text:
Ted Cruz once had an ideology. After being trounced in New York, all he has left is gibberish.

 Peter Beinart
April 20, 2016

[]
Charles Mostoller / Reuters
Ted Cruz has a problem. Since he launched his campaign for president at Liberty University more than a year ago, he has aimed to consolidate the right. He has largely succeeded. He has vanquished Scott Walker, Rand Paul, Mike Huckabee, Bobby Jindal, Rick Santorum, Rick Perry, Ben Carson, Marco Rubio, and Carly Fiorina, and now he enjoys the overwhelming support of movement conservatives. His problem is that he trails Donald Trump anyway. And in its final months, the 2016 campaign is moving to a series of states—New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Connecticut, California, Washington, Oregon—where movement conservatives aren’t so numerous.

In primary states with more moderate Republican electorates, Cruz has gotten crushed. He won less than 10 percent of the vote in Massachusetts and Vermont. He won less than 15 percent in New York. So last night, Cruz changed his message. He’s no longer running as Mr. Conservative. He’s running as an outsider, a healer, and the voice of generational change. Judging by his speech last night, it won’t be easy.

Cruz began the speech by talking about “towns and faces that have been weathered with trouble, joblessness, and fear” and “factories that are closing.” The people suffering this economic distress, Cruz explained, “have made it clear. They cry out for a new path. This is the year of the outsider. I’m an outsider. Bernie Sanders is an outsider. Both with the same diagnosis. But both with very different paths to healing.”

This borders on gibberish. First, Cruz is declaring himself an outsider at the very moment he has stopped being one. In state after state, the Republican establishment is rallying around him in an effort to stop Trump. That’s why Cruz is destroying Trump in the insider’s game of selecting delegates.

Second, Cruz and Sanders most definitely do not share the “same diagnosis” of what ails the American economy. Sanders thinks the problem is too little government. Cruz thinks problem is too much government. The reason many voters angered by joblessness and factory closings are choosing Sanders is because he promises to use government to save their jobs—free markets be damned. He’ll end the trade deals they hate and disempower the billionaires who promote them. Trump promises aggressive government action, too: He’ll renegotiate trade deals and seal the border. Cruz, by contrast, has tailored his economic message to the hedge-fund managers and energy tycoons who fund his campaign.

Finally, the idea that Cruz and Sanders offer “paths to healing” is bizarre. Cruz’s ultra-partisanship repeatedly brought the federal government to the brink of shutdown. Sanders promises a political “revolution.” That’s not healing. It’s ideological total war.

After comparing himself to Sanders, Cruz then compared himself to Ronald Reagan and John F. Kennedy. “Ronald Reagan and Jack Kennedy were outsiders,” he declared. “They both represented a whole new vision and vibrancy, a new generation of ideas. Jack Kennedy looked forward instead of back to the first half-century of World War. He knew that America could dream and build if we were set free—not tanks for war, but rockets for exploration. Reagan looked out to us, the most powerful force for innovation that the world has ever known. There we found new tech pioneers like Bill Gates and a young Steve Jobs.”

More gibberish. Except for his Catholicism, Kennedy was hardly an outsider. When he ran for president, he had already served 14 years in Congress. His father had been Franklin Roosevelt’s ambassador to the United Kingdom. As for the idea that he promised, “not tanks for war, but rockets for exploration,” that’s wrong, too. Kennedy didn’t campaign on sending a man to the moon in 1960. He mostly promised rockets for war. One of his key pledges was to erase the “missile gap” that he falsely claimed existed between the United States and the Soviet Union.

And the line about Reagan, Gates, and Jobs? It’s word salad. Cruz doesn’t say Reagan actually did anything to enable the innovations of Microsoft or Apple. How could he have? Both companies were founded during the Ford presidency. Cruz merely says that Reagan “looked out to us,” and “there we found” Gates and Jobs. In other words, Reagan was conscious that he governed a lot of people, and during his presidency, many of those people began buying the products that Gates and Jobs sold. Inspiring.

“Now it’s our turn,” Cruz continued, in full JFK-mode. “This generation must first to look inward, to see who we really are. After years of being beaten down, years of being told we couldn’t, shouldn’t, or wouldn’t, this generation needs to answer a new set of questions: Can we? Should we? Will we?” OK, but can we, should we, will we … what? The new, post-ideological Cruz doesn’t say. When he ran as a conservative, the Texas senator brimmed with edgy policy proposals: repeal Obamacare, repeal gay marriage, repeal the Iran nuclear deal, ban abortion, deny citizenship to undocumented immigrants.

All that’s gone now, replaced by pure wind. His generation of Americans, Cruz informed us last night, will “restore our spirit … free our minds and our imagination … create a new and better world … bring back jobs and freedom and security … live as neighbors, friends, and family, in peace, once again … restore our rightful place in the world … change the world through the hope of freedom’s enduring promise and our unrelenting spirit,” whatever that means.

Then, near the speech’s end, came the strangest analogy of all: Cruz not as Sanders, Reagan, or Kennedy—but as Pope Francis. “We have so much that binds us together: our families, our work ethic, our ability to dream and build unlike any people in history,” Cruz declared. “But most of all our charity, our love for our fellow men and women, and our willingness to sacrifice for those in need … We will heal the sick, feed the poor, and defend the defenseless.” Huh? The pope just took several refugee families to live with him at the Vatican. For his part, Cruz proposed banning Syrian Muslim refugees from entering the United States and deporting those America had already let in. The pope has called inequality, “the root of social evil.” According to an analysis by the nonpartisan Tax Policy Center, Cruz’s tax plan would cut taxes dramatically for the richest 1 percent of Americans while raising them for the poorest 20 percent.

It’s hard to see all this working. Cruz is not a healer. He’s not a champion of the poor. He doesn’t even come across as particularly youthful. (_The New York Times_ noted last year that, Cruz is “just a few months older than [Marco] Rubio, but no readers or political commentators that we could find have made an issue of his age.) He’s an articulate, ambitious, uncompromising, lifelong conservative. He has been giving speeches on Milton Friedman and Friedrich Hayek since high school.

Take the conservatism out of Ted Cruz and you’re left with what he delivered in his speech last night: nonsensical mush.

We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to letters@theatlantic.com.

Peter Beinart is a contributing writer at _The Atlantic_ and a professor of journalism and political science at the City University of New York.

question: Who is Ted Cruz?

answer: He's a candidate in the Republican primaries running for president.

question: What is a movement conservative?

answer: The article doesn't explicitly state what a movement conservative is. It seems to be opposite of conservative Republicans.

question: Who did Cruz compare himself to as "an outsider"?

answer: He compared himself to Bernie Sanders.

question: What other leaders did Cruz compare himself to?

answer: Ronald Reagan, John F. Kennedy, and Pope Francis.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: At the time of the article, Ted Cruz, a candidate in the Republican primaries running for president is trailing behind Donald Trump. He compares himself to Bernie Sanders, saying they're both outsiders. He then compares himself to Ronald Reagan, John F. Kennedy, and Pope Francis.


split: train

text:
[Fake News: Florida Man NOT Arrested For Tranquilizing And Raping Alligators In Everglades]
Was 57-year-old Shawn Kilums arrested in Florida for tranquilizing and raping alligators in the Everglades? No, that's not true, the story was made up by a "fauxtire" site that invents tales of bizarre crimes and sex acts purely for entertainment purposes and then makes money through advertising. The story did not happen for real.

The story originated from an article published by Huzlers on July 17, 2018 titled "Florida Man Arrested For Tranquilizing And Raping Alligators In Everglades" (archived here) which opened:

  FLORIDA - A Florida man has been arrested after authorities report he was tranquilizing alligators in the everglades and then raping them.

  57 year old Shawn Kilums was found by Florida authorities in the act of engaging in sexual intercourse with a tranquilized alligator Sunday afternoon. Authorities say they tazed Shawn as he was not following police orders, police say Shawn was also high on crystal meth.

Users on social media only saw this title, description and thumbnail and many mistook it for a real news report, despite the telling "Florida Man" in the headline:

  Florida Man Arrested For Tranquilizing And Raping Alligators In Everglades

  FLORIDA - A Florida man has been arrested after authorities report he was tranquilizing alligators in the everglades and then raping them. 57 year old Shawn Kilums was found by Florida authorities in the act of engaging in sexual intercourse with a...

The man pictured with the story is apparently named Robert Prosser from Ohio and we found his mugshot in this 2010 gallery where it is claimed he was arrested for growing marijuana and posession of a firearm:

  Outrageous mugshots

  Ohio man Robert Prosser, 49, was arrested in July 2010 for allegedly growing marijuana at his home, which was located near a school, according to CBS affiliate WKRC. Prosser was also allegedly in possession...

Huzlers styles itself as a "fauxtire" website and carries a disclaimer at the bottom of each page:

  Huzlers.com is the most infamous fauxtire & satire entertainment website in the world. If it's trending on social media you'll find it here!

According to Splinter News the site is run by Pablo Reyes and David Martinez and according to Buzzfeed Reyes is involved with several other fake news websites. They tend to shy away from political stories, opting instead to write for a more "urban" audience, with stories about rappers, criminals and celebrities.

We wrote about huzlers.com before, here are our most recent articles that mention the site:

-   Fake News: McDonald's Manager Did NOT Shoot Man For Putting Soda In His Free Water Cup
-   Fake News: White Woman Did NOT Call Cops On Innocent Man Selling Crack Cocaine Outside Her Apartment
-   Fake News: NO Alabama Man In Custody After Promising Kids V-Bucks, Did NOT Sexually Abuse Them
-   Fake News: Germany NOT Discussing Nuking South Korea After Being Eliminated From FIFA World Cup
-   NOT Fake News: Shooting Suspect Actualy Arrested In Death Of XXXTentacion

_Click this link to copy it to your clipboard_

  [ Maarten Schenk ]
  Lead Stories co-founder Maarten Schenk is our resident expert on fake news and hoax websites. He likes to go beyond just debunking trending fake news stories and is endlessly fascinated by the dazzling variety of psychological and technical tricks used by the people and networks who intentionally spread made-up things on the internet.  He can often be found at conferences and events about fake news, disinformation and fact checking when he is not in his office in Belgium monitoring and tracking the latest fake article to go viral.

  _Read more about or contact Maarten Schenk_

Previous Article Fake News: NO 12 (Or 89 Or 123 Or 135) Dead, NO 870 Wounded, NO 13000 Cars Burned In French Riots Post World Cup Victory Next Article
Fake News: Teen On 'Female Viagra' Did NOT Crash Into Building While Masturbating To Gear Shift

question: What is Huzlers.com?

answer: Huzlers.com is the most infamous fauxtire & satire entertainment website in the world.

question: What kind of articles does Huzlers.com publish?

answer: Huzlers.com publishes fake news about bizarre crimes and sex acts, and stories about rappers, criminals, and celebrities.

question: Why was Robert Prosser arrested in 2010?

answer: He was arrested in 2010 for allegedly growing marijuana at his home.

question: What news about Robert Prosser was published on Huzlers.com?

answer: Huzlers.com published fake news that Robert Prosser has been arrested for tranquilizing and raping alligators.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: Huzlers.com, the most infamous fauxtire & satire entertainment website in the world, publishes fake news about bizarre crimes and sex, stories about rappers, criminals, and celebrities purely for entertainment purposes and then makes money through advertising. Huzlers.com published fake news that Robert Prosser from Florida has been arrested for tranquilizing and raping alligators. The truth is that Robert Prosser from Ohio was arrested for allegedly growing marijuana at his home.


text:
	Picture for a moment, if you will, someone you love. Picture that person, really focus on them. What would you be willing to do for that person? Is there a limit to what you would do for them? I'll bet there is. Would you kill for them? And I don't mean kill in defense, I mean murder. Would you slaughter innocent lives for that person? Would you transcend into a place of pure evil? Would you become, for all intensive purposes, a monster? Most of you probably wouldn't. But I did.
	We all have regrets. Things that we wish we could go back and change. I have only recently learned what it means to truly regret something. Meeting her was the turning point in my life. The day our eyes met was the day I began my descent into darkness, I just didn't know it yet.
	Her name was Emarosa, and she was my goddess. I can see her so vividly, like she's right in front of me. Pale skin that seemed to glow under the moon. Her hair was the midnight sky and her eyes were the brightest of all the stars. She was like a mirror that reflected back everything good in the world.
	It was almost 3 years ago when I asked her to marry me, and half that long since she did. I remember it clearly. As I saw her walk down the aisle my heart exploded and filled my body with warmth from head to toe. This is it I thought, this is joy in the purest and most primitive sense. Nothing else mattered, I was on top of the world. Months prior we had agreed that we didn't need an extravagant honeymoon. No paradise could compare to just spending a week in the country away from the world in each other's arms.  And that's what we did. That's when I lost her.
	We were driving down an unlit back road to our cabin. It was almost three in the morning and she was sleeping in the passenger seat. I glanced over at her to admire how peaceful she looked. That's when it happened.
	I didn't see the road turn. What happened after played in slow motion. The vehicle collided with a tree like a wave breaking against a cliff as one lone branch reached out through the shattered windshield and tore right through her heart. All at once her eyes snapped open, as she gasped for air. She brought her gaze upon me one last time before her frail form went limp. I watched what remained of her life drain from her eyes through the hole in her chest. Her white gown now stained in the most violent shade of red.
	I spent the next few days in a trance. I can hardly remember anything from the ambulance ride back to civilization to the last shovelful of dirt my trembling hands cast upon her casket. For the first time in my life I felt lost, like an untrained sailor out at sea with no idea of what direction to go next.
	The following months led me to a very dark place. I lost my job, and my mind fell into disarray. The last bit of light in my eyes was snuffed out like a candle that day, and I had no desire to keep on living. Alone in the dark I groped through the unruly stack of past due bills, and eviction notices for the gun I left sitting there. The cold barrel against my temple was the first real thing I had felt since Emarosa died. My thumb searched for the hammer, and pulled it back. The click echoed and reverberated off of the collection of empty bottles littered across the floor. I took a deep breath, and eased my finger into the trigger housing. Just as I began to squeeze a cold hand grabbed my wrist, and eased my arm back down.
	"There’s really no need for that." a strangely soothing voice whispered in my ear.

title: [TH] Untitled dark thriller/tragedy A work in progress, looking for feedback to decide if I should keep going or not.

question: Summarize the plot twist.

answer: The narrator's wife died in a tragic car accident while the narrator was the one at the wheel. After her death, they were consumed by so much grief and self-blame that they decided to end their own life. As they cocked the gun and pressed the barrel to their head, they feel a cold hand slip around their wrist, and instruct them, in a soothing manner, not to proceed. The implication is that it was their dead wife.

question: Summarize the reasons the narrator is deeply sad.

answer: The narrator describes how they fell in love with the woman of their dreams. They had asked her to marry them with no trepidation. Her name was Emarosa. Then one morning while driving in the early morning hours back to their cabin, the narrator looked over at Emarosa's peaceful, sleeping form, and hit a tree. A branch drove through her heart and she gasped and met the narrator's eyes before dying.

question: Summarize what happened to the narrator after Emarosa's death.

answer: The narrator becomes unbearably depressed. They lost their job, and the bills piled up. they received an eviction notice, so it is assumed that they were no longer paying rent Then they decided to commit suicide by gun, and got around to doing beginning their attempt.

question: Explain what the narrator thinks the voice is, and how they intend to proceed.


text:
PETER BARRACKS (__) — a historical monument in Taganrog, Russia, that was built at the end of the 18th century. Is a part of «combined arms cell» of Taganrog Fortress. It is also a valuable object of cultural heritage of federal importance.[1]

History

On 7 December 1803, the garrison battalion of st. Dmitry of Rostov Fortress were moved to Taganrog. It was planned to form there a regiment that would consist of two battalions, so the construction of new barracks for this purpose began.[2] Ten «standard» buildings were built, each having soldier barracks, officer hall and kitchen. Every building was surrounded by a two-meter fence.

Nowadays only one «standard» building still stands. Its original layout has been changed a little since the time of construction. The walls of barracks are made of brick, and the brickwork is as thick as 2,5 bricks. At the facade of barracks there are sixteen rectangular windows. The roof has two sloping surfaces. In the past, all the windows had frameworks inside, but now only one window still has it.

In the 1910s the building was occupied by a penitentiary orphanage. In the 1920s there was a prison for juvenile offenders. In 1937 the buildings were redesigned for living spaces.[3]

Museum

By 1998, the barracks were a property of Taganrog Historical-Architectural Reserve and local cossack organization. There are plans for restoration and establishment of the museum called «Taganrog Fortress Barracks».[4] Soldier barracks, officer hall, kitchen, powder magazine and well are to become part of museum complex.[5]

In 2007 town's administration discussed an idea of establishing «Naval Glory Museum». This proposal was rejected because «it found no support in the Ministry of Culture of Rostov oblast».[6] This proposal was rejected because «it found no support in the Ministry of Culture of Rostov oblast».[7]

In January 2012, the administration of Taganrog decided to establish museum center «Peter barracks» and merge it with Faina Ranevskaya Museum and Alexander I Museum.[8] The project will be called «Taganrog Museum Complex».[9] Establishment is estimated to be finished by 2018.[10]

[1] “ВОЙСКОВАЯ ЯЧЕЙКА”

[2] _Назаренко И. В._ Казарма времен Александра I / Таганрог. Энциклопедия. — Таганрог: Антон, 2008. — С. 371. — .

[3]

[4] _Назаренко И. В._ Казарма времен государя Павла / Энциклопедия Таганрога. — Таганрог: Антон, 1998. — С. 281. — .

[5]

[6] _Андреева Е._ Объекты реставрации — к юбилею писателя // Недвижимость Таганрога. — 2007. — 30 июня.

[7]

[8] _Лобахина Ю._ Музей Фаины Раневской будет объединен с «Петровскими казармами» // Аргументы и Факты на Дону. — 2012. — 29 янв.

[9]

[10] В Таганроге говорили о «культурной составляющей» чемпионата мира по футболу

title: Peter barracks (Taganrog)

question: When were the barracks built?

answer: Near the end of the 18th century

question: Where are the barracks?

answer: Taganrog, Russia

question: What is the name of the planned museum?

answer: Taganrog Museum Complex

question: What happened to the barracks in 1937?

answer: The buildings were redesigned for living spaces

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: Peter Barracks is a historical monument in Taganrog, Russia that was built near the end of the 18th century. Following its use as a barracks, it was used in the early 1900s as a penitentiary orphanage, a prison for juvenile offenders, and was finally redesigned into living spaces in 1937. There are currently plans to establish a museum center there which will be called Taganrog Museum Complex.


text:
Nathan stood in the corner with hunched shoulders.  He could see nothing but white floral wallpaper.  The walls smelled dusty.  It was so unfair.
    His mom sentenced him to time out for twenty minutes.  For twenty minutes he was supposed to stand in that corner and do nothing.  His Pokemon, Nosepicker, was just a few points away from leveling up and there he was, enduring a staring contest with dust mites.  The worst part was that he didn't even do anything to deserve it.  His mom just hated him, she favored his brother.  All she ever did was nag at him and make him go to bed early and embarrass him in front of his friends.  One time, she planted a note in his lunch that said 'I love you, Sweety Pumpkins!  Ask Sarah if she'd like to come over and play!' and there was a winky face.  Nathan sat with Sarah at lunch that day and Sarah read that note; he was the laughing stock of the whole school.  Life would have been so much better if his mom just disappeared.
	Life went on for Nathan like that for awhile.  He chafed under his mom's curfew.  He had to bring any new girlfriend home for a very formal, very uncomfortable dinner with his mom (and no, Sarah never came for dinner).  No food upstairs, no TV before homework, no closed doors in the house.  High school came and left Nathan with an open tri-fold letter on his desk:  'Congratulations, you have been accepted to the school of your dreams.'  Those dreams finally took him far away for a long time.
	The white floral wallpaper on the walls in the corner is even dustier now.  There are small tears in the paper and dents in the wall, though I don't know how they got there.  My fingers graze the walls.  Time has a way of marking even the most untouchable of places.  I hear my brother's voice behind me.
	“Nathan.  It's your turn.”
I turn from my corner and walk across the living room into the bedroom hall.  Night is falling, and the gloomy twilight from outside is creeping between closed shutters.  I don't bother knocking before I enter my mom's room.  The nurse looks up from an IV unit and twitches something into place before she leaves.  My mom is on the bed looking old.  The bitter twilight from outside turns the hills and dips of her face into valleys and canyons.  Her hair is a vacant facade, and her pinpoint pupils are seeing somewhere else.  I sit in an old white wicker chair next to the bed.
	“Mom,” I whisper, “I'm here.  It's me, Nathan.”  A spark flashes in her eyes and my voice drops, I don't want to extinguish it.  “How are ya doin'?”
	“Nathan?”  Her voice is the skim off the top of her vocal chords.  “Yes, Nathan.  That's my son.  He's a good boy.”
	“I know, Mom, I—”
	“Stubborn too, like me.  Stubborn like his mom, but such a good boy.”
Nathan wasn't a good boy.  Nathan was resentful.  He was unappreciative and wished his mom would disappear.  He would have been glad to see the woman on the bed in front of me disintegrating into the sheets.  I hate Nathan.
	The twilight is freezing into darkness now.  There's a lamp on the nightstand next to me, but I don't want to turn it on.  My eyes close.  I just want to hear my mom's decomposing voice.
	“I give him everything, everything... I'd lay my life down for him.  He's my angel.”
Now my hands search wildly on the bed for my mom's wrist.  What angel was Nathan, the brat who waited in the corner until his mom wasted away?  My fingers find the wrist; it's a twig waiting to snap.
	Why, Nathan, did you do this to me?  You bitched and you moaned and now I am facing your punishment, this wasted woman, your dying mother.  You turned your back in some spiteful waiting game and guess what, you won, you bastard.
	“I love you, Mom,” I say.  It's an echo of someone else's words, a desperate one-liner to flirt with the idea of never seeing her again.
	My mom turns to me and then I know I've extinguished the spark because she croaks, “That's nice, all very nice.”

title: [Critique] an exercise in manipulating POV: Nathan

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: Nathan

question: How does Nathan feel about his mother?

answer: Resentful

question: How old is Nathan by the end of the story?

answer: It is unclear how old he is.

question: What sickness is Nathan's mother suffering from?

answer: It is unclear what she suffers from.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: Nathan grew up resenting his mother for the ways that she would embarrass him and favor his brother. He later goes away for school. He comes back to visit his sick mother, who is bed-ridden. His mother doesn't realize she is talking to Nathan but she says that she loves him. He still feels resentful toward her, wishing she would disappear.


text:
   "Shut the fuck up, lets roll!"

   "Wut!?"

   "Step away from the crack pipe I mean my drums or we'll be late, dipshit!"

   "Oh yeah..."

...

   Bael was the last bicycle allowed across the bridge.  The officer crossed the roadway after Bael passed and said to Rael,

   "Pedestrians aren't allowed on the bridge as the cruiser passes under."

   "But that's my brother there that you let cross ahead of me."  It was nearly a hundred yards before Bael realized Rael wasn't following.  He stopped and noticed the officer had crossed the roadway to talk with Rael, then eventually let her pass. As she rode closer she shouted, "We can't be on the bridge when the boat passes."  Bael didn't think that they would get such a surreal view of a Navy ship steaming up the Willamette.  He thought it was strange to see a military ship. This was new for him, Bael hadn't lived in a Port city before. For the rest of the ride he thought of what it would look like to see war at home. Then snapped out of it and gave thanks to his great friends for hauling his heavy instrument around.

   Rael usually stood in the center of the room whenever and where ever Bael's band played.  She stood in the center of the room at any show. In fact, she just liked being in the center of rooms. At first it was of an OCD nature, where she had to be in the center of the room for some geometrical reason that even she hardly understood.  As she grew out of her minor obsessive compulsive tendencies and listened to more live music she found that the center of the room usually sounded the best in her opinion.  Occasionally there was an incompetent sound engineer running the sound system.  Rael being somewhat obsessive compulsive, and controlling would have to ask if the engineer would lower or raise the sound of an instrument, or adjust the high or low frequency levels.  Rael was kind of weirded out by this particular peculiar sound engineer.  He had a strange way of staring at her, and when she first noticed, he looked away suddenly then back in her direction but not directly at her as if he hadn't been staring at all.  This had been going on since she arrived. He was always staring at her if she looked in his direction.

   "Bael, tell the sound guy to cut some of the lows when you guys play, it sounds like shit. I would but he's fucking weird." The music was loud and Rael had to lean close to her brothers ear.

   "Haa!" She just stared at him and Bael realized she was serious, he nodded once. "...ok." He said to himself.  Bael went straight to the engineer and without thinking twice leaned in and said.

   "You see my girl over there?" Rael was watching confused, angered and embarrassed as her brother pointed her out.  The engineer sat up straight and stared emotionless at Rael. "She asked me to ask you if you're down to fuck. :D  We like you, oh and when my band plays next could you turn down the low frequencies a little?" The engineer turned to Bael with his brow scrunched, confusion and excitement and skepticism wrinkled throughout his face.

   "Uh what? ...yeah, I mean, really? I can turn down the lows sure... uh are you fucking with me? what, a threesome?"

   "Thanks, man.  Yeah a threesome, dude.  You look fun, at least have a drink with us?" The engineer pondered the proposition for nearly a minute, laughing to himself while staring at Rael who was still watching.

   "Fuck you, I don't believe you. You're fucking with me." He turned towards Rael and laughed, then back towards the sound board. "Nice try."

   "Sorry, man just messing around, didn't mean to offend you or anything, thanks for running the sound." The engineer nodded and looked back at the stage as Bael turned and walked back to his curious sister.

   "What the fuck did you say to him, dipshit?"

   "Just told him I was your manager and you do private dances, wanna make some money tonight?"

   "I'll fucking stab you!" She lunged at him and started punching his chest and stomach.

   "Whoa, don't worry lil' sis he doesn't have the cash!" He said while deflecting fists.

   "You're band is like a bunch of amateurs compared to them."  She gestured towards the stage and  Bael laughed.  He didn't care if it was true, this band was killing it.

title: Fucking Rockstars.

question: What does the story say about the relationship Bael has with his sister?

answer: Rael usually stands in the center of the room whenever Bael's band plays a concert. Bael jokes with the engineer, pretending he and Rael are a couple and want a threesome. Rael punches him playfull when he tells her he said she was a private dancer.

question: What does the story say about the popularity of Bael's band?

question: Summarize all instances of characters lying.

answer: Bael tells the engineer that Rael is his girlfriend and that they want to have a threesome with him. Bael then tells Rael that he told the engineer she was a private dancer but that he doesn't have the cash to pay for a dance.


text:
D'ALBERTIS' PYTHON (_Bothrochilus albertisii_), also known commonly as D'ALBERT'S WATER PYTHON or the NORTHERN WHITE-LIPPED PYTHON, is a species of python, a non-venomous snake in the family Pythonidae. The species is endemic to New Guinea.[1] There are no subspecies that are currently recognized as being valid.[2]

Geographic range and habitat

_B. albertisii_ is found in most of New Guinea below , including the islands of Salawati and Biak, Normanby, Mussau and Emirau,[3] as well as a few islands in the Torres Strait.

The type locality given is "_Kapaor in Nova Guinea boreali occidentali ... et prope Andai_ ". The authors also stated localities for two additional specimens: “_... un esemplare a Kapaor fra i Papua Onin..._” and “_... un secondo esemplare ad Andai presso Dorei..._” (= Kapoar, Onin Peninsula and Andai, near Dorei, Irian Jaya, Indonesia).[4]

Some doubt can be cast on its occurrence on Normanby, as McDowell (1975)[5] had erroneously assigned Bara Bara to this island, rather than to the mainland of Papua New Guinea[6] in Milne Bay Province as stated by Boulenger (1898)[7] and Koopman (1982).[8]

Etymology

The specific name, _albertisii_, is in honor of Italian explorer Luigi D'Albertis.[9][10]

Description

Female adults of _B. albertisii_ grow to an average of about 213 cm (6–7 ft) in total length (including tail). Both sexes are patternless, except for some light markings on the postoculars. The dorsum of the head is shiny black, and the upper and lower labial scales are white with black markings on the anterior edge of the scales. Body color is either brownish-violet fading to yellowish ventrally or blackish-blue fading to gray.

Behavior

Although mostly terrestrial, _B. albertisii_ can and is known to occasionally climb.[11] White-lipped pythons are reportedly aggressive, though this is reduced in those born and raised in captivity.[12] _L. albertisii_ also has been observed to regularly regurgitate fur balls from its prey.[13]

Feeding

The diet of _B. albertisii_ includes a range of small-sized to medium-sized birds and mammals.[14] Neonates and juveniles often feed on lizards. Heat sensitive pits in the upper and lower jaws are used to help locate prey during nocturnal hunting.[15]

Reproduction

_B. albertisii_ is oviparous. A sexually mature female may lay a clutch of about a dozen eggs. The eggs stick together in a compact pile, and the female coils around them. The hatchlings emerge after about two months of incubation and are about in length.[16]

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4] McDiarmid RW, Campbell JA, Touré T (1999). _Snake Species of the World: A Taxonomic and Geographic Reference, Volume 1_. Washington, District of Columbia: Herpetologists' League. 511 pp. (series). (volume).

[5] McDowell SB (1975). “A catalogue of the snakes of New Guinea and the Solomon’s, with special Reference to Those in the Bernice P. Bishop Museum. Part II”. (24.02.1975). _Journal of Herpetology_ 9 (1): 1-79.

[6]

[7] Boulenger GA (1898). “An account of the reptiles and batrachians collected by Dr. L. Loria in British New Guinea”. _Annali del Museo Civico di Storia Naturale di Genova_, Series 2, 18: 694-710.

[8] Koopman KF (1982). “Results of the Archibold Expedition No. 109. Bats from Eastern Papua and the East Papua Islands”. _American Museum Novitates_ (2747): 1-34.

[9] Peters W, Doria G (1878). "_Catalogo dei rettili e dei batraci raccolti da O. Beccari, L. M. D'Albertis e A. A. Bruijn nella sotto-regione austro-malese_ “. _Annali del Museo Civico di Storia Naturale di Genova_, Series 1, 13: 323-450. (”_Liasis Albertisii_ ", new species, pp. 401-403 + Plate III, Figure 2). (in Italian and Latin).

[10] Beolens, Bo; Watkins, Michael; Grayson, Michael (2011). _The Eponym Dictionary of Reptiles_. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. xiii + 296 pp. . (_Leiopython albertisii_, p. 64; _L. bennettorum_, p. 22).

[11]  Cold Blood Creations.

[12]

[13]

[14] Mehrtens JM (1987). _Living Snakes of the World in Color_. New York: Sterling Publishers. 480 pp. .

[15]

[16]

title: D'Albertis python

question: What is Bothrochilus albertisii?

answer: Commonly known as D'Albert's Water Python or Northern White-Lipped Python, it's a species of python, a non-venomous snake in the family Pythonidae.

question: Where is it found?

answer: It's endemic to New Guinea including the islands of Salawati and Blak, Normanby, Mussau, and Emirau, as well as a few islands in the Torres Strait.

question: How long are hatchlings?

answer: Doesn't say

question: What characterizes the species?

answer: They're patternless, except for some light markings on the postoculars. The dorsum of the head is shiny black, and the upper and lower labial scales are white with black  markings. Body color is either brownish-violet fading to yellowish ventrally or blackish-blue fading to grey.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: Bothrochilus albertisii, commonly known as D'Albert's Water Python or Northern White-Lipped Python is a species of python, a non-venomous snake in the family Pythonidae. It is found in New Guinea including the islands of Salawati and Blak, Normanby, Mussau, and Emirau, as well as a few islands in the Torres Strait.They're patternless, except for some light markings on the postoculars. The dorsum of the head is shiny black, and the upper and lower labial scales are white with black  markings. Body color is either brownish-violet fading to yellowish ventrally or blackish-blue fading to grey.


text:
[]

[]Wisconsin Gov. Scott Walker is making an ass of himself in London today, by answering the question, “Do you believe in evolution?” with “I’m going to punt on that one.”

  Walker re: evolution: “I’m going to punt on that one as well. That’s a question a politician shouldn’t be involved in one way or another.”

  — Philip Klein (@philipaklein) February 11, 2015

Walker obviously knows that in Britain, acceptance of the fact of evolution is nearly universal — and Brits know that in the US, rejection of evolution among Republicans is nearly universal. That’s why the question was asked, and that’s why Walker dodged it, because he knew that answering truthfully would make him look like a fool.

As for his comment that “a politician shouldn’t be involved” in this issue, that’s also incredibly disingenuous. Walker is undoubtedly aware that Republican politicians have been heavily involved in trying to sneak creationism into US public schools for decades, and in Wisconsin many taxpayer-funded voucher schools (a very popular Republican idea) are currently teaching young Earth creationism to students.

What a disgrace.

question: Who is making an ass of himself in London?

answer: Wisconsin Gov. Scott Walker

question: What political party does Gov. Walker belong to?

answer: The Republican Party.

question: What fact is nearly universal in Britain?

answer: The belief in evolution

question: What are Republican politicians secretly trying to do in US public schools?

answer: They are heavily involved in trying to sneak creationism into US public schools for decades, especially in many taxpayer-funded voucher schools.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: Wisconsin Gov. Scott Walker made an ass of himself in London for refusing to share his thoughts on whether he believes in evolution or not and making a statement that politicians shouldn't be involved in questions like evolution in the first place. Walker, a Republican, knows that the fact of evolution is nearly universal in Britain, while he and members of his party reject evolution universally. His comments about politicians not being involved also disingenuous because Republicans have been funding voucher schools (US public schools) that try to sneak creationism to students for decades.


text:
My brother wasn’t really alive when he died. His soul was empty, his mind was vacant. Every needle gave him temporary euphoria yet the drugs took back what he owed them. Every time he stabbed a needle into him, he bled; he was left to die in a fashion as meaningless and trivial as his life, leaving the rest of us to navigate this maze of a hell hole.
I walked into the entrance of the courtyard, the building as gray and monotonous as the cold winter sky. The courtyard was empty. I passed by the one lone tree of the courtyard. Its charcoal branches, twisted and bare seemed to reach out like hands trying to clutch something out of reach. The piss-stained stairwell felt cold and damp, the rat inhabitants of the building scuttled past, hungry desperate, scavenging for their next meal, whatever it takes.
The city felt a world away yet it was just out the door. The building was just a facade so the outside world could ignore us. On the outside the businessmen stepped around the homeless, the junkies, the rodents of the city like discarded rubbish. I walked outside and watched across the road as a man ritualistically measured out two teaspoons of sugar and carefully placed them in his coffee for his morning fix.  The rush of the city didn’t penetrate the walls of my building, only the sirens could be heard within its confines. It was the part of the inner-city less seen.
The building was on its last legs. It was old, decrepit. The concrete was cancerous and cracked. The roofs seemed to slouch in the middle, barely able to support its weight. It was a dying cause, a failed social experiment. It made you feel suppressed, trapped, institutionalised. Sometimes I wish it would fall down. The walls house too many bad memories, too much pain, too much suffering.  I get this feeling the buildings going to come down on me, the weight of the bricks crushing me without warning. Sometimes I think I wouldn’t mind if it did so this could all be over and done with.
I walked back inside to our apartment; my mum was passed out on the couch again. I caught a glimpse of a photo of my brother. The pain felt like a knife stabbing through the heart, it was too fresh. the memory, too real. Death is a tough thing to digest but I get the feeling that the feeling will never go away. My thoughts are like parasites in my head, gnawing at my brain.
I left my brother to die. Isolated, lonely, He reached out for help but there was no one there, no support, no help. That’s how it is in life. I feel that’s where I’m destined, where I’m headed. Ever since the death of my brother I’ve truly felt alone in the world, he was on the only sense of direction that I felt in my life and now there’s no one. Dad is long gone and mum is about as good supportive and caring as him. The school keeps calling about me but she doesn’t care. I haven’t been since my brother died. There I’m an outcast, that povo kid who lives in a rundown house with a drunk as a mother. I hate school and no one dares come inside the building to take me away, the outside world never comes inside this building, they know better.
Yesterday I caught my mother shooting up. I see that same vacant look in her eyes that my brother had before he died. The same look that the man had in his eyes as he lay on the sidewalk, coughing up blood as red began surround his abdomen. I murdered a man for twenty-dollars. That’s all that was in his wallet. I panicked, I messed up. He was on his way home from work. A white collared businessman. He walked into the alleyway and I held a knife to him. He tried to make a run for it. I was caught up in the moment, too nervous, too involved in the situation. I sunk the sharp knife into his soft belly as he lay on the ground, mumbling something I couldn’t make out as blood pooled and he wheezed and coughed. He went pale as I ran away. Blood covered my hands as I sprinted. I tossed the knife in the harbour as the man lay down in the dirty streets in his last moments. People saw him but did nothing. He was ignored. For that brief moment he became a part of my world, he was a part of the discarded, the outsiders. He knew what it felt like to be pushed to the side.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of that man in the gutter, left alone, the look in his eyes, the look of death. The same look I see when I look in the mirror

title: "the outsiders"-first post here

question: How did the narrator's brother die?

answer: He overdosed on drugs.

question: Where was the narrator when the brother died?

answer: He ignored him and left him alone.

question: What does the narrator do with the knife?

answer: He kills a man for twenty dollars.

question: Where are the narrator's parents?

answer: The father is gone and the mother is drunk and on drugs at home.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator contemplates his dirty worn-down city and the loss of his brother to drugs. It seems like everyone the narrator meets has problems with money and drugs. The narrator thinks about how he killed a man with a knife for his wallet. He feels alone and destined to die poor and abandoned.


text:
I wrote this story for a school competition, and I ended up being one of the winners, just wanted to share it with you guys! It's about a German soldier from WWI. Enjoy.

Prologue:

Face down. Face down. Not face up. Face down. Didn't scream or anything. Just dropped. Stone cold. I tried to save him, but he was bleeding too hard. Straight through the jugular. Dead.

Chapter 1:

2 days earlier…

"The front line?"

"Yep."

"But we've only been here for a couple days!"

"Well, you won't miss it then."

I couldn't believe it. The front line. The big one. No more wallowing in the reserves, doing boring training. We were going to the big show.
"So, Alan, how long for?"
"2 weeks, then they rotate us out"
"Only 2 weeks?"
"Yep. Pack your things."
Alan was on his bed, packing his backpack with all he needed. I was still processing this new knowledge. After a few seconds, I put my pack on my bed and began to pack.

Chapter 2:

The front line…
Our ride to the front was uneventful, except for the constant pounding of artillery, but that eventually faded into background noise. When we got there, we were directed to our trenches under an iron sky of guns, grenades and bullets.
Apparently, the enemy were making a push towards us. At one point, they came about 10 metres away from our trench and we could see the whites of their fear-stricken eyes. I killed my first man that day. Got him in the stomach, then finished him off when he sank to his knees. The charge broke a few moments afterwards, with men running as fast as they could back to their trenches.
About a quarter of them actually made it back. The rest lay dead or dying in various amounts of pain, strewn around the battlefield like discarded toys. The one I shot had apparently been one of the enemies braver officers, and people were calling me things like "Hero" and "Saviour".

Someone told me that the person I shot had been leading the charges for months on end and that we lost lots of men whenever he was at the head of a charge.
"Now he's gone", he stated, "We'll have that trench within the week, you mark my words!"

Chapter 3:

The next day…
Alan thought that what I'd done was pretty heroic, too. He patted me on the back like everybody else. I felt like shit. I couldn't see what I had done as a good thing. I'd killed a man. Sure, he had been killing our men too, but he was a hero to the enemy. I'd killed one of their greatest inspirations. If any of those men, in that trench not too far from ours, survived, they would be reduced to emotional wrecks. Not just from losing a great hero, but from the war itself. I'd seen it already, on our side. Veterans walking around, almost trance-like, probably trying to remember a happier time, like before the war. Or their 10th birthday. They had lost touch with reality. That's what any sane soldier fears. Not the cold, dark embrace of death, or the pain, but the sight. The feel. The loss of what you think the world is, stripped away until there is-
"Sam?"
I snapped out of it. I realised I was drooling from lack of concentration. Oh feth, I thought. Is it already happening? Surely not this fast?
"Sam?" Alan repeated. I was aware now.
"Yeah, Alan?"
"We're moving up-trench"
"Really? Why?"
"Logistics apparently thought that losses would be much higher, so the trench is overcrowded. We need to move up in case of bombardment, or it gets too hard to fight."
That made a lot of sense. "How much did Logistics misestimate by?" I asked.
"Well, word from the rabble is that they thought we'd lose the same amount as all the other times, 'cos of that officer you killed. They thought the casualties would be up in the hundreds"
I stared at him, wide-eyed with shock. Had that one man been that inspiring? Could one man really make other men fight with such fervour and fury that his death is the tipping point in a battle?"
These thoughts were at the forefront of my mind as we packed our meagre belongings up and moved up the trench, to the heavier fighting.

Final Chapter:

The next day, I had had an epiphany.
I was that man, now.
I was the hero that all the other men were inspired by.
I could make them fight with the fury and strength of a million men, when we were only a few thousand.
Word had already spread to the other trenches. I was Slayer der Götter, who was already a figure of legend.
 It showed how low morale had been, for me to be elevated to such a high status without being an officer or commander.

These men would follow me to hell and back.

Suddenly, the was a clamour rising from the trench. Men were shouting orders to get ready. We were going to assault the enemy trenches. I looked around. About a dozen men were looking my way, as if I was going to lead them. As soon as the sirens went, I knew I had no choice. I clambered up the trench line with Alan by my side. We were best friends, nothing could stop us.
The few trees in our way provided a little cover from the withering, inaccurate fire coming from the other trench. We had 20 meters to go.
18.
15.
11.
Then, out of nowhere, Alan dropped.
Face down. Face down. Not face up. Face down. Didn't scream or anything. Just dropped. Stone cold. I tried to save him, but he was bleeding too hard. Straight through the jugular. Dead.
My fury was taken to new heights. I grabbed his bayonet from the end of his rifle. I had two in my hands. One to murder and one to avenge. I sprinted the final 10 meters with a war cry on my lips. The men around me did the same.
Then, I was among them. Swinging wildly. It was all a blur of stabbing, ripping, killing, swinging, screaming, blood, death, stamping.
I stopped. The men I had killed were strewn about me, in various states of mutilation. I sprinted around the trench corner.
And I saw him. Death was 20 years old or so, clad in the combat gear of the enemy, bearing a rifle. I stared Death down the barrel of his gun, and didn't flinch when he claimed me.
-Sam-

title: Chains of Command

question: Where is the narrator?

answer: The narrator, Sam, is on the front lines of a war.

question: Who is the narrator fighting against?

answer: Unclear, but the preamble states that the time period of the passage is World War I.

question: Who is Alan?

answer: Alan is a friend of Sam's.

question: Why are they moving up-trench?

answer: The logistics team believes that the current trench they are in is too crowded, so they need to advance forward in order to avoid bombardment.

question: Write a ~6 sentence summary.

answer: Sam is shipped out to the front lines for what a 2 week rotation. Sam kills a man for the first time, and is lauded as a hero. Alan tells Sam that they will be moving up-trench, in order to reduce the amount of soldiers in the current trench. The next day, the soldiers prepare to assault the enemy trench. As they sprint forward, Alan is killed. Enraged, Sam charges into the trench, and comes face to face with his killer.


text:
I woke up feeling surprisingly normal. There were none of the usual aches and pains that I felt sometimes, and my mind was oddly clear. I figured that I might as well take advantage of my peculiar situation, so I reached over to my nightstand and tried to pick up my iPad so I could read the morning news. Then I saw my hand.

I leapt out of the bed, recoiling in terror. Only too late did I realize that I had never hit the ground. Eyes wide, I chanced a look down. Instead of the familiar confines of my tiny bedroom, I saw the floor of the apartment above mine. My right leg was floating half in, half out of the brown-speckled tile, and I was further surprised to see it whole. I had lost it below the knee in combat ten years ago, but it was all there, despite the fact that I could feel none of it. I testily moved the limb, and it silently emerged from the floor. I was forced to stifle another shout of alarm when, out of the corner of my left eye, I saw the occupant of the apartment. She was sleeping, her slight back to me. I tried to stand, only to find that I slowly floated upwards. Desperately, I stared at the floor, and I sank down, landing silently. I couldn't help it. Before I realized what I was doing, I grunted in satisfaction at my minor accomplishment. Horrified, I literally melted into the wall. I could still see inside, however, and noticed that the woman hadn’t even stirred, and was still sleeping soundly. Emboldened, I stepped back into the apartment. I cleared my throat, and said, “Oi! Can you here me?” The woman continued sleeping. “Hey!” I practically shouted, growing more terrified. Nothing happened. I impulsively stepped towards the bed, reaching for the woman’s shoulder. My hand went straight through. I pulled it away, and fell back into the floor. With a silent flash, everything went white.

I opened my eyes, and found myself in the basement of my building. I tried to stand, but once again, I floated through the ceiling. The floor above was the lobby, and I came up just in front of the reception desk. I expected the people in the lobby to recoil at the sight of my scarred visage appearing from the floor, but no one seemed to notice me. This was starting to seem like a trend, so I began to walk towards the door. I found that, if I concentrated, I could prevent myself from falling through. I stepped right through the glass doors, flinching as my feet hit the sidewalk. It was then that I realized that I was dressed in nothing but my boxers. While I seemed to be invisible, my embarrassment won out and I decided to return to my room. I turned to face the building, and jumped.

I flew up much faster than I had earlier. My apartment was on the ninth floor, and I reached its window within a second. I reached out and grabbed the balcony, my hand passing right through a potted plant. Focusing, I was able to stand on the cracked concrete and look through my window. I walked through the screened glass door into my small kitchen. I went into my room via the wall, and noticed that I was lying on the bed. I looked surprisingly serene, but the fact remained that my dead body was lying less than ten feet in front of me, and I was standing there looking at it. I took the news that I was dead pretty well, considering the circumstances. Death had been around the corner for me since I joined the Service, and I was almost glad that I had gone while I was sleeping peacefully, as opposed to, perhaps, having a knife shoved through my gut. I turned, shrugged my shoulders, and opened my closet. I grabbed a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt, and a leather jacket and found that, as I put them on, they became translucent, allowing me to see the floor through the fabric. I walked over to my nightstand and pocketed my phone, wallet, and pocketknife. I took one last look at my apartment, and then I jumped through the ceiling and left.

I came out on the roof, squinting in the morning Los Angeles sunlight. The view from my building’s roof was spectacular, with the Pacific Ocean easily visible on the horizon. The wind was blowing, but I didn’t feel it like I normally would. The air passed through me, leaving behind only the soft feeling of a light breeze. The smog, normally the most dominant smell in the air, was even worse than average. I decided to get away from it, and jumped again. The roof of the building receded in a flash, and I was above the clouds. I threw my arms apart, slowing my upward momentum and eventually stopping me. I looked down, and could see the entire city. The cars on the 101 were like ants, crawling along with the speed of molasses. The Port was bustling, with enormous container ships plying the shining blue carpet that was the water. I could see LAX, with what looked like toy planes taking off, landing, and disgorging their human cargo into the airport. As I gazed out over the great city, I heard approaching engines. I whipped my head around, and saw the blue nose of an airliner hit me in the chest.

I shot downward, but it was too late. I phased through the plane’s aluminum skin and entered the cargo compartment. I focused on stopping my tumble, and forced my hand to grab onto a navy-blue suitcase. Having slowed down sufficiently, I let go of the suitcase, and sat on the floor of the plane. Despite the air moving past at 500 miles per hour just inches from my rear end, I felt nothing. Despite my long career in the field of clandestine operations, I had somehow never found myself in the cargo compartment of any passenger jet, much less a Southwest Airlines Boeing 737. I figured that, seeing as I was dead, I could afford to get away from things a little. I settled in between a bulkhead and some odd-smelling luggage, concentrated on not falling through the plane, and wondered where I was flying off to.

title: A Slightly-Different Morning

question: Summarize the narrator's death.

answer: The narrator dies peacefully while sleeping. This is unexpected, given the narrator's military service and the potential for violent death associated with it. The narrator is relieved not to have been killed by a knife in the gut.

question: What does the passage say about airplanes?

answer: The narrator floats up in the sky and gets a birds-eye view of LAX, where planes are arriving and departing. In the sky, the sound of engines warns the narrator (too late) of the plane that the narrator is then phased into. The narrator lands in the cargo compartment. The plane is a Boeing 737, passenger jet with Southwest Arlines, traveling at over 500 miles per hour.

question: What does the passage say about the afterlife?

question: Summarize the people the narrator encounters.

answer: The only person the narrator encounters directly is the female neighbor whose apartment the narrator accidentally ends up in while getting the hang of being incorporeal. The neighbor remains asleep and unaware of the narrator's presence. The narrator's arm passes right through her, and she doesn't wake even when being shouted at.

question: What does the passage say about the narrator's generosity?


text:
	They do not tell you where you are going until you are there. They make us march miles for weeks, without the slightest hint about the terror that awaits. We leave with around one hundred thousand men, but arrive with only ten thousand. They do not die, but they are engineers and workers that stay behind at certain locations to build a road to the place we are going, to make it easier the next time around.
	“Hold!” The Centurion yells loudly. He is a big, powerful man, who has led many victories. He strode forth on his horse, inspecting the path ahead. He had glistening silver armor, covering a red tunic. His helmet is the classic helmet of a Roman Centurion.
	“March!”
	I do not know what he thought was there, but it must be all okay now. A little on up the path, there was a very loud crashing noise to out right. He held his hand up in the “hold” position, not yelling it in case there was something there, and it had not spotted us yet. He then made the “line” signal, in which we all simultaneously turned to the right, and one man would put his shield against the ground and hold his spear to the right of it, while the other man would put his shield on a forty five degree inward angle on top of it.
	Like the slither of a snake in the grass, they came straight up behind us.

How is that so far?

title: New Roman Empire

question: Where are the soldiers going?

answer: That information can't be found

question: When is the story set?

answer: That information can't be found

question: Who is the Centurion?

answer: He leads the group of soldiers

question: Who comes up behind the soldiers?

answer: That information can't be found

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: A group of Roman soldiers are marching somewhere when they hear something off to their right. They stop and turn, but they come from behind the soldiers.


text: Let me tell you a story about my perilous and sometimes absurdly amazing journey to Gettysburg Battlefield in Pennsylvania. So it begins with me setting off from my sleepy little town of -redacted- on a mission; a mission of dire importance to me. It begins on the wild roads of Suburbia that slowly melt from the lull of bustle and humanity to a hush that only comes with rural areas, a hush that creeps up on you slowly and before you know it, the somnolent hush almost puts you to sleep. But I was determined, I was eager to go to this glorious Fabled city of Old so I did not nod off. To keep complete composure, like anyone would, I needed sustenance, preferably in the form of my favorite country buffet. After a raucous feast and courtesies to the wait staff as is the custom, I was off again. The horizon was comprised of the mighty Catoctin mountain at a staggering 1900 feet and the scraggly beard of trees atop it; this mountain man shifting and moving with the ridges as if actual flesh and blood. The contrast of the soaring peaks and the farmland like slabs of concrete laid down flat made for quite a sight and I was struck with the urge to paint, but I was morally contracted to visit the light at the end of my tunnel vision, so I kept trekking. I was close and I could feel it. There is this buzz of excitement, like a small static shock, that flows like the electrons that make up a current through your body. This excitement tingles and slowly resonates stronger and stronger until you reach the generator of the buzz and then it's gone. I could see the gleaming gold buildings, of my destination but I kept my cool and held in the current until I was face to face with the crown jewel of the empire of Civil War history. The shadow of the Round Top hills overlooking the site led me right to the spot where my interest in history would grow exponentially to  point of no return. I departed my rusty steed and I was there, finally

title: Gettysburg (taken from my College entrance essay, please critique)

question: Had the narrator been to Gettysburg before this trip?

answer: That information isn't available in the story.

question: Summarize the narrator's description of the transition from suburbia to a rural area?

answer: The transition starts from a bustle of humanity to a quiet that lulls you to sleep.

question: Did the narrator learn anything on their journey to Gettysburg?

answer: It doesn't seem so, they only describe the journey itself.

question: What are the Round Top hills?

answer: The narrator describes them as the empire of Civil War history.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator details their journey from their suburban town to the Gettsyburg Battlefield in Pennsylvania. When they finally reach the Round Top hills, the crown jewel of Civil War history, the narrator feels that they are finally there.


text:
Nelson|Nelson River (disambiguation)}}

The NELSON RIVER is a river of north-central North America, in the Canadian province of Manitoba. The river drains Lake Winnipeg and runs before it ends in Hudson Bay. Its full length (including the Saskatchewan River and Bow River) is , it has mean discharge of , and has a drainage basin of , of which is in the United States.[1]

Geography

[Playgreen Lake in Manitoba] The Nelson River flows into Playgreen Lake from Lake Winnipeg then flows from two channels into Cross Lake. The east channel and the Jack River flow from the southeast portion of the lake into Little Playgreen Lake then the Nelson east channel continues in a northerly direction passing through Pipestone Lake on its way to Cross Lake. The west channel flows out of the north ends of Playgreen Lake, Kiskittogisu Lake and Kiskitto Lake into Cross Lake at the Manitoba Hydro's Jenpeg Generating Station and Dam. From Cross Lake it flows through Sipiwesk Lake, Split Lake and Stephens Lake on its way to the Hudson Bay.[2][3]

Since it drains Lake Winnipeg, it is the last part of the large Saskatchewan River system, as well as that of the Red River and Winnipeg River. Devils Lake is unusual for a glacial lake in being presently closed, also has been known to overflow into the Red River for at least five separate periods since deglaciation.[4]

Besides Lake Winnipeg, its primary tributaries include the Grass River, which drains a long area north of Lake Winnipeg, and the Burntwood River, which passes through Thompson, Manitoba.

The river flows into Hudson Bay at Port Nelson (now a ghost town), just north of the Hayes River and York Factory. Other communities upriver from there include Bird, Sundance, Long Spruce, Gillam, Split Lake, Arnot, Cross Lake, and Norway House.

Transportation

[Port facilities at Port Nelson would have required a long causeway to reach deep water.]

North America has just one port on the Arctic Ocean, linked to the North American railway grid—at Churchill, Manitoba, at the mouth of the Churchill River.[5] Originally port facilities were to have been built at Port Nelson; original proposals for the Hudson’s Bay rail link would have used that point as a terminus. Practical problems led to the port's relocation to Churchill. Those difficulties included a much greater need for dredging, because the Nelson River's water was more full of silt, in absolute terms, and carried more silt because of its greater volume of flow. The Nelson estuary is broad and shallow, so port facilities would have to be constructed on artificial islands created in the middle of the river, that would require a causeway approximately a kilometre long to reach.

History

[First Nations people on the Nelson River, 1878] The river was named by Sir Thomas Button, a Welsh explorer from St. Lythans, Glamorganshire, who wintered at its mouth in 1612, after Robert Nelson, a ship's master who died there. At that time, the Cree people who lived along its banks called it Powinigow or Powinini-gow, which may have meant “the Rapid Strangers' river”.[6] The area was fought over for the fur trade, though the Hayes River, whose mouth is near the Nelson's, became the main route inland.

Fort Nelson, a historic Hudson's Bay Company trading post, was at the mouth of the Nelson River at Hudson Bay and was a key trading post in the early 18th century. After his pivotal role in establishing the Hudson's Bay Company, Pierre Esprit Radisson, noted French explorer, was chief director of trade at Fort Nelson during one of his sustained periods of service to England. Today, Fort Nelson no longer exists. Port Nelson, the abandoned shipping port, remains on the opposite side of the river mouth on Hudson Bay.

The Nelson River's huge volume and long drop make it useful for generating hydroelectricity. Flooding caused by damming of the river has provoked bitter disputes with First Nations in the past although the Northern Flood Agreement was created in the 1970s to help offset the damages caused by flooding.[7]

[1] Atlas of Canada

[2]

[3]

[4] Comments on Statements by North Dakotas Senator Kent Conrad in His Letters to the Great Lakes Commission Regarding the Commission’s January 23, 2003, Letter to Senators Urging Support of Senator McCain’s Amendment on the Devil’s Lake Outlet in the Omnibus Appropriations Bill for Fiscal Year 2003

[5]

[6]

[7]

title: Nelson River

question: In which US state does the Nelson River end?

answer: It ends in Canada, but has a drainage basin in the US.

question: Why is the river not named after the First Nations people who utilized it for a very long time before anyone else came to the land?

answer: The colonizers took all of the land and monetized resources, which they felt gave them the right to claim to "discover" natural features such as rivers, caves, etc.

question: What is meant by a ghost town?

answer: No one inhabits the town or uses its resources actively.

question: What are the repercussions of harnessing a river's power to generate hydroelectricity?

answer: This practice can cause flooding and mess with natural irrigation.


text:
There always was a dark cinematic thread to the story of Pat Tillman: the football star imbued with post-9/11 patriotism who was killed in a friendly-fire incident in the Afghan mountains and the allegations of a massive bureaucratic cover-up involving the highest levels of the U.S. Army in the wake of the tragedy.

So it wasn't terribly shocking when word broke this past winter that "The Tillman Story," a documentary film, was being purchased by the powerhouse Weinstein Company. The story, even without a director applying his artistic license to the script, obviously had many elements of a political thriller.

As the release date approaches -- the film will premiere in Los Angeles and New York on August 20 -- those elements are becoming a bit clearer and more intriguing. The Weinstein Company sent the Huffington Post two previously unseen letters written by Tillman's father at the peak of frustration with the army's investigation into his son's death. The notes, penned to Brigadier General Gary M. Jones (the man spearheading the investigation) as well as the Senate Armed Services Committee (which oversaw Jones's work), paint a picture of a man increasingly convinced that a massive conspiracy was emerging around the death of his son.

"You are a General," Tillman's father writes Jones after being presented with a briefing book of his findings. "There is no way a man like you, with your intelligence, education, military, experience, responsibilities (primarily for difficult situations), and rank... believes the conclusions reached in the March 31, 2005 Briefing Book. But your signature is on it. I assume, therefore, that you are part of this shameless bullshit. I embarrassed myself by treating you with respect [on] March 31, 2005. I thought your rank deserved it and anticipated something different from the new and improved investigation. I won't act so hypocritically if we meet again."

"In sum: Fuck you... and yours."

The two letters are worth a read, if only for the insight they provide into how haphazard and mismanaged (deliberately or not) the investigations were. Tillman's father comes off as emotional, for good reason. But the questions he raised -- while conspiratorial in tone -- offer compelling drama (both real life and for the upcoming movie). Take, for instance, the notion that the shooters of his son may have been blinded by the glare of the sunset.

"The shooters were always looking North or Northwest," Tillman's father writes. "Even in Afghanistan, the sun sets in the West - Southwest. How on God's green earth can you add in a "glare factor" looking away from the sun that has set? (P-16) Immediately after the sunset , facing the wrong direction (North vs. Southwest), the glare impaired their vision? Don't you need sun to have glare?"

By the spring of 2007, indeed, evidenceemerged that some of Pat Tillman senior's larger fears were driven not by emotion-driven conspiracy theories but by legitimate holes in the Army's story.

READ the letter:

Calling all HuffPost superfans!

Sign up for membership to become a founding member and help shape HuffPost's next chapter

question: What is the article about?

answer: It is about the letters written by father of Pat Tillman, a football star who died in a friendly-fire incident in the Afghan mountains. And the underlying issues that his letters bring up. The letters will be the basis of a documentary film.

question: What are the letters about?

answer: While the article does not go into detail about what the letters contain, it does imply that they generally question the validity of the US army's investigation of the incident, that there has been a cover up, and that there are details in the reports that are not logically sound.

question: What was written in the investigation that was question by Mr. Tillman?

answer: One of the details mentioned is that the shooters were blinded by the sun, which is questionable as the information shows they were facing north and northwest -orientations where the glare of the sun would not affect them.

question: Why was this story featured on the news?

answer: At the time of writing, a documentary film about Pat's death will be made by the Weinstein company.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: A documentary film about Pat Tillman's alleged death by friendly-fire in the Afghan mountains will be made by the Weinstein company. They are basing


text:
RATNAKARAVARNI was a 16th-century Kannada poet and writer.[1] He is considered to be one of the trailblazers in the native _shatpadi_ (hexa-metre, six line verse) and _sangatya_ (composition meant to be sung to the accompaniment of musical instrument) metric tradition that was popularised in Kannada literature during the rule of the Vijayanagara empire in modern Karnataka. His most famous writing is the story of the Jain prince Bharata and is called the _Bharatesha Vaibhava_ (or _Bharatesvara Charite_). Known to be a troubled and restless person, tradition has it that Ratnakaravarni converted from his religion Jainism to Veerashaivism when a less-meritorious poet superseded him. During this brief time, he wrote the _Basavapurana_, a biography of the 12th century social reformer Basavanna. Later, he returned to the Jain religion and penned classics in the _shataka_ metre (string of 100 verses).[2][3] His contributions to Kannada literature are considered trend setting.

Life and works

Ratnakaravarni of Mudabidri (c. 1557) was a court poet under the patronage of Bhairasa Wodeyar at Karkala, modern coastal Karnataka, and is famous for successfully integrating an element of worldly pleasure into asceticism and for treating the topic of erotics with discretion in a religious epic, his _magnum opus_, the _Bharatesha Vaibhava_.[4] One of the most popular poets of Kannada literature, his writings took to a fine line between the royal court and conservative monastery. His writings were popular across religions and sects for their secular appeal. In fact, an early 19th-century writing recognises him as an authority on erotics and the science of pleasure, rather than a poet with a spiritual bent.[5] A radical and sensitive poet, he once claimed that spiritual meditation “was boring”. Tradition has it that Ratnakaravarni converted to Veerashaivism when his _magnum opus_ was initially scorned at (after a poet called Ravikirthi objected to a few verses in it) only to return to the Jain fold and pen other important writings.[6] Written in epic proportions, the _Bharatesha Vaibhava_ is in eighty cantos and runs into 10,000 verses. His other important writings are the 2,000 spiritual songs called _Annagalapada_ (“Songs of the Brothers”) and three _shatakas_: the _Ratnakara sataka_, the _Aparajitesvara shataka_, a discourse on Jain morals, renunciation and philosophy and the _Trilokya shataka_, an account of the universe as seen by Jains, consisting of heaven, hell and the intermediate worlds .[7][8][9][10]

Magnum opus

_Bharatesha Vaibhava_ is a version of the earlier _Poorvapurana_ by Jinasenacharya and brings out a different perspective compared to the _Adipurana_ written by Adikavi Pampa in c.941. Centered on the glorification of the enlightened Bharata, the son of the first Jain Tirthankar Adinatha, Ratnakaravarni cleverly focusses on those aspects that the original by Pampa ignored.[11] Ratnakaravarni goes into minute details about prince Bharata, who according to the author serves as the ideal balance between detachment (_yoga_) and attachment (_bhoga_). Though married to “96,000 women”, Bharata is depicted as one who at once can separate himself from worldly pleasures. Unlike Pampa who focussed on the conflict between the brothers, Bahubali and Bharata, ending with Bahubali's asceticism and Bharata's humiliation, Ratnakaravarni's eulogy of Bharata leaves room only for Bahubali's evolution towards sainthood. Eventually, Bharata attains _moksha_ by burning himself in ascetic fire.[12] The author showers encomium on Bharata in his various roles as a monarch, husband, son, friend and a devotee, a rare description of a “perfect human being” among Jain writings. Since details of the early life of Bharata as a young ruler did not exist in previous writings or in tradition, much of Ratnakaravarni's vivid description of that period was a product of his imagination. This work finds its pride of place in Kannada's epic poetry for being the lengthiest poem in the folk _sangatya_ metre.[13]

Notes

[1] Narasimhacharya (1988), p. 23

[2] Shiva Prakash (1997), p. 210

[3]

[4] Nagaraj in Pollock (2003), p. 373

[5] Nagaraj in Pollock (2003), pp. 374–375, 377

[6] Nagaraj in Pollock (2003), p. 376

[7]

[8]

[9] Mukherjee (1999), p. 328

[10] Rice E.P. (1921), p. 47

[11] Shiva Prakash (1997), p. 211

[12]

[13] Sahitya Akademi (1987), pp. 453–454

title: Ratnakaravarni

question: What was considered unique about Ratnakaravarni of Mudabidri's works?

answer: Ratnakaravarni was a Kannada poet and writer who lived in the 16th-century. His works are considered to be on the cutting edge of what Kannada poetry should be. His poems even found reception outside of Kanada culture because of their conservative focus on erotic matters. Ratnakaravarni's most popular work is the Bharatesha Vaibhava which contains eighty cantos and 10,000 verses.


text:
Hands

	His hands were very rough. So rough in fact that they smoothed out and wore down everything they touched, like fine grain paper that carpenters use to reveal hidden beauty. But his hands never brought out anything quite so beautiful.  They only brought out the worst in people, the side that begs and fiends until 3 a.m., the side the neighbors complain about.

	His hands touched things that ought not slide down throats, but often did. These hands saw all the faces and touched all the things, but never really said a word. When they did say things- the things were usually misspelled and messy, like a child who never learned much more than the alphabet.  They scribbled small things at night while they tried to finish enough schoolwork to escape a small twisted piece of land.

	His hands once did semi-great things. The hands used to touch hot circular metal with long handles attached to them so that the operator wouldn’t get burned. They used to perform in front of people completely captivated by the sounds they unleashed from a slightly raised platform at the back of a dark room.  His hands would labor on hot days for companies that abused them and had them handle things only men did.

	His hands did what only scared men do.  His hands pushed against an invisible assailant in the middle of the night until the next day would peak over the horizon and beg every young soul to finally rest. But hands don’t need rest. Hands need a will behind them to move, push, and take.

	His hands held precious things, but never for long. The hands weren’t very skilled at juggling. They would drop these precious things one by one until only one object was left in each hand.

	The left hand constantly held a crystalline nightmare that unlocked a secret playground within the minds of every insomniac with twenty dollars.

	The right hand frequently clenched a green bottle. The right hand loved this bottle although it constantly led the hands to forget what they were doing.

	His hands once held a precious thing. Night after night when the juggling would begin, his hands were on a waist. They ran their rough nerves through silky hair, over pursed lips, and down an alert shoulder.

	His hands once held a precious thing. But precious things break, when they are dropped, down, where precious things rot.

	These hands shook many others, but only let go of one.

title: Hands (Part of a larger collection)

question: What job could you assume the man in the story had?

answer: The man could be a carpenter, a wood worker, or even a mechanic.

question: What relationship does the narrator desire to have with the man?

answer: The narrator desires to have a sexual relationship with the man, as the narrator fantasizes about the man's hands.


text:
***Down towards the bottom, into the deep.***

Down towards the bottom, there laid a man. Impaled by the thought of seeing the man he has become.

Down towards the bottom, a blind man waits for a friend. His friend was killed in '83.

Down towards the bottom, a boy of 16 waits for the train. This train was not for riding.

Down towards the bottom, a wife of a soldier waits by the phone. Her husband died in a car-bombing, yet she is to know.

Down towards the bottom, a middle-aged man scowls. The thought of being with these people disgust him; vice-versa for the others.

Down towards the bottom, a 4 y.o. girl cries. Her favorite plush animal stolen from her hands.

Down towards the bottom, I watch as these people clamber for the chance at a misshapen ray of sunlight, bending its way down from the heavens. Nothing is to stop these people from their way, whether it be something simple (A plush animal) or something harsh (A husband gone away).

Down towards the bottom, I see the mercy of the light come down, illuminating the darkness of the bottom. The people come out of their caves, reminded of their old days.

Down towards the bottom, I see the boy being pulled up by a horde of teenagers. The change in face of the boy is drastic. A face of shame goes to surprise, as strangers to himself raise him from the depths of the bottom.

Down towards the bottom, a wife is reminded of something else. A child screams for help, at the mercy of a skinned knee. She is propelled from the bottom, saving the child from infection, as her husband served her nation.

Down towards the bottom, the blind man stands up and climbs the cliffside. The sudden ping of realization giving sight to his life. His friend long passed watches him as he climbs the rocky scale.

Down towards the bottom, a girl is befriended by a man. The girl, as the fun of material possessions leaves her body, grabs the man's suit. The man, as his coattails are pulled, stands up and puts the girl on his shoulder. They hitch a ride on a stray beam of light and it carries them upwards.

Down towards the bottom, a man is uplifted. His wife shows her head from behind a rock, inviting him to dinner. Your son has missed you, she says. I know, says the man.

Down towards the bottom, light makes its way down. projecting more lost souls. These people have different problems, independent from the rest. Soon these people will find their way towards the light, but for now they rest down towards the bottom, into the deep.

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

Hi,

I'm MoodyAtom. This is my first time posting in this sub.

I want to tell you a little bit about this story. It is a more story-driven approach to a lecture I was given by my psychologist. I have had depression for most of my life, suicide having been a very real thing. The point of the story is to tell, though cliche, it does get better. The theme is based on the Pearl Jam song "Deep" from their album "Ten".

Also, any critique is welcome. I, according to english teachers and psychologists I've had, have always said I'm a good writer, but I would like input from actual writers.

Thank you!

*MoodyAtom*.

title: Down towards the bottom, into the deep. - Please critique.

question: What does "Down towards the bottom, into the deep" mean?

answer: It represents people's problems and their struggle to make their way away from the problems. They all find their way towards the light somehow, but now they rest on the bottom, into the deep.

question: Who are the main characters of the story?

answer: There are many characters, but no main characters.

question: What does the narrator learn in the story?

answer: How the people make their way from the bottom; get through their trials.

question: Is there any connection between all of the characters mentioned?

answer: Yes, that they're all experiencing despair of some degree.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: The writing is a bit of poetry discussing the despair of depression and the ability to make their way out of it. The poem gives examples of individuals some make their way out of the bottom, some have yet to find their way out.


text:
JOHN ERICKSON (born January 5, 1964) is an American professional golfer who played the Canadian Tour from 1987 to 1994 and the PGA Tour of Australasia Tour from 1987 to 1992.

Competition

Erickson was a top national collegiate player at Fresno State - Sun Bowl All American, 1985 Big West Conference champion, NCAA All-American as well as a quarter finalist in the 1983 U.S. Amateur. As a pro, he won several events worldwide including the 1991 Windsor Charity Classic shooting a 17 under par tournament record score of 271 (68-67-67-69) on the Canadian Tour. He was one of the last players to win an international event using a persimmon driver. In 1991, Erickson was a Sony World ranked professional player.

In November 2008, after 15 years of retirement, Erickson made a return to professional competition and the winner's circle taking home a 7 stroke victory in the TRGA Las Vegas Classic played at Las Vegas National Golf Club which hosted the Las Vegas Invitational on the PGA Tour throughout the 1960s and 1970s. The event was unique in that it required players to use equipment no later than 1979. No metal woods, long putters, or wedges over 56 degrees were allowed. The event followed the rules and guidelines of the Traditional Rules of Golf (TRGA).

The Golfing Machine

Erickson was an early protégé of the controversial teaching method “The Golfing Machine” that was based upon the book of the same name written by Homer Kelley. The Golfing Machine drew from physics and geometry, breaking the golf swing down into 24 components, 4 power accumulators, 16 variations, and 4 imperatives. The objective nature of the teaching methodology differs from the past in that the teacher must remain objective and not inject a subjective or mysterious nature into instruction. “Complexity is far more simple and workable than mystery” quoted from “The Golfing Machine” (preface). Bobby Clampett, and Mac O'Grady were also having success using the Golfing Machine model around this time period.

Retirement

In 1993 Erickson retired from competition. Erickson has been quoted as being “a promoter of the traditional values of the game” and did not favor the direction the game was moving into longer courses, bigger greens wider fairways as well as radical equipment changes such as super large-headed titanium drivers and plastic golf balls. “Golf is a game played outside on a parkland where the course and the equipment should work in harmony. It should be required that the golfer to be tested across various aspects of the game including tee shots, short, mid and long irons particularly on the par 4’s as they were properly intended. Technology has been striving to remove the difficult long iron approach shot into the par fours of a championship golf course. Long iron approach shots should be the acid test of the game and the golf swing itself. A proper championship course with the traditional 10 par fours should require three or four long iron approach shots, along with the mid iron and short iron approaches”. As a golf purist, he believed woods should be made of wood or persimmon, strongly opposed perimeter weighted irons, and believed golf courses were sacred sites to celebrate and play the ancient game, not a vehicle to sell real estate home lots. Erickson believed golf should be a game of physical and mental skill, much like Chess where the rules for play are honored and respected. He believed the USGA did not stand up to the equipment makers, selling the game out for profit while forcing a new technology upon golf in the process losing its long-rooted traditional values. Erickson believed the world's classic old courses were not meant to be lengthened and in doing so, disgraced the design, shape, and intention of how the holes should be played. Erickson is outspoken about his support for famous golf architect Alister MacKenzie's ideals, who believed golf should be walked, and the game should be more about skill than the pursuit of technological advances in equipment.

Erickson lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and still plays golf with persimmon and blade style irons promoting the traditional values of the game.

Author

Erickson has been a consultant for the Traditional Rules of Golf Association (TRGA) and has been a contributing author and part of the TRGA brain trust.

Erickson is also working on a book about the golf swing.

title: John Erickson (golfer)

question: Describe what the text states about the Golfing Machine.

answer: The Golfing Machine is said to be drawn from physics and geometry. It breaks the golf swing into 24 components, 4 power accumulators, 16 variations, and 4 imperatives. The object of this teaching methodology is different from other instructions by emphasis that the teacher must remain objective.

question: What are some of Erickson's belief about golf that the text describes once he retired?

answer: Erikson retired from playing golf competitively but had much to say about the sport. He said that golf should be a game of physical and mental skill. He also believed that the USGA did not stand up to the equipment makers, selling the game out for profit. He also believed the world's classic old courses were not meant to be lengthened and in doing so, it disgraced the design, shake, and intention of how the holes should be played. Erikson's most prominent quote states " Golf is a game played outside on a parkland where the course and the equipment should work in harmony."

question: What would Erikson think about mini golf courses that are present in today's culture?


text:
You hear about it all the time now, I mean, people just started disappearing. Kids first. Easy targets I guess. You'd hear stories about girls who disappeared in the woods of Maine. Inner-city kids, vanishing. All over the place. Just gone.

We knew. I mean deep down, we did. Something in our psyche expressed it in our culture. Subtle shit, movies where children were possessed or disappear. Slenderman, I guess, was I guess the big one for a while, but that was years ago. Back before shit really started to get bad.

My name is Ian. The reason I know about this stuff, about what's really going on, is because when my daughter was nine she was taken from me. Not by some monster, not by some disease or accident. If only she was so lucky. She was taken by the government. She was taken from me and experimented on and now, I don't even know. Okay, let me tell you how it all started.

Actually, I can't really tell you how it started, the law books have been locked up a long time now, decades. But I can tell you what I think happened. You know those laws, the big ones, the long motherfuckers that nobody spends the time reading. Well. Shit started getting added in, bit by bit, stripping us of our rights. Nothing horrifying at first. No big jumps, nothing drastic, and like a bunch of frogs in hot water we just sat there and took it. Like we were the lucky ones in the Jacuzzi.

She was eligible. That's the word they used: "Eligible." Like she was the luckiest kid in school because we were allowed to pay for healthcare. You know, she was never really all that sick. That's the fucking thing. Just a little cough, never bad, and she had really dry skin. God, she hated that, she just wanted to have nice skin. She'd see the pictures of these beautiful models, and she'd come home from school and tell me that one day that was going to be her. She wanted to look like that.

She had the prettiest smile too. I'll never forget that, must have been pretty much the best damn thing in the world.

But you don't know the stuff they do. You get there, and it's this beautiful facility and the people at the desk are exceptional. And they take your picture and you get this slick looking white card. On every one I've ever seen these people have these smiles. Like there isn't anything that could go wrong with the world. The kind of smile that says "Okay, I'm here. I made it. I finally made it." and we wait, and we wait, and we wait. and when they finally do see us they won't let her see the doctor with me in the room, because I wasn't "eligible."

And she looked at me, with this little scared, sad smile. And gave me this little nod. Like it was all going to be okay, because she was going to be brave. And the door slid closed. And that's the last time I ever really saw my Anna.

title: American Horror Story. Part 1

question: Who took Ian's daughter?

answer: The government took Ian's daughter.

question: Why was Ian's daughter taken?

answer: Ian's daughter was taken because she was eligible.

question: What did Ian's daughter want?

answer: Ian's daughter wanted nice skin.

question: What is Ian's daughter's name?

answer: Ian's daughter is named Anna.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator says that people don't just disappear, they are taken by the government. He knows this because his daughter was taken because she was eligible. The narrator reminisces about the last time he saw her.