to a slave revolt.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer:
Shannon Faulkner is the first female admitted to the The Citadel cadet corps., a military college in Charleston, SC.
News about the school became a public-relations nightmare when a committee concluded that physical abuse of freshmen along with food and sleep deprivation, had gotten out of had. Vice-Admiral Stockdale resigned less than a year into his presidency.


text:
[Elsa Brändström in 1929] ELSA BRÄNDSTRÖM (26 March 1888 – 4 March 1948) was a Swedish nurse and philanthropist. She was known as the “Angel of Siberia” ().

Life and commitment

Elsa Brändström was born in Saint Petersburg, Russia. She was the daughter of the Military Attaché at the Swedish Embassy, Edvard Brändström (1850-1921) and his wife Anna Wilhelmina Eschelsson (1855-1913). In 1891, when Elsa was three years old, Edvard Brändström and his family returned to Sweden. In 1906, Brändström, now a General, became the Swedish Ambassador at the court of Tsar Nicholas II and returned to St Petersburg.

Elsa spent her childhood in Linköping in Sweden. From 1906 to 1908, she studied at Anna Sandström Teachers Training College (_Anna Sandströms högre lärarinneseminarium_) in Stockholm but returned to St. Petersburg in 1908. Her mother died in 1913. Elsa was in St. Petersburg at the outbreak of World War I and volunteered for a position as a nurse in the Imperial Russian Army. [1]

World War I

In 1915, Elsa Brändström went to Siberia together with her friend and nurse Ethel von Heidenstam (1881-1970) for the Swedish Red Cross, to introduce basic medical treatment for the German and Austrian POWs. Up to 80 percent of the POWs died of cold, hunger and diseases. As Elsa Brändström visited the first camp and witnessed the inhumane situation, she decided to dedicate her life to these soldiers. The men from Germany and Austria, so many close to death with Typhoid fever, looked upon the tall, blue-eyed, blond-haired nurse and benefactress and she became known as the “ANGEL OF SIBERIA”. [2] [3]

Back in St. Petersburg, she began the establishment of a Swedish Aid organisation. Her work was severely hindered by the outbreak of the October Revolution in the year 1917. In 1918, the Russian authorities withdrew her work permit, but she did not give up. Between 1919 and 1920, she made several trips to Siberia until she was arrested in Omsk and even condemned to death for spying,[4] later the sentence was revoked and Brändström was interned in 1920. After her release, she returned to Sweden (via Stettin with the ship _MS Lisboa_, where the German government gave her an official public reception) and organised fund-raising for the former POWs and their families. Afterwards she emigrated to Germany. [5]

Peacetime

In 1922 her book _Bland krigsfångar i Ryssland och Sibirien_ was published. It was later translated and published as _Among prisoners of war in Russia & Siberia_ (London: Hutchinson. 1929). From then onwards she looked after former POWs in a rehabilitation sanatorium for homecoming German soldiers at Marienborn-Schmeckwitz in Saxony. She bought a mill named “Schreibermühle” close to Lychen in Uckermark and used it as re-socialization centre for former POWs. Schreibermühle had extensive lands including fields, forest and meadows on which potatoes and other crops could be grown. This was most useful at that time because the German Mark was an unstable currency and lost value from day to day. [6]

In 1923, she undertook a six-month tour in the United States, giving lectures to raise money for a new home for children of deceased and traumatised German and Austrian POWs. On her trip she raised US$100,000 and traveled to 65 towns. At a stop at Gustavus Adolphus College in St. Peter, Minnesota, Brändström wore clothing of the Swedish Red Cross and “spoke about her thrilling experiences in Russia and Siberia during and after the war.”[7]

In January 1924, she founded a children's home “Neusorge” in Mittweida which had room for more than 200 orphans and children in need. In Siberia she had promised many German soldiers, who were dying, that she would care for their children.

In 1929 she married her great love Heinrich Gottlob Robert Ulich, a German Professor of Pedagogy. Afterwards, she moved together with him to Dresden. In 1931, she sold the “Schreibermühle” and donated her other home, _Neusorge_, to the Welfare Centre in Leipzig. She founded the “Elsa-Brändström-Foundation-for Women” which awarded scholarships to children from Neusorge. On 3 January 1932, her daughter Brita was born in Dresden. In 1933, Robert Ulich accepted a lectureship at Harvard University and in consequence the family moved to the USA. Here Elsa gave aid to newly arrived German and Austrian refugees. In 1939, she opened the “Window-Shop”, a restaurant which gave work opportunities for refugees in Cambridge, Massachusetts. [8]

World War II

At the end of World War II, she started to raise funds for starving and shelterless women and children in need in Germany through the organisations CARE International (Co-operative for American Relief in Europe) and CRALOG (Council of Relief Agencies Licensed for Operation in Germany). Sizable funds were collected from Americans and especially from German Americans, who accounted for >25% of the American population.[9] She undertook a final lecture tour in Europe on behalf of the “Save the Children Fund”.

[Elsa Brändström as depicted on a German postage stamp issued in 1951] [ Monument to Elsa Brändström at Arne-Karlsson-Park in Vienna]

Death

Elsa Brändström could not undertake her last planned journey to Germany because of illness. She died in 1948 of bone cancer in Cambridge, Massachusetts. While her daughter Brita stayed with her husband and children in the USA, her husband Robert returned to Germany where he died in 1977 at Stuttgart. [10] [11]

Honours and memory

Because of her commitment to POWs, Elsa Brändström became famous as a “patron saint” for soldiers. In Germany and Austria, many streets, schools and institutions are named after her.

    _“The war has brought about many heroines in various nations, but in my opinion, never again someone, who is more worthy of being honoured than Elsa Brändström.”_ – General Alfred Knox, British Military Attaché in Russia.[12]

Among countless medals, awards and honours, Brändström was awarded the _Silber Badge of the German Empire_ () and the Golden Seraphim Medal (). Elsa Brändström was also nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize “Heroine of Peace” five times: in 1922, twice in 1923, 1928 and 1929.[13]

In Memory of Elsa Brändström

A ceremony at Arne-Karlsson-Park in Vienna on 16 September 1965 preceded the official opening of the XXth International Conference of the Red Cross. In the presence of Austrian civilian and military authorities, members of the Swedish colony, leaders of the Austrian Red Cross and many conference delegates, a monument to Elsa Brändström was unveiled. This monument, by the sculptor Robert Ullmann, stands as a testimony of gratitude to the famous Swedish nurse's work for German-Austrian prisoners during the First World War.[14]

Work

-   Elsa Brändström: _Bland Krigsfångar i Ryssland och Sibirien 1914–1920_, Norstedt, Stockholm (1921).
-   Elsa Brändström: _Unter Kriegsgefangenen in Rußland und Sibirien – 1914–1920_, Leipzig, Koehler & Amelang (1927)
-   Hanna Lieker-Wentzlau (Hg.) und Elsa Brändström:'' Elsa Brändström-Dank – Das Ehrenbuch nordischer und deutscher Schwesternhilfe für die Kriegsgefangenen in Sibirien'', Becker/Säeman/Heliand

Literature

-   C. Mabel Rickmers: _Among prisoners of war in Russia and Siberia_ (with a preface by Nathan Soderblom), Mutchinson and Co. Ltd. (1926), ASIN B000WQLF8I
-   Panke-Kochinke & Schaidhammer-Placke: _Frontschwestern und Friedensengel: Kriegskrankenpflege im Ersten und Zweiten Weltkrieg. Ein Quellen- und Fotoband_, Mabuse (2002),
-   Norgard Kohlhagen: _Elsa Brändström. Die Frau, die man Engel nannte. Eine Biographie_, Quell, Stuttgart (1992),
-   Magdalena Padberg: _Das Leben der Elsa Brändström: ein Hilfswerk in drei Erdteilen_, Herder, Freiburg (1989),
-   Margareta Schickedanz: _Deutsche Frau und deutsche Not im Weltkrieg_, B.G. Teubner (1938)[15]
-   Leopold Ehrenstein: _Der Fall der Festung Przemysl. Der sibirische Engel Elsa Brandström. Bearbeitet von Emil Portisch_, Bratislava 1937.
-   Elfriede von Plugk-Hartung: _Frontschwestern Ein deutsches Ehrenbuch_, Bernard & Graefe (1936)
-   Charlotte von Hadeln: _Deutsche Frauen - Deutsche Treue 1914-1933_, Traditions-Verlag Kolk & Co. (1935)
-   Elsa Björkman-Goldschmidt:[16] _Elsa Brändström_, 1933 (Language: Swedish)
-   Anne -Marie. Wenzel: _Deutsche Kraft in Fesseln. Fünf Jahre deutscher Schwesterndienst in Sibirien (1916-1927)_, Ernte-Verlag (1931)
-   Gräfin Anna Revertera: _Als österreichische Rotekreuzschwester in Rußland: Tagebuch_, Süddeutsche Monatshefte (1923)
-   Magdalene von Walsleben (Freifrau von Steinaecker): _Die deutsche Schwester in Sibirien: Aufzeichnungen von einer Reise durch die sibirischen Gefangenenlager vom Ural bis Wladiwostok_, Furche, Berlin (1919)[17] Digital reading
-   Alexander von Schlieben: _Heldinnen vom Roten Kreuz: Lazaretterzählungen_, Ellersiek (1916)
-   Ludwig Detter: _Eine Deutsche Heldin: Erlebnisse Einer Roten Kreuz Schwester – Nach Aufzeichnungen von Hertha Immensee_, P. List (1916)
-   Ilse Franke: _Deutsche Treue: Kriegslieder einer deutschen Frau – Unsern deutschen und österreichischen Helden gewidmet_ Hesse & Becker, 1915 Digital reading
-   Rudolf Voemel: _Deutsche Frauen, deutsche Treue! Ein Wort des Trostes an unsere deutschen Frauen und Jungfrauen_, Verlag des Westdeutschen Jünglingsbundes (1914) Digital reading

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4] Harry Graf Kessler, _Tagebücher 1918 bis 1937._ (actually he wrote, she was formally condemned to death twice by the Soviet authorities) Editor: Wolfgang Pfeiffer-Belli. Frankfurt am Main (1982)

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9] In the 1990 U.S. Census, 58 million Americans (ca. 20%) claimed to be solely or partially of German descent.

[10]

[11]

[12] Citation from his memoirs, _With the Russian Army: 1914-1917_.

[13] Heroine of Peace

[14] _In Memory of Elsa Brandstrom_(International Review of the Red Cross, 5th Year, No. 56, November 1965, pp. 613–614

[15] Schickedanz über die auf tragischste Weise verschollene (verschleppte, vergewaltigte und ermordete?) Schwester Erika von Passow: „_Wenn je eine deutsche Schwester von deutschen Soldaten von ganzem Herzen geliebt und verehrt wurde, dann war es Schwester Erika von Passow. Sie war in ihrem ganzen Wesen von so wundervoller fürsorglicher Zartheit (...)_"

[16] Elsa Björkman-Goldschmidt war eine Jugend- und Schulfreundin von Elsa Brändström, die eine lebenslange Freundschaft verband. Sie war gleichfalls in der Kriegsgefangenbetreuung aktiv. Das erste Buch sollte auf Deutsch erscheinen, was 1933 aus politischen Gründen nicht mehr möglich war.

[17] Magdalene Philippine Caroline Auguste Erika Wilhelmine Freifrau von Steinaecker (geborene von Walsleben; 1880–?)

title: Elsa Brändström

question: What impact did Brandstrom have on the world?

answer: It seems she left a great impact on the German-Austrian POWS and those affected by them in WWI through aiding them for her entire life.

question: Why did Brandstrom go to Siberia?

answer: She went to Siberia for the Swedish Red Cross during WWI in order to introduce basic medical treatment for the German and Austrian POWs.

question: Describe the impact WWI had on Brandstrom.

answer: She seemed to be highly impacted by the inhumane situation in Siberia, and working with the injured German and Austrian POWs. This drove her to dedicate her life to helping the POWs and related women, children, and refugees.

question: Summarize what Brandstrom's 1922 book was about.

answer: It was about her time with POWs during WWI.

question: Describe common themes in Brandstrom's philanthropy.

answer: The common theme are the people who stemmed from her experience with POWs in Siberia. Her work surrounded helping the POWs and related women, children, and refugees.

question: Why did Brandstrom earn a dedicatory monument when she died?

answer: She had spent most of her life working to aid German-Austrian prisoners and those affected during and after World War I. She was also well known for her work.

question: How might Brandstrom have felt when she saw the men from Germany and Austria in Siberia?

answer: She probably felt a great deal of empathy and pain for them. She probably also felt a strong will to help them.


text:
no name for the story, and i did submit it to /r/literature but i don't think ANYONE read it at all. feedback, por favor?

a young man walks into a bedroom. it's dark, and there isn't much light in the room save a lone bulb, dangling from an old ceiling fan that probably should have been put out of use years ago.

it's the kind of room with its own stairs, the kind that, if you got it, all your siblings are jealous for the entirety of your growing up together. it's a rectangular room, with a window at each short end. the ceilings are slanted in to follow the sharp angles of the roof directly overhead, and the wall paper is a smoke stained white from years of his great grandmother sitting up there reading her old shitty romance novels and chain smoking.

he flicks the power switch of an old tube amp, just as stained as the walls. with a snap the tubes begin to warm, and he starts to tune his favorite guitar. after about a minute or two, with the G string still a little flat, he begins to play. he plays a few songs he knows, not in their entirety of course, just fragmented parts to a greater whole. a greater whole he feels he can never accomplish. as he plays what comes from the guitar starts to lose all clarity, all sense as he begins to think about her. deep in thought, he forgot what he was playing.

his mother shouts up his stairs for dinner time, and it takes him a few moments to realize what's going on. he turns off his amp and joins his family for a quiet dinner.

the next morning comes and goes as nothing but sleep dictates his schedule, besides his court ordered alcohol classes and the bi-weekly therapy sessions his mother put him in. he decided not to go to college, having just graduated high school, abandoning all hope after botching the placement exams, though his family doesn't know this. they simply think he's disgruntled, and will come around eventually, but he has kept private, his reasons.

he wakes around one forty five in the afternoon, to a grumbling stomach, he ignores it. since he can't drive anymore he is void of any plans or anything to do, so he decides to walk to their spot about two miles from his house. their spot is the creek where as children he fell in love with her, the place they spent all their time together.

 they met at a young age no one can recall, and before the age of ten their parents were were putting on bets they'd get married. he missed talking to her. now 18 and alone, sitting in the woods, face blank overlooking the creek. glaring at the water that's shit brown from all the mud and pollutants, he looks around his spot.

 there are large rocks scattered about, all covered in moss. most are half submerged in the wide but shallow creek, but a select few are in what he considers awful places to put such a large rock. the trees are tall and thick, hundreds of years old. they're the only ones around save the few trees in people's yards, since the construction companies came in to build his development. but that was a long time ago.

 sitting in his old woods, he begins to think about her again. his eyes start to get that rubbery feeling, and his vision blurs. he sits in silence as tears roll down his face. an hour passes, or longer, he doesn't care or know how long he's been there. he raises himself up and carries himself home. when he gets to his house, he rushes straight up his stairs avoiding his siblings and father, ignoring his mother's question as to where he had been.

 it's four in the morning, and he's sweating. he decides to take a walk, and finds himself on his way to the only place he seems to go anymore besides his own house. his spot at the creek is down a small road that would probably be considered a country road if it were not for the multitude of single family homes jam packed down the street. he passes the sign for the state park, which some kids had spray painted a large cartoon penis onto. he kind of chuckles to himself, but as he reaches the turn his face sinks into a deep grimace. he hated how much time he spent at his spot, but he felt so guilty if he weren't there. when he reaches his spot, he begins to climb the tree he had when he were younger. the tree he always climbed with her. the tree that served at the catalyst for the breaking of his arm when he was eleven when she laughed until she saw the thin piece of bone sticking out of his arm with the stream of crimson dripping heavily from it. he sat in his tree and thought. thought about everything. thought about his family, thought about his few friends he didn't talk to anymore, thought about how much he missed her and how sorry he was for what he did. as he always did at his special place in the woods, whether it be on the banks of the creek or up in their tree, he cried.

 he asked himself why he thought he'd be alright that night. why he let himself do what he did. out of his backpack he took out a rope. it was a course rope one might think was made of sandpaper, but was really a thick twine for cattle or other. just a moment later, he was dangling by his neck from the thickest branch on the left bow of the tree.

 he couldn't help but stare at the spot she had died. he always found it ironic, the place they fell in love was the same place he had killed her. vehicular manslaughter the police report called it, along with DUI and reckless driving. maybe if she were wearing her seat belt he wouldn't have had to go through the agony of watching his only love get ejected through the windshield of his father's impala. when he climbed out of the car he ran to her. he ran to her like he had one thousand and one times before to the same spot they had played at as children. he found her laying face down on the shore. half of her was in the shallow water, with one leg bent up backwards past her head. the top of her skull was almost flattened, like a military man's flat top, only pushed down to where it wouldn't look humanly possible. to where it wouldn't be humanly possible save some sort of skull crushing event. he held her and cried for an hour. she was gone before he even got to her. she was probably gone after the fender of the impala was crushed from the impact of the moss covered rock jutting out next to the road.

with only a moment left of consciousness before his vision, then subsequently his life, faded to black, he realized he was making a mistake. he thought about his family again, only this time he wasn't so critical of his parents' scoldings or his siblings' arguments. he thought about the friends he wished he talked to more. and lastly, he thought about her. he wished he could have done better by her, but knew it was too little, too late. he wished he could have said goodbye, maybe get a little closure, but if that happened he wouldn't be where he is now. realizing he was a fuck up, he also realized it's not too late to change. only, with your neck in a noose and you're feet dangling 8 feet above the ground, change is difficult. groping for the rope to try to relieve his weight, he wasted more of his precious oxygen. as he became heavier and heavier, and as the rope cut more and more into his thin neck, he began to cry one last tear.

title: Wrote this a year and a half ago when I was (shocker here!) depressed. Just found it on my computer.

question: Summarize everything related to the main character's depression.

answer: The main character's room doesn't have much light in it. When he plays music, he only plays fragmented parts to a greater whole, which he feels he can never accomplish. He attends bi-weekly therapy sessions. He hangs himself at the end of the story.

question: Summarize all of the times characters are injured over the course of the story.

answer: When the narrator was younger, he broke his arm climbing a tree. The narrator hangs himself on that same tree. He remembers how his girlfriend died when he crashed his father's impala and she was ejected through the windshield.

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

answer: He often gets lost in thoughts about her. They met when they were young, and their parents placed bets on them getting married. He misses talking to her. He thinks of her while he sits in the woods. When he was eleven, he used to climb a tree with her. She was there when he broke his arm. He feels responsible for her death, as he caused the accident that killed her by being drunk. He wishes he could have had a chance to say goodbye.

question: What does the story say about the narrator's parents' reaction to his suicide?


text:
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[Ovid] [Ovid]

When you have to be right

question: What does the story say about how the medical research platform Ovid helps librarians?

answer: Since Ovid delivers thousands of journal articles, ebooks, database resources, and workflow tools, it can help librarians to improve the quality of health care, education, and research. Resources for librarians include Ovid's Librarian Toolkit and Knowledge Community.

question: What does the story say about how the medical research platform Ovid helps doctors?

answer: Ovid providing doctors with customized clinical and research solutions designed to help improve patient outcomes, increase productivity, fuel new discoveries, and enable lifelong learning. It provides physicians with the tools they need to inform and execute the patient treatment. It also providing them with the latest best practice research to inform decision-making at the point of care.

question: What does the story say about how many doctors and nurses use Ovid?


text:
The 2ND SPECIAL SQUADRON (10 February 1917 – 2 July 1919) was a unit of the Imperial Japanese Navy. In accordance with the Anglo-Japanese Alliance, the fleet helped defend Allied shipping in the Mediterranean theater of operations of World War I.

Background

Troubled by the expansion of Russian influence in India, Korea and Manchuria, the British Empire and the Empire of Japan signed the Anglo-Japanese Alliance in 1902. The treaty was renewed in 1905 following Russia's defeat in the Russo-Japanese War, the focus of the alliance shifted towards Germany. In October 1911, Winston Churchill was appointed to the position of First Lord of the Admiralty, he sought to counter the potential threat posed by Germany in the North Sea by redeploying warships from the China Seas and the Mediterranean. The two countries renewed the treaty once again as Britain intended to relegate the responsibility of safeguarding its shipping in the Pacific and the Mediterranean to Japan and France respectively, in the event of a war. In 1914, the Imperial Japanese Navy was divided into three fleets. The 1st Fleet was commanded by Vice Admiral Katō Tomosaburō and consisted of the navy's most modern battleships and battlecruisers. The 2nd Fleet was largely formed of captured Russian ships and some cruisers, it was commanded by Katō Sadakichi. The 3rd Fleet was stationed in the South China Sea, it was composed of cruisers and cannon boats. Its total strength amounted to 50 destroyers, 14 battleships and battlecruisers, 13 armored cruisers, 10 lighter cruisers and old cruisers.

On 7 August 1914, Britain requested that Japan destroy the German East Asia Squadron. On 15 August, Japan issued Germany an ultimatum demanding the handover of the Kiautschou Bay concession and that German ships abandon Chinese waters, thus intervening into World War I on the side of the Triple Entente. With the expiration of the ultimatum Japan officially declared war on Germany, blockading, besieging and eventually capturing Tsingtao. In September, the 1st and 2nd South Sea Squadrons proceeded to German New Guinea, where they occupied the German administrative centers in Rabaul, the Caroline Islands, Palau, Mariana Islands and Marshall Islands. The Japanese navy subsequently participated in the pursuit of the German East Asia Squadron through the Indian and Pacific oceans.

On 2 September 1914, the British requested that Japanese send naval units to the Mediterranean theater of operations, in order to counter the threat posed by the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian navies as well as the German Mediterranean Division. Japan declined citing its involvement in the blockade of Tsingtao and the Pacific Ocean operations. On 4 November, Britain reiterated their proposal offering to support Japanese claims at the conclusion of the war. This proposal was refused after chief of national staff Shimamura Hayao voiced the opinion that the presence of a Japanese force at such a distance from the homeland would create a risk of an American invasion. The British persisted, approaching the Japanese naval attache in London in December 1914 and 13 January 1915, who promptly rebuffed them. Negotiations were resumed on 2 February 1916, whereupon it was agreed that Australia would sign the Anglo-Japanese Treaty of Commerce and Navigation, Japanese immigrants would be granted entry into Australia and New Zealand, and Japanese doctors would be allowed to practice in British colonies. The above concessions in tandem with the appointment of Terauchi Masatake (who advocated wider cooperation with the British) to the post of Prime Minister of Japan, led to the creation of the 1st Special Squadron that was tasked with escorting troopships from Australia and New Zealand to the Aden Protectorate as well as patrol duties on the same route. Japanese assistance was extended on 10 February 1917, when it was decided that a 2nd Special Squadron was to be created.

2nd Special Squadron

The squadron was headed by the , while also including the 10th (, , , ) and 11th (, , , and ) Destroyer Flotillas, consisting of 4 s each. The 11th Flotilla departed Japan on 18 February 1917, joining the rest of the squadron in Singapore on 5 March, where Admiral Kōzō Satō assumed command. The squadron sailed through Colombo, Aden and Port Said, arriving at Malta on 16 April. The arrival of the squadron coincided with the peak of the unrestricted submarine warfare practiced by the Central Powers.

The Japanese were tasked with escorting troopships heading from Malta to Salonica and from Alexandria to Taranto and Marseille. On 4 May 1917, _Sakaki_ and _Matsu_ took part in the rescue of the passengers of British transport , which was sinking after being torpedoed off the Gulf of Genoa, almost 3,000 people were saved. The British Admiralty later sent a telegram congratulating Satō for the service of his men on that occasion. In June 1917, relieved _Akashi_ at Malta becoming the squadron's flagship. On 11 June 1917, _Sakaki_ was torpedoed by Austro-Hungarian submarine off the coast of Crete, resulting in 59 deaths and 22 injuries. _Sakaki_ was badly damaged, however she managed to reach the port of Pireaus. On 25 June 1917, the 15th Destroyers Flotilla comprised four s (, , , ) departed from Japan, joining the squadron in August 1917. On 27 August 1917, admiral superintendent of the Malta Dockyard George Alexander Ballard praised the operational capacity of the Japanese, favorably comparing them towards those of the French and Italians. In 1918, reinforced the squadron, becoming a flagship in November of the same year.[1]

By the end of the war ships belonging to the squadron had accompanied 788 Allied ships, including transports carrying 700,000 troops. They engaged German and Austro–Hungarian submarines on 38 occasions failing however to sink any. In December 1918, _Izumo_, accompanied by the destroyers _Hinoki_ and _Yanagi_, sailed from Malta to Scapa Flow to assume control of seven captured German U-boats as prizes of war. The crew of the ships took part in the 1919 Paris and London Victory Parades. They returned to Malta with the U-boats in March 1919 and _Nisshin_ accompanied eight destroyers and the U-boats to Japan, while _Izumo_ made port calls at Naples, Genoa and Marseilles before arriving in Japan with the remaining destroyers on 2 July 1919.

A memorial commemorating the fallen servicemen from _Sakaki_ was opened at the Kalkara Naval Cemetery in Malta.[2]

Ships of the 2nd Special Squadron

Cruisers

  Name                              Image   Launched   Type
  --------------------------------- ------- ---------- ------------------- --
  {{ship|Japanese cruiser|Akashi    2}}     []         18 December 1897
  {{ship|Japanese cruiser|Izumo     2}}     []         19 September 1898
  {{ship|Japanese cruiser|Nisshin   2}}     []         9 February 1903

10th Destroyer Division

  Name         Image   Launched           Type
  ------------ ------- ------------------ ------
  _Ume_        —       27 February 1915
  _Kusunoki_   —       5 March 1915
  _Kaede_      —       20 February 1905
               []      15 February 1915

11th Destroyer Division

  Name                                Image   Launched           Type
  ----------------------------------- ------- ------------------ ------------------ --------------
  {{Ship|Japanese destroyer|Kashiwa   2}}     —                  14 February 1915
                                      —       5 March 1915
  _Sugi_                              —       16 February 1915
                                      []      4 March 1915

15th Destroyer Division

  Name   Image   Launched           Type
  ------ ------- ------------------ ------
         —       12 October 1916
         —       1 December 1916
         []      25 December 1916
         —       24 February 1917

[1]

[2]

title: 2nd Special Squadron (Japanese Navy)

question: When was the 2nd Special Squadron created?

answer: 1917.

question: What armed forces did the 2nd Special Squadron belong to?

answer: The Imperial Japanese Navy.

question: What did the British and the Japanese sign in 1902?

answer: The Anglo-Japanese alliance.

question: What theatre did the fleet help defend during WWI?

answer: The Allied Theater in the Mediterranean.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: This article is about the Second Squadron of the Imperial Japanese Navy, which was an important fleet in defending the Mediterranean during WWI.


text:
I know I had come across true love once, and I know it because the feeling still burns in my bones. I met him at the age of 4, his name was Elijah. Never in a million years would I have thought that I would see him fade into colorless dust, brushing away to coat the earth and never be found, leaving his family like a shipwreck in a never-ending tide. Elijah, oh how much I could have done for you, how much I could have done to save you. But in my seven year old shoes, I stood paralyzed as menacing arms gripped mine, with a scolding voice that replayed over and over in my head. One day, we were going to stare deep into each-others eyes, telling ourselves it was where we wanted to be for the rest of our lives. We were going to run in our adult shoes, playing tag, until our legs didn't work anymore. That was our true fate, not this. Nothing would have burnt us to the ground. But now I live with a demon always sitting on my shoulder. He likes to laugh at me for what I've done, reminding me of the horrors over again, just as soon as I try to move on. He binds me with chains of silence, he binds me with a closed mind. He draws the man who burnt my clothes, the man who burnt your life. Elijah, I could have saved you.
 Elijah... One day, I hope you will forgive me.

But do you remember our last day together, Elijah? The one where we walked home from school through fields of gold, spinning the earth beneath our feet? Do you remember the sun and how it melted the clouds beneath it, revealing the freckles on our faces? Our hands intertwined unconsciously, as our tiny hearts beat like racing drums. We ran until our laughter knocked us down, and stayed until the sky was coated with marmalade. If only we could have frozen the moment and never moved on. If only we could have both stayed in our seven year old bodies. If only I had never been given the opportunity to grow up alone.

 I wish our hands stayed intertwined the whole way through. I wish we closed our eyes, and imagined the sun was melting us into the fields of gold. I wish my little legs didn't learn to escape. I wish it was me instead of you, so that you could have run home to your family, letting them know everything was okay.
 And in this moment, I wish the fires that covered you could dry my tears.

I searched for you in the eyes of the sun, in the dancing wheat that feathered my eyes, in the butterfly wings that flapped my hair gently behind my ears. I searched for you in the cotton tails of the milk weeds, parting from their buds, to say hello as soon as they said goodbye, soon brushing through familiar cornstalks, to reveal your marble face. Oh Elijah, how I wait for the day your smile will bring the field back to life, but all I see are charcoal dusted, broken stalks, with a demon dancing on top of a mountain of ember lit ashes, acting as if nothing were wrong, as if this place were a sanctuary of good dreams, where kids like us could play all day and all night long and never be taken away.  Elijah, I can't look at those milk weeds anymore, because they always say hello, and I never got to say good-bye.

The heat of Summer always reminded me of the comfort of my mother, but now, it greets me like the trees of Winter. Somehow I still stay horrendously captivated in Summer's reign, climbing through Peter as you once did, with trembling soles that found it hard to grip his bark, hoping to keep balance long enough to pick a peach that matched the colors of the run down sky. Remember when you would take a big bite, back cradled against Peter's torso, trying to caress the crescent moon into the empty space? I guess the real question is, how could you ever forget it? You were my summer, Elijah, and now it's nothing but a bittersweet memory with an ending that left me with a dark, hollow core that can't be sealed with even the purest words of sympathy or remorse. … It's a nightmare that makes it hard to live. A nightmare that I can't seem to forget.

title: [Elijah]...Continued. Criticism welcomed.

question: What is the narrator referencing in the first paragraph when they say "he likes to laugh at me for what I've done"?

answer: She's referencing what seems to be a metaphorical demon, which could be her guilt over the death of Elijah. She seems to believe she could have stopped it.

question: Is the love the narrator has for Elijah platonic or romantic?

answer: It could be assumed that it's platonic.

question: How might the narrator's life differ if Elijah hadn't died?

answer: The narrator probably wouldn't be holding this great guilt about his death.

question: What emotion does this story convey?

answer: Remorse

question: Why can't the narrator look at the milk weeds?

answer: They seem to remind her of how Elijah isn't here any longer.

question: Summarize what seemed to happen when Elijah died.

answer: It seems that he burned to death in some sort of accident when they were playing as children. The narrator either was frozen with fear or ran away to get help, and wasn't able to save him.


text:
As I lie here, alone and fading, I feel there is nothing more to do than reflect and wait. However, the last thing I want is to come across as pitiful, or sad, or lonely, even though I must confess to being all of the above. life is a strange gift, it is something we do not ask for, yet we accept it as a necessity. Now, when I look back, I see all the time wasted. I can see now how I continued to spend all that time living with the intention of living, even though I knew I must die. I use the term 'living' loosely, because of my delusion that I would continue to live, it allowed me to continue in a state of routine, where nothing changed, no rights were wronged and nothing was done to make my life have some form of purpose once again.

It's a sad thing to admit, and most definitely a sad thing to realise, that you have spent very little of your life actually living, that you have spent so much of your time on autopilot without considering or acknowledging it, that when the end inevitably comes, you will regret each of those moments not fully cherished.

My memory has faded somewhat, but I remember the reasons why I find myself alone in this hospital. There are so many. I could list how I pushed away each and every person, but in the end it would only serve to remind me of my mistakes and my regret. Despite this, it ought to be said that I am entirely to blame for my own downfall. I have lived my life in ignorance and reinforced it with arrogance and stubbornness, if I could take it back- if I could take everything back- I would. I would plead with my friends to forgive, I would beg my lovers not to leave me and I would have been there for my family, because they were always there for me.

Alas, we cannot turn back time, all I can do is wallow in regret of moments wasted, hoping that somehow it will make a difference.

One of the great ironies of life- at least in mind- is that humanity strives for happiness, and yet is constantly dissatisfied with their lot. Rich and poor, black and white, men and women, all of them strive for more. All of them are miserable, and all of them end up in the same place once they are dead.

The end is coming soon. I can feel it, and it scares the hell out of me. I wish I could confide in someone, I wish there was someone to assure me that everything is going to be fine, but the truth is, even if there was someone here to tell me as much, I wouldn't believe them. We don't know what happens when we die, some of us claim to know, but nothing can be proven, nothing is certain, heaven and hell are just as likely as reincarnation, and reincarnation is just as likely as nothing at all. Either way, I am terrified, even though I know I have nothing left to live for, the end still scares me.

I suppose I should finish writing and close my eyes for a while, I have been drowsy for a long time now, maybe it is all the sedatives that are being pumped into my system, or maybe it is the illness, either way, it is useless resisting.

Before I go however, I did want to say one thing. I wanted to say I am sorry, to everyone I ever wronged, to everyone and anyone I ever pushed away or hurt, I am sorry, from the bottom of my heart. I lived my life as a spiteful human being, and I cannot ever forgive myself, but I loved you, I loved all of you, even the ones I hated, because you gave my life purpose, and without you, my life would have meant nothing.

So it would seem that is it. I needed to say sorry and thank you. I can't forget my manners. I simply wish my final thoughts to be that of thankfulness. I will be thankful to join those I have lost, mostly my dear mother who I have missed for over thirty years, I will be with her soon, and for that too, I am thankful.

This will be the last memoir I write. The last words I put on paper. I suppose there should be some kind of conclusion or catharsis, something that ties all loose ends and wraps everything up nicely, but I don't have that power. Really, there is only word left to say, and that word is:

Goodbye.

title: The Final Memoir of a Dying Man

question: What is the first regret of this dying man?

answer: The man regrets not living life to the fullest. He regrets taking life for granted and living it as though he was on autopilot. His biggest regret is not cherishing each moment of his life.

question: Why is the man sad and lonely?

answer: He has pushed away every person he ever cared about. Lovers have left him. He has angered friends and he failed his family. He now deeply regrets his actions and wishes that he had time to seek foregivness.

question: What is the cause of the narrator's illness?


text:
_ANNABELLE_ is a Swiss women's fashion magazine published in German language. The magazine also covers feminist issues and initiated several campaigns about improving women's social status. It is called the _Marie Claire_ of Switzerland.[1] Its headquarters is in Zurich.[2]

History and profile

_Annabelle_ was established in 1938[3] and the first issue was published on 1 March 1938.[4][5] The idea to launch _Annabelle_ was developed by the publishers Karl von Schumacher and Manuel Gasser.[6] The founder and the launching editor was Mabel Zuppinger,[7][8] an Austrian woman living in Zurich.[9]

The magazine was part of and published by Tamedia[10][11] until October 2019 when it was sold to Medienart.[12] It was published monthly,[13] later increasing its frequency to weekly.[14] The target audience of the magazine is women in German-speaking Switzerland.[15]

Although _Annabelle_ is a women's fashion magazine, it also has a long history of covering political and social issues, including feminism.[16] Initially, the magazine was a regular publication for housewives.[17] During the 1940s and 1960s it covered articles on the growing consumer industry and at the same time it supported the education of girls.[18] In the next decade it extensively featured articles related to the problems of working women as well as divorce and sex-related problems.[19] In the 1980s the magazine specifically targeted young, active, and energetic women who were emancipated, but feminine.[20]

_Annabelle_ also deals with the status of women living in other regions, featuring articles concerning the sexuality of women in the Arab world and honour killing in Albania.[21] In 2006 the magazine launched a petition, “No weapons at home”, to support for a ban on shotguns at home.[22] The magazine campaigned for a 30 percent increase in the number of women in the boardrooms of Swiss companies in 2013.[23] The same year Tamedia, the parent company of the magazine, banned it from reporting political events, such as the emancipation of women, that might cause social unrest.[24] The magazine also publishes interviews with significant figures, including Federal Councillor Simonetta Sommaruga.[25]

From 2004 to 2013 Lisa Feldmann was the editor-in-chief of _Annabelle_.[26] She was replaced by Silvia Binggeli.[27] Since July 2019 Jacqueline Krause-Blouin assumes the editor-in-chief position.[28]

_Annabelle_ has a travel supplement, _ReiseNews_, which is published five times a year.[29]

Circulation

_Annabelle_ had a circulation of 71,292 copies in 2010, 71,445 copies in 2011 and 70,178 copies in 2012.[30] In 2015 the magazine sold 66,121 copies.[31] The 2016 circulation of the magazine decreased to 51,255 copies.[32]

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title: Annabelle (magazine)

question: What type of magazine is Annabelle?

answer: It is a Swiss women's fashion magazine published in German.

question: Who is the editor-in-chief?

answer: Jacqueline Krause-Blouin has been the editor-in-chief since 2019.

question: When was Annabelle established?

answer: It was established in 1938.

question: What are some of the topics Annabelle covers?

answer: It has a history of covering political and social issues, including feminism. It also deals with the status of women living in other regions.

question: Describe the magazine in the 1980s.

answer: The magazine was specifically targeting young, active, and energetic women who were emancipated, but feminine.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: This article discusses Annabelle magazine, a Swiss women's fashion magazine published in German. It was established in 1938, and focuses on political, social, and feminist issues.


text:
You need to sign in to fork this code!

If you sign in or sign up to code9leap, you can start programming with this code, or various samples and turorials. (sign up takes only 1 min!)

Fork Download

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

question: Do you need to sign in to fork this code?

answer: Yes

question: What can you do with this code?

answer: Start programming.

question: What else do you gain access to if you sign in or sign up?

answer: Various samples and tutorials.

question: How long does the sign up take?

answer: 1 minute.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: The text is about signing in or signing up for code9leap, in order to access and fork a code.


text:
The three men sat around a circular table, each sipping a different alcoholic beverage. In an effort to minimize the numbing effect of the frigid November draft seeping in form underneath the ancient garage door, each man wore a heavy coat over his everyday attire. The men sat in silence for hours until the youngest of the group broke the vigil as the first weak rays of morning sunshine broke through the grimy windows of the abandoned warehouse.

	“Do you remember your first kill, Boris?”

The elderly Russian slowly raised his gaze from his drink, his deep blue eyes briefly flashing in the sunlight before coming to meet the young American’s gaze. He spoke slowly, his voice deep and calming.

	“You never forget your first.”

He let out a deep sigh and took a long draft from his vodka before continuing.

	“I was a much younger man, probably only a few years older than yourself. I never set out to be a killer…I got into some financial trouble and had to go to the mafia for help.”

	Enthralled by the old assassin’s tale, the young American stared ahead in awe, his drink forgotten. Even the third man, a middle-aged man of questionable nationality, looked up from his whiskey.

	“Contrary to popular belief,” Boris continued, “the Russian mafia is willing to help most anyone, no questions asked. What they don’t tell you is that your debt to the mafia will never be repaid.”

	The Russian let out another sigh. As the sunlight grew stronger, the young American noticed for the first time a subtle sadness about Boris. His wrinkled face, his dark, sun-damaged skin, a vaguely forlorn look in his eyes. The elderly Russian gave the impression of a once impressive man, reduced to a shadow of his former self by a life filled with brutality and liquid fortification. As Boris continued his narrative, the American observed his middle-aged peer return his brooding eyes to his whiskey.

	“It was a thirty-something year old, Alexi was his name. He owed the Russian mafia a great deal of money and had somehow managed to escape the country. He fled to an old monastery in Tibet, apparently believing he could find sanctuary from the Russian mafia in a holy place.”

	Before continuing, Boris cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

	“The fool never should have stopped running…maybe if he hadn’t, we’d still be playing that perverse game of cat and mouse to this day. His children would still have their father…and I…wouldn’t have become this…”

	The Russian’s voice caught in his throat and he turned away from the table, hiding his tears from the other two men.

	“I still remember the look in his eyes as I pinned him to the floor,” Boris choked out between sobs. “He begged me for life, pleaded with me to let him go. But it was him or me…”

	Seeming to find temporary solace from his justification, Boris drew a shaky breath.

	“But I felt it as much as he did when I drove my blade into his chest. I couldn’t bear to watch; I looked up. An enormous statue of Buddha gazed down at me, having witnessed everything. In that moment, I knew that I would carry Alexi’s soul with me forever, and spend an eternity paying for it.”

The young American let out his breath; he’d been holding it involuntarily.

	“I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to conjure up demons from your past.”

	Before Boris could respond, the middle-aged gun for hire let out a derisive snort.

	“Seems like Boris has gotten sentimental in his old age. Feeling sorry for your prey? You never had what it took to be a truly legendary assassin, the kind whose name is spoken in hushed tones across the globe.”

	Bristling with indignation, Boris rose to his feet, his chair toppling over behind him.

	“You are a monster, Akhmad. A cold-blooded killing machine. Not exceptional by any means, but cruel and brutal beyond reason. For you, money is simply a fringe benefit to being a mercenary. An endless supply of lives to ruin; that’s all you care about.”

	Boris strode to the door and slammed it behind him, disappearing into the mid-morning sunshine in a fit of rage. Stunned, the young American sat rooted to his chair while Akhmad chuckled to himself and poured the rest of his whiskey down his throat. He then turned to face the American.

	“Before you ask, no, I don’t remember my first kill. They all run together for me. The screaming, the crying, the attempt to bargain for life. Everyone acts the same way when they’re staring down the barrel of a gun. And everyone looks the same with their head blown off, too.”

	Akhmad grinned darkly at the American, transforming his handsome features into something sinister and ugly looking. He stood to leave, but before he reached the door, the American stopped him.

	“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to share my first experience also.”

	Akhmad sighed impatiently.

	“Make it quick.”

	“This won’t take long. My story begins on a cold night— a group of co-workers retreat to the shelter of a familiar place after a long week of work.”

	Akhmad fiddled with his empty glass of liquor, clearly bored. Undeterred, the American continued on.

	“The men were enjoying each other’s company over drinks until two of the men butted heads over a work-place disagreement. One of the men departed, leaving only two men left at the table.”

	At this point, Akhmad’s brow furled slightly and he looked up at the American with a confused look on his face.

	“As the men began to tire of each other’s presence,” the American continued, “one of the men decided that he would get a jump on the following week’s workload. Unbeknownst to the other man, he began to work under the table, out of sight of his companion as not to seem rude.”

	Akhmad tensed his muscles and prepared to lunge at the American, but his booze-addled senses alerted him to  the peril too late. While he was speaking, the American had slowly drawn an old fashioned revolver from the pocket of his bulky coat and placed it against Akhmad’s left knee underneath the table.

	As Akhmad began to lunge forward, the American pulled the trigger. Crashing into the table with an inhuman scream of agony, Akhmad clutched at his obliterated leg. Akhmad’s empty glass fell to the ground and shattered and he watched as the American’s nearly untouched gin and tonic spilled all over the blood-soaked table. Before the mercenary was able to process anything else, a bullet slammed into his brain, instantly ending his life.

	Silence. Complete and utter silence. The young American slowly lowered the gun, then dropped it to the ground shattering the brief serenity of the moment. He reached into his coat and withdrew a cell phone. He dialed a number and waited for a secure connection to be established. Finally, the call went through.

	“Uncle Sam, this is Agent Schafer. The target has been eliminated. Mission accomplished.”

	He clicked off the phone and deposited it back in his coat pocket and turned to exit, leaving the remains of Osama bin Laden’s most dangerous son to rot in the abandoned warehouse.

title: [RF] The Three Assassins

question: Summarize the theme of this story.

answer: The theme of this story is that some things are best hidden in plain sight. As men gather around a table-seemingly a safe, comfortable space-they share war stories of their time murdering people. It does not occur to them that they could be in clear and present danger. When the American begins to spin his tale, it finally dawns on Akhmad that the guy is talking about right then and there, but he reacts too late to save his own life. The American-an undercover agent-shoots and kills Akhmad.

question: Explain the reason for killing one of Bin Laden's sons.

question: Summarize the plot twist.

answer: One of the men exchanging tales of duty and murder in the lair is actually a secret agent with the United States. His agenda is revealed when he shoots one of the men; his name, as he calls it in. He had been presumed to be someone also running from international law, who has functioned as some sort of a hitman.

question: What does the story have to say about debts?

answer: It puts forth the idea that debts are ultimately not worth it; no matter what the trade it, if the debt will never be forgiven, the toll on one's life will be immense. Within the framework of this story, the stakes are life-and-death high. The men describe how far and wide they've chased down people to exact their pound of flesh, and the sheer doggedness of the pursuits is staggering-traversing countries over decades in order to settle an unpaid debt, with the end cost being a life.


text:
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[]

Google and Microsoft don’t seem to have the greatest relationship. This has resulted in there being less Google apps for Windows Phone than even iOS. One of the most glaring Google apps that is absent is of course YouTube. Luckily developers have tried, and mostly succeeded, to bring YouTube apps to Windows Phone. The latest attempt is an app called _PrimeTube_.

A while back we told you about PrimeTube, and now it is finally here. PrimeTube bills itself as “the most elegant way to access YouTube.” The UI is very clean and Metro, and it’s packed with all the YouTube features you would expect. Check out the lenghy feature list below.

-   Search for videos; filter and sort results.
-   Like/Dislike videos, read and reply to comments
-   Pin videos, playlists and authors (featuring live tile support) for instant access
-   Share videos via social networks, email and SMS
-   Create playlists and manage your subscriptions
-   Complete music + video hub integration
-   Multi-region support
-   Supports Fast-App Switching

PrimeTube is free and without ads (yay!), and the developer promisies to always keep it that way. You can grab it in the Marketplace right now.

MARKETPLACE

question: What is the article about?

answer: It informs about an app made for accessing Youtube from a Windows phone.

question: Why isn't there an app for Youtube on Windows phones?

answer: Google, the owner of Youtube, and Microsoft, who produce the Windows phones' operating system, don't have a congenial relationship.

question: What are the praise-worthy aspects of PrimeTube?

answer: The author finds its user interface to be clean. It's also stated that PrimeTube has all the features a user would expect.

question: What is the monetization model of PrimeTube?

answer: There isn't one. The app is free and doesn't show ads.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: PrimeTube, the latest app for accessing YouTube from Windows phones, has a clean interface and has all the features a user would want. It's also free and without ads. The developer promises to keep it that way.


text:
A Bangladeshi couple hear some bad news about their second son Rahul who was 21 years old. The police officers say Rahul was found dead in Palestine and this had surely shocked the mr mrs Ahmed, they were confused as to how it was possible for him to die in Palestine. Mr and Mrs ahmed immigrated to England from Bangladesh about 50 years ago but the one question that was on their minds was why their second son went to Palestine and died. They were Bangladeshi they had no roots in Palestine like family or any friends over there in Palestine.

The police leave the family to mourn for their second son and in pure confusion as to why he would go to Palestine. Rahul had an argument with the family and left home to figure out his own life he had been out of his family home for a about a year now, he wasn't like other Bangladeshi Asian men who loved to got to shisha or listen to rap music and drive around in black Mercedes or Audi's he was an outcast in the Muslim community and he didn't have much friends of his own.

"what did I do yes I shouted at him for not passing his driving test or finishing university but your the one who told him to get out for being a failure and an embarrassment!" Mr ahmed   shouted

"me me your the one who was embarrassed and yes I did tell him to get out but you also wanted him out and you were also embarrassed of him" Mrs Ahmed argued back

"what's in Palestine why did Rahul go to Palestine?" Mr Ahmed questioned him self

Then after a brief moment of silence and crying the older son of the Ahmed family just going up stairs not showing any emotions at his younger brothers death, Mr Ahmed started to break down and cry for his second son Rahul and Mrs Ahmed sat down with Mr Ahmed trying to comfort him and said "its both our fault our pride and arrogance killed him but why in Palestine?" she questioned her self

Then Mr Ahmed suddenly realized something and standing up and looking into the mirror he realized why his son went to Palestine and died.

"Remember all those short stories I use to tell him as a child, well his favorite one was about Palestine and the story goes a poor Palestinian mother once had asked her son what his wish is in life and the Palestinian son replied to his mother and that his wish is: my wish is mother anyone who dies in Palestine will go straight to heaven, that's why Rahul went to Palestine he knew he wasn't going to survive in the outside world with out food or support so he went to Palestine to die and go straight to heaven because who ever dies in Palestine goes to heaven, that's how the story goes anyway and that Rahul  didn't want to live anymore in this horrible world" Mr Ahmed telling the story to his wife

The wife started to cry more and so did Mr Ahmed and the eldest son tarin comes down now crying as well

"let's pray for him that's all we can do now" Mr Ahmed spoke

title: Palestine

question: Who is talking in this story?

answer: Mr. and Mrs. Ahmed discuss the reasons Rahul left and try to work out why he was in Palestine.

question: Who are the main characters of the story?

answer: The police visit Mr. and Mrs. Ahmed to talk about their son Rahul who passed away in Palestine. Their son, Tarin, is also home.

question: Explain what the text means by Rahul being a disappointment.

answer: Rahul's father feels that Rahul was a disappointment because he did not pass his driving test or finish university. He was not like the other young men in his community and struggled to fit in. His parents told him to get out.

question: Why did Rahul go to Palestine?

answer: He went there to die. His father told him a story of a boy whose mother told him that you go straight to heaven is you die in Palestine. Rahul did not want to live in this horrible world and went to Palestine because he could go to heaven.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: Mr. and Mrs. Ahmed younger son Rahul was killed in Palestine. They were not aware that he was in Palestine, having lived in London for his whole life. Rahul did not fit in in his culture and when his parents kicked him out he went to Palestine to die.


text:
Kraine only needed to focus on three things. First, and most importantly, getting to the golden orb. That would declare him victorious, and one of the living. Secondly, his opponent, Culp. She had been in the mazes for many years, and was considered a pro. She knew how to maneuver the courses, and all the tricks to making sure that the other player was dead. Lastly, and probably the most unpredictable aspect of the maze, Kraine needed to watch out for Ghol. Ghol was the shadow seeker that had been added to the games a few years ago. Ghol would change the environment of the mazes. From dark and stormy, to even changing the ground to lava. To be successful, and survive with his life, Kraine needed to always be thinking.
	Kraine waited at the gate, listening for the bell to signal the start of the game. With deep breaths, he remembered what the officials had told him about the layout of the maze.
	“This is a square maze, One cubic kilometer. The orb will be placed in the center, and you both will start on the south side gates. Any attempt to communicate outside the viewing dome will result in automatic death.”
	The sound of the bell shook Kraine’s ears, and the crowd erupted in a massive cheer. He stepped on to the maze, and noticed the floor was covered in grass, and the normally gray walls had been replaced by large rocks and mossy trees. To his left were the weapons. There was everything from handguns, to wooden staffs. Kraine selected a spear and throwing knifes. To his right, he watched Culp dash away around a tree, leaving everything on the table, but the landmines. There was one smoke stick on the ground that culp had dropped. Kraine stowed it in his satchel and started to run in the opposite direction Culp had.
	A half hour went by, as Kraine ran circles around the maze, checking every corner for Culp. There was still no sign on Ghol, but Kraine knew he would show up eventually. After slowing down to catch his breath, Kraine looked up to the top of the dome encasing the maze, and found a golden beam of light shooting straight down from the highest point of the glass prison. He knew that is where the orb would be.
	Kraine decided to get to be able to see past the trees and rocks so he could plan a route, and searched for a break in the boulders to climb up on. There was a ledge large enough to allow him to grab a branch. Hoisting himself up, he quickly spotted Culp. He went straight for his knives. Holding his breath, Kraine took aim at a tree behind Culp; far enough away that he knew she would have to walk over and investigate. The knife zipped through the air and landed in the tree with a solid thud. He swiftly sunk down so Culp couldn’t find where the knife had come from. He waited to hear the rustling of Culps robe before he peeked his head up from behind the tree branch. His plan had worked! Kraine bounded over the rocks and sprinted for cover. Culp heard him and she turned sharply, like a startled cat.
	Kraine panicked and tried to think how to hide himself. He remembered the smoke stick he picked up at the weapons display. In one smooth motion, Kraine grabbed the smoke stick by the ignition string and tossed it in front of him. The stick flew forward, jerked, and pulled itself off the ignition string. The entire maze dome instantly became shrouded with a haze, thick and heavy.  Light marking the location from the orb had been smothered completely.  Waiting a few seconds to make sure Culp had lost track of him, Kraine started a low sprint. Keeping his feet low to the ground, he tried to keep as silent as possible.
	Out of the smoke a large tree appeared in front of Kraine, and seemed to rush up and smack his whole body, hitting the ground back first. Recovering from his fall, the ground turned to ice and the tree started to circle around him like he was a sacrificial offering. The landscape was changing, and Kraine knew why.
“Ghol!” Kraine shouted. “I am not afraid of you! I’m going to get that orb! Don’t waste your time with me! You won’t be able to stop me!” Fists clenched and chest raised, Kraine held his ground, watching the tree circle around him.
Out of nowhere, and ear piercing bang too Kraine by surprise. Bits of bark and leaves flew past his face. The tree had hit one of Culp’s landmines. Kraine knew that he was probably surrounded by landmines by now. Afraid to take even one step, Kraine needed to think of how he could maneuver in the smoke, without being blown to pieces. He thought of using his spear as a sort of walking stick, but ruled it out. He might need it for protection later. Then Kraine went to his throwing knives. He had used on to distract Culp, which left him nineteen. He hoped this would be enough to get him to the orb.
Not moving his feet, Kraine crouched low to the ice, took out one knife, and sent it sliding a few meters in front of him. Just as the knife sounded like it was coming to a stop, the same ear piercing bang sent flying chunks of ice all around, leaving a small crater where the mine had been. Again and again, the knifes became flying shrapnel as the mines exploded.
By now, the smoke had thinned and had settled as a light fog. Kraine searched frantically for the golden light the marked where the orb would be. He needed to know which direction to send his last knife. He was afraid that he had gone the wrong direction.
Out of despair, Kraine leaned his head back and exhaled. There was a small shine above him. Kraine tilted his head to the side, confused, and had an epiphany. He was right in the beam of light! He looked left and right, then at the ground. The orb was underneath him, encased by the ice. Quickly, he started to chipped away at the ground with his last knife.
This was it, Kraine would survive the maze! His heart began to race as he heard Culp speak behind him.
“Good job, rookie. No one’s ever done this well against me. Too bad I’ll have to kill you now.” Ending in a soft voice, Culp slammed her foot into Kraine’s side, knocking him over.  She crouched over Kraine and punched his face until it started to bleed. She took his spear and made the last few chips at the ice.
With a thundering roar, Kraine jumped towards Culp. With his last knife in hand, he aimed for Culp’s temple. Culp fell on to her back and stuck the spear into the air. The two blades made contact to their victims at the same time. The knife into Culp’s temple the spear through Kraine’s chest.
They both died instantly. Their bodies laid limp. Kraine skewered over Culp’s bloodied body. Their hands fell together, both grasping the orb. Together they had fought, died, and lost the game.

title: The Art of Losing

question: Who are the major characters of the story?

answer: Kraine, Culp, and Ghol.

question: Why does Kraine slide his throwing knives on the ice toward the mines despite the risk of shrapnel?

answer: He's surrounded by smoke and needs to move. He doesn't want to step on a mine and become shrapnel.

question: What happens to Ghol after he transforms the ground to ice and sends a tree to attack Kraine?

answer: We don't know, he's not mentioned in the story after that attack.

question: Why doesn't Culp finish off Kraine before going for the orb?

answer: Despite her alleged experience, she makes a tactical mistake and goes for the orb while Kraine is still alive. Her reasons aren't mentioned, but she dies for her mistake.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: Kraine needs to reach a golden orb set in the center of a maze before his opponents. Culp is a veteran of the game, and Ghol has the ability to drastically change the environment. Some way in, the ground turns to ice, and a large tree attacks Kraine; he also discovers he's surrounded by Culp's mines. He explodes them with his throwing knives before realizing he's on top of the orb and starts to dig. However, Culp reaches him and the two manage to kill each other while grasping the orb and die.