text:
Adrian sat down on the ledge.

How had it come to this? Less than a year ago, he had been a happy, ordinary man. He’d had a wife, kids, a stable job, a life. And then, suddenly, it came. So fast it wasn’t even given a name. It was simply ‘the virus’. A brutal disease, which would infect a victim in the morning and leave them a pale corpse by the evening of the next day. There was no human resistance to it. People fell in their thousands, every day. No-one was spared.

Except, somehow, for Adrian.

At first it had seemed a blessing. While he and his family lived, he was glad that he was managing to avoid the infection, and to stay healthy and strong. But gradually that attitude changed. As his family were picked off, one by one, the joys of survival began to turn sour in his mouth. And then his miraculous immunity finally revealed its true colours as a curse. He, an ordinary man, was left living as governments collapsed, cities crumbled, and civilisation fell. He stood, alone in the wreckage, with nobody except his shadow and his tortured soul.

But, to his credit, he had kept going. After all, statistically, he couldn’t be the last one really. There were over 7 billion people in the world, before the virus struck. The chances of him, Adrian Lucas, being the only one left were astronomically low. So he searched. He took a massive supply of canned food, got in his car, fuelled it with the remnants from the abandoned petrol stations, and drove. For months, he looked for any sign of life. Another car, a pillar of smoke, anything to show that he wasn’t alone. Because he couldn’t be alone. It was impossible. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
But here he was, at the top of the Empire State building, thousands of miles from home, definitively alone. It seemed an appropriate place to end it all. Adrian felt there was a certain irony in the last human falling from one of mankind’s most iconic landmarks. Maybe it was for the best anyway. God knows, humans had tortured their planet. Surely a quick and relatively painless death was all they deserved, and it would allow the world to return to its former state, where no creature was overly dominant. A world without humans, Adrian decided, would be a better world for almost every other animal. That made him feel a little better.

Still, that didn’t do much to make him feel better about what he was about to do. His race had dominated this world for millennia. Sure, the world, in places, had suffered. There was no arguing that. But wasn’t the cost worth the reward? Humans had done miraculous things. They had seen that natural materials couldn’t fulfil their every want, and rather than choosing to believe they could not achieve what they wanted, contrived to make things that had simply never existed before. He was sitting directly on a prime example of that. Steel does not, and had never, naturally formed. And yet here Adrian was, being supported by it, because man had decided they needed something more structurally sound than what they had already. No other animal could do that. And that wasn’t all. Humans had sunk to the bottom of the ocean. They had looked up at the sky, and flown to the moon. They had constructed the perfect habitat for themselves, lived in it, and perfected it. They were incredible. And here Adrian sat, preparing to snuff it all out in an instance.

Oh sure, the virus had done most of the work (another irony there; a being so simple capable of annihilating arguably the most complicated race in existence), but it was Adrian delivering the final blow. He would be the one who pushed off and snuffed out the human race. That argument was almost strong enough for him to get up and carry mankind’s torch just a little further.

Almost. But not quite.

At the end of the day, a life alone was no true life. Adrian sighed, and pushed his weight over the open air. His arms held him up for a brief second. Just enough time for him to close his eyes. Then he fell.
But he felt no rushing air, and heard no sickening thud. Instead, he felt a tight grip around his wrist.

‘You ain’t getting away from us that easily, buddy’

Adrian smiled. He didn’t recognise the voice, he didn’t know where the voice would take him now. But none of that mattered. For he was no longer alone.

title: Survivor [RF]

question: What does the story say about Adrian?

answer: Adrian sat down and looks back on his life. There was a disease outbreak and no human had resistance to it. Except for him. He thought this was a blessing at first. That is until his family was infected and no one survived. What he once saw as a blessing turned out to be a curse.

question: What does the story say about Adrian and the disease?

answer: Adrian is immune to the viral disease that seems to be killing off humanity. Once the disease started infecting his family and he remained the sole survivor, he began looking for other survivors. He could not find any and decides to kill himself. Just as he was about to jump the Empire State Building, someone saves him.

question: What does the story say about its setting?

answer: A disease wipes out the human race. Only Adrian survives and goes in search of more survivors. Just as he is about to give up and commit suicide, someone saves him.

question: What does the story say about the "curse"?

answer: Adrian is the only one immune to a disease that seems to be wiping out the human race. At first, he believed this to be a blessing. That is until his family was infected and died out one by one. Being the sole survivor of this disease made him feel lonely. He attempts to commit suicide. Just as he is about to jump the Empire State Building, he is saved by another survivor.


split: train

text: There once was an elephant named George, George was the biggest elephant of the Tar-TO tribe. However he was also a coward. The other elephants mocked George and made him feel really bad about himself. One day the other elephants approached George "W-What do you want..?" George asked hesitantly. "We found a scary tarpit that you can test your bravery on!" said one of the douchey elephants. George paused and thought to himself "Hmm, this could be an excellent chance to prove myself to everyone!". George nodded and said "alright let's go!" but when they arrived at the tarpit George was started to have second thoughts and that's when he saw other elephants gathering around. As it turns out, it wasn't a test of bravery it was a ceremony where they were going to kill George via tarpit and eat him in the name of the elephant god Tar-TO-Tusk. George quickly starting to freak out but it was too late...They pushed him in the tar and as George started to drown he wished he could have done something in his life. However all was not lost for George, for what he didn't do in life he did in death. He filled the bellies of his own cannibalistic tribe and gave shelter to baby elephants with his bones. THANKS GEORGE.

title: George the elephant. A Dark tale.

question: Will George enjoy the tarpit?

answer: No, his fellow elephants will sacrifice and eat him.

question: Is George going to overcome his cowardice?

answer: No, he will get eaten.

question: Does George help the elephant tribe?

answer: Only by filling their bellies and giving shelter for baby elephants.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: George is the biggest elephant of the Tar-TO tribe, but he is also a coward. The other elephants dare him to brave a tar-pit. He agrees, but it turns out to be a trap, and they sacrifice him to the god Tar-To-Tusk and eat him.


text:
_ANOPHELES ACONITUS_ is a species of mosquito belonging to the genus _Anopheles_. It is mostly found in uplands generally restricted to below 1000m. Eggs are laid and larvae can be found in paddy fields and shallow pools. Females are primarily zoophilic, where bovids are primary hosts and humans are alternate hosts.[1]

[1]

title: Anopheles aconitus

question: What is Anopheles aconitus?

answer: A species of mosquito.

question: Describe the physical appearance of Anopheles aconitus.

answer: That information can't be found.

question: Where is Anopheles aconitus found?

answer: In uplands below 1000m. Larvae can be found in paddy fields and shallow pools.

question: Describe the lifespan of Anopheles aconitus.

answer: That information can't be found.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: Anopheles aconitus is a type of mosquito mostly found in uplands below 1000m. Their hosts are usually bovids or humans.


text:
EMO DE MEDEIROS (born 1979) is a Beninese artist living and working in Paris, France and in Cotonou, Benin.

His work explores themes of transculturalism, transforming identities, post-colonial representations, and globalization as a worldwide hybridization and mutation.[1] He also questions the African continent's transformations in the context of the digital revolution and the occurrence of a Pan-African 21st-century _TransAfrica_ in transition between tradition and accelerated innovation.[2]

Background and education

After spending his childhood and teenage years in Cotonou, Benin, he moved to France to pursue an academic education. He graduated from Ecole Normale Supérieure in Paris where he studied history, sociology and anthropology, after which he continued his training at the Ecole Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts also in Paris.

While in Beaux-arts he started focusing on digital arts: digital photography, graphic design, 3D modeling, digital video and interactive devices, and specifically explored the relationship between time and memory through the notion of _instensity_ (intensity of the instant), linked to his experimental and electronic musical practice. After finishing art school he directed musical videos and experimental short films while pursuing his practice as a composer and producer of electronic music in Paris. He then moved to Boston, where he attended classes at the Massachusetts College of Art and Design, before returning to France and finally to Benin.

Work

Emo de Medeiros' work crosses a variety of mediums, including photography, video, textile, painting, performance, and sculpture, and investigates themes of social and symbolic interactions, of the relationship to the digital civilization, of ethnicity and Panafricanism in a post-colonial context. He is sometimes associated with afrofuturism.[3]

His practice is based on the notion of _contexture_, defined as the creation of artefacts based on interconnections between cultures, materials, concepts techniques and practices from diverse areas, eras, and uses. In particular his pieces often mix technological elements (such as connected devices)[4] and forms from classical African art, notably from Benin, or fuse art genres such as installation and performance resulting for instance in the notion of _performative installation_ in which the public represents a semantic element in its own right, such as _Kaleta/Kaleta_ presented in Palais de Tokyo in 2014.[5]

In 2015 he presented _Pavillon du Bénin_ during the 56th Venice Biennale, a clandestine installation located next to the French Pavilion in the Giardini, the main site of the biennale.[6] The ephemeral piece was an ironic political commentary about the clandestine African vendors figure's absence in the works presented at the biennale, despite their highly visible presence in touristic towns in Italy, about the economic and symbolic power balance that makes the presence of national pavilions of African countries difficult, and about the controversy regarding the Kenyan Pavilion where most of the artists presented were Chinese.[7]

His work has been shown in several solo and group shows in Benin,[8][9] France,[10][11] United Kingdom[12][13][14] and South Africa.[15] It was also presented at the Salon de Montrouge in 2013,[16] at the Palais de Tokyo in Paris in 2014,[17] at the Dakar Biennale[18][19] and at the Arts in Marrakech (AiM) International Biennale[20] in 2016.

Exhibitions

2016

-   _Transpositions_, 50 Golborne gallery, London, United Kingdom
-   _Transmutations_, Backslash gallery, Paris, France
-   12th Dakar Biennale, _Witnesses of the Invisible_, Dakar, Senegal
-   6th Marrakech Biennale, “Not New Now”, Marrakech, Marocco

2015

-   _All things magic_, RSF gallery, Paris, France
-   Venice Biennale Off, _Benin Pavilion_, Venice, Italy
-   _Vodunaut_, Centre Arts et Cultures, Abomey-Calavi, Benin

2014

-   _Kaleta/Kaleta_, Palais de Tokyo, Paris, France

2013

-   _Black Light Sanctuary_, 58th Salon de Montrouge, Montrouge, France

[1]

[2]

[3]

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[5]

[6]

[7]

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[10]

[11]

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[17]

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title: Emo de Medeiros

question: What is the profession of Emo de Mederios?

answer: He is an artist.

question: What are some major themes of the work of Emo de Mederios?

answer: Transculturalism, identity, post-colonial representation, and globalization as hybridization.

question: List 3 Emo de Mederios exhibitions mentioned.

answer: Kaleta/Kaleta, All things magic, Transmutations.

question: Where was his first exhibition held?

answer: 58th Salon de Montrouge, Montrouge, France.

question: Where did he study?

answer: Ecole Normale Suérieure, Ecole Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Massachusetts College of Art and Design.

question: What is the artist's medium?

answer: He uses a mixed-media approach to create various forms of installations. His mediums include photography, video, textiles, painting, performance, sculpture, and technology.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: Emo de Mederios is an artist who uses a mixed-media approach to create installations that reflect themes of transculturalism. He has spent most of his time in Benin and Paris.


text:
"For Murdering Alexander Stell, I pronounce you guilty of Murder!" I stood there, watching the Executioner with his bloody axe, the Bastardise of the King of the Fire. I didn't want to see my brother die, yet it was soon to be, as I saw him kill that man. That insane man, who should have died a long time ago, along with his mother. My brother was shoved to the brick, where his head would be cut off. The executioner swung his axe, but before he did, I withdrew my sword. " Nobody needs to die today, leave, or I shall cut your throats!" I yelled. Yet, a minute before I spoke, I felt a pain on my shoulder. I fell to the ground to where the crowd was, yelling at Athena Akolite's stupidity. The last thing I saw, was the arrow in my shoulder, and the shadow's of the men taking me away.

Suddenly, I started chanting the words of the old god, and the men fell, blood spraying from their eyes. I laughed, as I walked away, leaving the crowd staring, too frightened to move. I chanted more words, and a dragon flew down in  front of me, and I simply rode it out of that city. I heard that the King of Fire had been killed by a riot of peasants, but I didn't care. I now say goodbye, my children, and may the god's watch over you.

title: The Shadows Bleed With Me

question: Why had the brother murdered Alexander?

answer: This information is not mentioned.

question: Does the brother get executed?

answer: It may be implied that the brother does not get executed. The narrator comes in the way.

question: Who shoots the narrator?

answer: The narrator is hit by an arrow in his shoulder.

question: Does the narrator make it out alive?

answer: Yes, after he is hit by an arrow in the shoulder, he is taken away. A dragon flies in front of him and he rides on it out of the city.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer:
The narrator stood in the crowd watching the executioner position his brother. The brother was being executed for murdering Alexander. Just when the executor lifts the axe, the narrator swings his sword.

He feels a sharp pain in his shoulder and realizes he is hit by an arrow. While being taken away from the crowd, a dragon flies in front of him and he rides on it out of the city.


text:
JACQUES COHEN (; October 13, 1930 – December 1, 2016) was an Israeli actor.[1]

Biography

Cohen, who was born in Alexandria, Egypt, moved to Mandatory Palestine (present-day Israel) with his parents when he was just 5 years old.[2] The family settled in Jerusalem, where Cohen became an actor during his 20s.[3] Cohen first came to prominence with the amateur Circle Theater, in English, in Jerusalem, directed by Phillip Diskin. He played the lead in Jarry’s ‘Ubu Roi” for a year, 1965-1966. This was the first full length production to appear on the stage of the Tzavta Club in Tel-Aviv. He also performed the one-man play “Krapp’s Last Tape” by Samuel Beckett.

Cohen was best known for his starring role as Abu Rami, an Arab Israeli restaurant owner, on the sitcom _HaMis'ada HaGdola_, from 1985 until 1988.[4] The show, which aired for three seasons, was created to appeal to both Jewish and non-Jewish television viewers in the surrounding region.[5] Cohen, who was already an accomplished stage and television actor before _HaMis'ada HaGdola_, became so identified with his iconic role of Abu Rahmi that he later became a spokesperson for a major brand of hummus.[6] Cohen spoke fluent Arabic and Hebrew, allowing him to play characters in both languages.[7]

Cohen spoke Hebrew without an accent.[8] The dialogue for his best known role as restaurateur Abu Rahmi on _HaMis'ada HaGdola_ was mostly in Arabic, but also required lines in Hebrew, as well as other languages, including Japanese and Yiddish.[9]

He played a Lebanese government minister in the 1986 American action film _The Delta Force_.[10]

During the 2000s, Cohen opened his own restaurant in his hometown of Bitzaron.[11]

Death

Cohen died from complications of pneumonia at a hospital in Rehovot, on December 1, 2016, at the age of 86.[12] His death was announced by the country's Minister of Culture and Sports, Miri Regev.[13] Cohen, a resident of Bitzaron, was survived by his wife and three children.[14]

Partial filmography

-   _La mestiza_ (1956)
-   _Sayarim_ (1967)
-   _Aserei Hahofesh_ (1968) - Prisoner
-   _Le viol d'une jeune fille douce_ (1968) - Jacques
-   _Hasamba_ (1971) - Police Officer
-   _Harpatka'ot Yaldei Hahof_ (1971)
-   _Bloomfield_ (1971) - Ariana Proprietor
-   _Nurit_ (1972)
-   _The Jerusalem File_ (1972) - Altouli
-   _Chamsin_ (1972) - Itzik, Chauffeur
-   _Matana Mishamayim_ (1973)
-   _Rak Hayom_ (1976)
-   _Hamesh Ma'ot Elef Shahor_ (1977)
-   _Gonev Miganav Patoor_ (1977)
-   _Bo Nefotzetz Million_ (1977)
-   _Belfer_ (1978)
-   _Lo La'alot Yoter_ (1979)
-   _Ashanti_ (1979) - German at Slave Market
-   _Hanna K._ (1983) - Man at airport
-   _Gesher Tzar Me'od_ (1985)
-   _The Delta Force_ (1986) - Lebanese Minister
-   _Every Time We Say Goodbye_ (1986) - Solomon
-   _The Impossible Spy_ (1987) - Assan
-   _Tel Aviv-Los Angeles_ (1988)
-   _Talveh Li Et Ishteha_ (1988) - Sheikh Abu Antar
-   _Summertime Blues: Lemon Popsicle VIII_ (1988) - Polly's Father
-   _Delta Force 3: The Killing Game_ (1991) - Anwar Mossach
-   _Tipat Mazal_ (1992) - Morris
-   _The Mummy Lives_ (1993) - Lord Maxton
-   _The Road to Glory_ (1997) - Marek the Manager
-   _Aviva Ahuvati_ (2006) - Dr. Zahrir (final film role)

[1] Jacques Cohen’s filmography (in Hebrew)

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

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[7]

[8]

[9]

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title: Jacques Cohen (actor)

question: Who is Jacques Cohen?

answer: Jacques Cohen was an Israeli actor who was born in Egypt but moved to Israel (formerly Palestine).

question: What was Jacques best known for?

answer: He was best known for his starring role as Abu Rami, an Arab Israeli restaurant owner, on the sitcom Hamis'ada Hagdola from 1985 to 1988. The show aired for three seasons.

question: List some of his works in film.

answer:
- La mestiza (1956)
- Sayarim (1967)
- Aserei Hahofesh (1968) - Prisoner
- Le viol d'une jeune fille douce (1968) - Jacques
- Hasamba (1971) - Police Officer
- Harpatka'ot Yaldei Hahof (1971)
- Bloomfield (1971) - Ariana Proprietor
- Nurit (1972)
- The Jerusalem File (1972) - Altouli
- Chamsin (1972) - Itzik, Chauffeur
- Matana Mishamayim (1973)
- Rak Hayom (1976)
- Hamesh Ma'ot Elef Shahor (1977)
- Gonev Miganav Patoor (1977)
- Bo Nefotzetz Million (1977)
- Belfer (1978)
- Lo La'alot Yoter (1979)
- Ashanti (1979) - German at Slave Market
- Hanna K. (1983) - Man at airport
- Gesher Tzar Me'od (1985)
- The Delta Force (1986) - Lebanese Minister
- Every Time We Say Goodbye (1986) - Solomon
- The Impossible Spy (1987) - Assan
- Tel Aviv-Los Angeles (1988)
- Talveh Li Et Ishteha (1988) - Sheikh Abu Antar
- Summertime Blues: Lemon Popsicle VIII (1988) - Polly's Father
- Delta Force 3: The Killing Game (1991) - Anwar Mossach
- Tipat Mazal (1992) - Morris
- The Mummy Lives (1993) - Lord Maxton
- The Road to Glory (1997) - Marek the Manager
- Aviva Ahuvati (2006) - Dr. Zahrir (final film role)

question: When did he pass?

answer: He died from complications of pneumonia on December 1, 2016, at the age of 86.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: Jacques Cohen was an Israeli actor who was born in Egypt but moved to Israel (formerly Palestine). He was best known for his starring role as Abu Rami, an Arab Israeli restaurant owner, on the sitcom Hamis'ada Hagdola from 1985 to 1988. The show aired for three seasons. Eventually, he passed away from complications of pneumonia on December 1, 2016, at the age of 86.


text:
By Rick Montanez and Heather Navarro •  Published December 29, 2016 • Updated on December 30, 2016 at 12:57 am

Three SpaceX employees were knocked to the ground by a sedan speeding through a red light in Hawthorne in a shocking caught-on-camera hit-and-run.

Police released the surveillance footage of the crash Thursday hoping to track down the driver who didn't even brake once.

Local

Local news from across Southern California

[]

[]

On Dec. 17 at 2:15 a.m., a group of people were walking across the street in a crosswalk at Crenshaw Boulevard and Rocket Road, Hawthorne police confirmed.

Three of the women had just finished up the day working at SpaceX, an aerospace manufacturer and space transport company, when they were struck and thrown to the ground by a speeding sedan that blew right through the intersection.

One person barely escapes getting clipped by the Toyota Camry.

The driver of the Camry had just sped through a red light at Jack Northrop Avenue before running the red light at Rocket Road, where the women were hit.

"This is horrible. They're just trying to get home from work," Hawthorne police Lt. Ti Goetz said.

They were treated at the scene and then taken to a hospital. Two of the women were back in the hospital Thursday, authorities said.

Another surveillance video shows a witness, who identified himself as only Ron, crossing the previous intersection just moments before the women were hit at the next one. The Camry speeds through the red light, just a few feet away from hitting Ron. Had he continued to cross the intersection, he would have been another victim.

"Good thing I was paying attention to the road at the time," Ron said. "He just blew past it."

Another driver appeared to make a U-turn at the intersection when the hit-and-run occurred, and appeared to follow that Toyota. Hawthorne police hope that person comes forward as well.

"We're hoping that if he's watching this, he'll reach out to us so we can find out what he saw because he appeared to chase the vehicle northbound on Crenshaw," Goetz said.

Police said the gray or silver Toyota likely has damage to the front end on the passenger side.

Anyone with information on the hit-and-run is asked to call Hawthorne police at 310-349-2702 or 310-349-2727.

question: When was this piece published?

answer: December 19th, 2016.

question: When did the event occur?

answer: December 17th, at 2:15am.

question: Where did three of the victims work?

answer: SpaceX.

question: What happened?

answer: A Toyota Camry ran a red light,sped up, and clipped the group of people.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: On December 17th, early in the morning at 2:15am, a sedan blew through the intersection of Crenshaw Boulevard and Rocket Road, nearly clipping one person. Three of the woman the Toyota Camry almost hit were coming home from a day of work at SpaceX, an aerospace manufacturer and space transport company. They were struck and hit the ground by the car. Police say the vehicle has likely sustained damage to the front end of the passenger side. No suspect has been apprehended at this time.


text:
July 31, 2017 | 9:21pm

Enlarge Image

[Counterterrorism cops guard swanky Hamptons parties]

Atmosphere at the 24th Annual Watermill Center Summer Benefit and Auction at The Watermill Center in Water Mill, New York. Getty Images

Police officers with machine guns have started appearing at fancy Hamptons events amid fears of terrorist attacks.

Guests at the tony Watermill Center gala on Saturday night attended by Robert Downey Jr. and French actress Isabelle Huppert initially thought the two officers standing clad in black bulletproof vests were part of the annual art installations organized by the center’s famed director, Robert Wilson.

But the officers explained to a guest that Steven Skrynecki, Southampton Town police chief, has introduced a new counterterrorism unit that will see the presence of officers with body armor and powerful firearms at swanky public events.

The officer was overheard explaining that police chiefs believe the events could be “soft targets” and that potential attackers could see a “big media opportunity” with all the prominent people present.

The Watermill Center gala attracted 1,200 people to the art performances, and 500 stayed for dinner, where awards were given to Huppert and Laurie Anderson, who performed a concert in honor of her late husband Lou Reed.

Other guests included Inga Otto and Lisa Anastos, cosmetic mogul Peter Thomas Roth, Libbie Mugrabi, Nancy Chemtob, Éric Ripert, Jean Shafiroff, Alex Soros and Campion and Tatiana Platt, who donated $5,000 to take a selfie with Downey.

Over at the James Beard Foundation’s Chefs & Champagne gala, also on Saturday night in Sagaponack, where 40 top chefs cooked for 800 people and Marcus Samuelsson was honored, there were also a pair of machine-gun-bearing policeman protecting the huge tent filled with revelers.

question: When was this article published?

answer: July 31, 2017

question: Who is Steven Skrynecki?

answer: Southhampton Town police chief

question: How many people attended The Watermill Center gala in 2017?

answer: 1,200 people attended

question: Why are armed guards being stationed at high profile events?

answer: to ward off potential terrorist attacks

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: The article highlights the trend of heavily-armed guards at high-profile events in the Hamptons.


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: Who is the narrator?

answer: It is unclear who the narrator is.

question: What is the subject of this story?

answer: A man's hands

question: What problem does the man have that is alluded to in the story?

answer: Alcoholism and drug abuse

question: What kind of job does the man have?

answer: It is unclear, but it is likely he works with machinery.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator describes a man and his hands. They describe them physically and the things that they do. The man has problems with drug abuse and alcoholism. The narrator describes an instance the man has with a woman.


text:
This is what we know for certain:

They lived happily ever after.
And sadly ever after.
And not necessarily together.
In the meantime, she wrote more poetry and learnt to put her words to music. He taught himself to speak German and cook noodles.
A boy killed himself because no one understood him, and another perfectly secure one stepped out into the road at the wrong moment and was run down by a man driving his pregnant wife to hospital.
He didn't stop.

title: The Eventuality of Everything

question: Who lived happily ever after?

answer: This information can't be found.

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: This information can't be found.

question: Who was the boy who got killed?

answer: This information can't be found.

question: Do they stay together?

answer: No, they eventually part ways.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer:
The narrator describes a couple that lived happily but sadly not together. The lady wrote poetry and put her feelings into music. While the man learned to speak German and cook noodles.

A boy got killed by a car, the driver was driving his pregnant wife to the hospital.


text:
Part of the Council for International Schools (CIS) accreditation process asks schools to “demonstrate a commitment to internationalism/interculturalism in education” and that this should be “reflected throughout the life of the institution.” In this article, I will be presenting the case that schools of a religious tradition are best placed to fulfil this aspect of education given their deeply rooted sense of history, tradition and culture.

In her book “International Mindedness” Lesley Stagg concludes by paraphrasing Dan Young “Internationalism advocates the quality of ‘being’ international within the overall climate and character evident when you enter the school. It includes the one for all organizational principles that reflect a global community concern (known to its community to exist inside and outside its walls), as well as an overall positive attitude between diverse cultures (and countries). It is evidenced where students and faculty celebrate this quality as they come together for learning and teaching… when common global interests and collaboration are recognized as imperative.”

To my mind, in order to successfully meet this goal, it is essential that the school have at least one unifying feature. There must be something tangible that unites all in the midst of diversity. CIS exhorts the guiding statements of a school as this focal point and these guiding statements must be embedded in the curriculum and in the culture of learning. This is not particularly controversial and is something commonly accepted in the domain of international schools. However, I would like to suggest that in reality, many international schools across the world do not have this one unifying feature and that, in fact in many cases, their guiding statements are contrived, jargonistic and essentially meaningless. The exception to this fact being those schools, which have a deep-rooted sense of history, enshrined in tradition and have a culture that is known and embraced by the wider community. I would argue that this is the case in schools underpinned by a religious tradition.

Moreover, in order to create an “overall positive attitude between diverse cultures (and countries)” it is necessary to celebrate what unites families from diverse cultures and countries and in many cases, this is their religious experience. Children from a multitude of countries, different races, speaking different languages and having a range of cultural norms, inevitably populate an International School. Finding something to unite such a diverse community is a challenge CIS recognizes, but within a school embracing a religious tradition, there is no challenge because, despite the obvious diversity, children and their families are united by their religious beliefs. This is more obviously the case when they all hark from the same religious tradition, but I contend that it can also be the case when children of different religions, or denominations within a particular religion, are educated together as their belief in God (or in some cases a Supreme Being) transcends any of their apparent differences. Many dismiss too often religion as a cause of conflict but I would argue the contrary and suggest that in reality religion unites people due to the fact that they have a common sense of purpose and of human dignity. Nothing is more unifying than a common set of beliefs. This permeates deeper than any contrived ideology.

Central to religious identity is a call to community, to social justice, to a respect for human dignity, to peace and reconciliation and to celebrating unity in diversity. These are the features of international mindedness that CIS wants schools to embrace. Whilst many schools barely touch the tip of the iceberg with respect to international mindedness, schools with a religious identity and faith commitment are deeply rooted in their sense of mission, of their ethos, of their values. International Schools of a non-religious nature could learn a lot by looking at schools of a religious nature. They would observe that in the vast majority of cases (some schools with a religious identity are clearly better than others) that the guiding statements of the school are embedded throughout the institution. In the best schools, the mission and ethos of the school are deeply embedded in the curriculum. Such schools do not have a narrow view of curriculum as merely the teaching of a syllabus or academic program but moreover that it is inclusive of all aspects of a child’s learning experience and development as a human person. Subsequently, children will learn explicitly about issues of prejudice and discrimination, different belief systems (other than that of the denomination of the institution), ethical systems, cultural norms, the dignity of the human person, social enterprise and the like. Furthermore, schools with a religious tradition have always valued prayer and meditation as an essential part of human development. Recognizing this the secular world now promotes “mindfulness” as a non-religious alternative to meditation. Separating meditation from faith, where Buddhist, Christian or another, is somewhat morally bankrupt and a very dubious business in itself.

Many international schools have adopted mission statements but sometimes these are a uniformity of bland clichés with no deep sense of an underlying philosophy. Perhaps even more worrying is the trend for schools to adopt the language of “No child left behind” and focus on college and workplace preparedness as the raison d’etre of education rather than focusing on the development of the whole child with the human dignity. It is immoral to see a child as no more than economic fodder for the future workplace. Schools should reject any policy or system that diminishes the dignity of the human person and refutes the idea that anyone can be reduced to the status of an economic unit or passive-dependent.

Recognizing the distinct nature that schools underpinned by a religious tradition have, and by learning from their best practice, International Schools across the world can learn to emulate the “one for all” educational principles that underpin faith schools. The shared “worldview” that unites people of faiths underpins the values and mission of such schools and enables them to be truly international.

question: What does the text say about the CIS?

answer: The CIS accreditation asks schools to demonstrate a commitment to internationalism in education and that this be reflected throughout the life of the institution. The author argues there must be one feature that unifies all cultures in order for an international school to be more inclusive and respectful of everyone's traditions.

question: What does the text say about international schools?

answer: International schools need one unifying feature for everyone to get along. Many argue that religion is a cause for conflict but the author believes otherwise. The belief in God transcends any disagreement or differences between different races.

question: What does the text say about cultural norms?

answer: The author claims that implementing interculturalism in most schools needs a unifying feature to keep everything harmonized. Children from different cultural races and live by different cultural norms is a challenge CIS recognizes. However, CIS believes that there is no challenge since different cultures are united by their religious beliefs.

question: What does the text say about diversity?

answer: Despite obvious diversity, children and their families can be united according to CIS. This makes it easier for them to implement interculturalism in most schools. Many international schools have adopted this.


text:
Everyday I wake up and I fail. I am nothing, I am no one. If this wasn't true then wouldn't she love me?  Maybe she could love me like her other children if I was better. I see it in the way her angry dark eyes go Soft when she looks at them. "One minute sweety, I'm just dealing with your sister." knowing I was in trouble they'd turn their back and walk away pretending they had no clue. I do not blame them nor hate them. I'm sure I'd do the same. I will stand here and take it so she will not go after them. "Why can't you do anything good enough? Your siblings are perfect. You are a disease, a burden, worthless." she spits out every word like a whip lashing across my face. Slowly I nod. Knowing every word she says is true. I see the anger in her eyes flicker. Changing.... She's changing again. The anger turns to weeping. "Every thing I do is wrong to you. You never accept me. You just push me away over and over. How can I help you if you won't let me! You hurt your dad so much. Broke him. You're the reason he left. It should have been you."

     It was my fault he left. I stopped talking then he stopped being a dad. How could I talk to him? Someone so worthless like me being loved by someone so perfect like him. It wasn't fair. Eventually he stopped trying to talk to me. Soon I was nothing to him. Until he left. In my hand he left a note saying " I love you." I ripped it up and threw it away. I know the truth. No one could love me.

      People say school is an escape. They're wrong. I find myself afraid and more self conscious than ever. It's not as if I'm bullied. No I have lots of "friends" but non of which actually know me. I put on that happy face and cheery laugh using every bit of energy trying not to fall apart. In my desk I feel the pairs of eyes watching me. I just sit there like the fat cow I am, Tugging down the back of my sweater that I should fit in. Crossing my arms over my disgusting stomach. Their stares are the worst. Gathered into the groups I feel their hot gaze piercing my body, laughing always laughing. Maybe they were talking about me. Maybe not. I look up to notice 15 minutes have gone by. I've missed the lesson being swallowed by my own thoughts. Stupid. This is why my marks went down. I can't help but listen and take part in the conversations that occur in my head. No school is not an escape. The only place I am safe is in my sleep.

Sleep is my bliss. The only part of the day I look forward to. Maybe one day I will sleep and never wake up. Stuck in a dream forever. One once said "I cannot face reality so I get lost in my dreams," I know this is true. Every word. That surprising considering I don't know much. There was a time when I cared. What changed? Me or her? There were times I would try to go back. Back to how things were. Almost as if another person inhabited my body. A new voice. The younger version of me. Maybe she would love that version.  Nope. Stupid. I feel the skin on my tongue raw and bloody from where I've been biting it. Pain. I deserve it. This is how I get control of my life. The cold metal pressing against my skin was the only thing that cleared my mind. Till she took that from me to. When things get real bad my whole mouth is bloody. That what happens when I think. People get hurt. I try not to think.

Normal kid. Why cant I be normal. Before I was not close to normal and people knew. Then there was the day I decided to keep it all inside. So much kept inside me driving me to insanity one sentence at a time. Why just the other day a Thought that started out as a simple childhood memory turned to how it Makes complete sense that all human babies are actually grown as oranges. She is right. I am a disease. I will keep it to myself. The less people know the safer they are. They told me to grow up. I tried but how can someone who's past was so wonderful ever look forward at a life of misery and insanity. One day I will be normal.

   Two of them are gone. Two people who I actually love. They left me here. Yes every once in a while they visit. Those are the best times. I get to actually be considered part of a family. She doesn't come after me when theyre home but when they leave the house goes silent. I love silence. Not this silence. This eerie quietness means she is thinking. Thinking of even flaw I have compared to them. I hear that voice in complete hysteria crying out. "Why! Why me! I am a good mother! I don't deserve this!" she is right. Nobody deserves to have me as a burden.

       Run away. The thought rings through my head over and over again. I know I could but where would I run to. Family? No I've hurt them all. Friends? Nobody falls under this category. No. She would catch me and hate me even more.

Today I wont eat. Things will be better when I'm skinny. People tell me im thin. I know theyre lying. I can see myself in the mirror. I used to be skinny. When things were better. No today I won't eat but I get there and they are watching my every move. People know if I don't so there I sit stuffing my face with anything to satisfy there stares. I remember the day she found out I didn't eat. "how much do you weigh? You need help. Anorexic or something!" Deny. Deny. Deny. Deny everything or loose everything. I tried the whole puking thing. Standing at the top of our hill choking on my fingers and anything else I could shove down my throat. Nothing worked. I even failed at that. When I grow up I won't have to eat. Then I can be skinny. Actually skinny.

   I'm going home now. Praying no one will be there. Maybe I can be alone. There is the truck. I can feel my heart dropping into my gut, this won't be good. I'll just avoid her for as long as I can. Do my duties, go for a run and then sleep. My feet feel like lead being drug up the steps to the house. Not today please. I can't take it today. Her voice is coming from the kitchen and growing louder. No please no. "how was your day?" is this a trick. Another sick game. Stupid Ive taking to long to reply. "oh so now your not talking to me! I try so hard. Go out of my way to make you happy and this is how you thank me!" I mumble a short reply. "I'm sick of this. Your disgusting. " Her eyes drop in shame for me and she walks away shoulders slumped and head down low. It's a strange thing verbal beatings effect me so much more than any physical.

   My scratchy coat feels heavy on my shoulders. Tears sting my eyes threatening to pour over. What am I doing? I don't cry. Ever. The image of my dad passes through my mind and my face hardens over again.

title: Title: Just another day in my life.... Critique is welcome.

question: Why does the mother hate the narrator so much?

answer: Unclear.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator feels worthless because their mom is overly critical and tells them they are worthless. They struggle with the onslaught of verbal abuse and find no solace at school. The narrator also feels responsible for their father leaving since their mom tells them he left because of them.


text:
It is a bright sunny day. The school children are outside playing for recess. The kids are swinging, sliding, running and jumping. All the little ones are playing except for one child, his name is Jason and he is an adventurer, he is an explorer. Jason is off by himself searching. He is tracking down a chirping sound that he is familiar with. He sees the grasshopper sitting on a blade of grass. He carefully inspects the insect trying not to disturb it. The grasshopper is motionless trying to blend in but Jason is not fooled. Jason picks up a stick and touches the bug, the grasshopper jumps high into the air startling Jason, he falls back laughing.

This catches the attention of his teacher Mrs. Ratchet. “JASON! Leave that bug alone” she screeches. This catches the adventurer off guard; he stands up and faces her with his head bowed and his hands behind his back. “Wouldn’t you rather play with the other students?” she asks inquisitively. Jason looks over at the other kids playing and then bows his head again. Mrs. Ratchet peers at Jason then glances at her watch. “Play time is over children, line up we are going back to class.”

Mrs. Ratchet sits at her desk reading aloud to the children about photosynthesis in a monotone voice. Jason is staring out of the window wondering where the grasshopper went and what it was doing now. “Jason!” Mrs. Ratchet yells, “Pay attention.” The students laugh. Jason turns red with embarrassment and bows his head. Mrs. Ratchet continues reading aloud. Jason picks up his pencil and draws a crude picture of the grasshopper. One of the students sitting behind Jason announces to the teacher and the class “Jason is drawing!” “Jason! Come here. Bring your notebook” Ratchet says furiously. The classroom collectively moans “OH!” Jason bows his head slowly stands up, and walks steadily holding the picture close to his chest so that no one can see it. Mrs. Ratchet grabs the notebook and holds it up so the kids can see his crude drawing, the children giggle.

She takes the notebook and slams it on the desk, “Jason, come with me.” Ratchet grabs Jason’s hand and drags him out of the room and down the hall. Jason is silent with tears streaming down his face. Jason is surprised to see Mrs. Ratchet pass the principal’s office; he begins to wonder where they were going.

He is confused as she drags him into the nurse’s room. The nurse sitting at her desk looks up with her plump face and with her paper thin lips forms what looks like a smile. “What is the matter with this one?” the nurse says while sizing up Jason. “He is having problems paying attention. I think he has ADD” Ratchet says while cocking her head to the side and folding her arms. “What is wrong with me?” Jason ponders. “Jason, Jason, JASON!” Ratchet shouts. Jason snaps back to consciousness. “See it is the worst case I have ever seen” Ratchet remarks. “I suppose you are right” accesses the nurse, “I will call his mother.” Mrs. Ratchet glances at Jason and leaves the office. The nurse picks up her phone and call Jason’s mother. “Yes Ma’am he has a mental disorder that makes him unable to pay attention” the nurse explains, “you will need to follow up with his doctor; they have medication to fix this kind of thing.” Jason nervously fidgets, the nurse looks up at him, “Jason, your mother is on her way.”

Jason sits worrying “what is wrong with me?”

His mother arrives and the nurse meets her at the door, they talk in the hall. Jason strains to hear what is being said but cannot decipher the mumblings. Jason’s mother walks into the room eyeballs him and says “come on, let’s go.” Jason stands up and follows his mother to the car, nothing is said. He gets into the car “buckle up” his mother say; she drives him to the doctor in silence. When they arrive Jason finds the courage to ask “Mom is there something wrong with me?” “I don’t know honey, but if there is we will get it fixed.”

As they sit in the waiting room Jason is restless. He ponders to himself what was wrong with him. His mom has a pamphlet in her face with the words ADD labeled on the cover. Jason sits fidgeting nervously. His mom peers over her pamphlet at him. “Jason” the receptionist calls out. Jason’s mom takes his hand and leads him into the back where they are taken to a smaller room. Inside of this room is a plastic uncomfortable bed with paper sheet on top. Jason curious as to why anyone would put paper sheets on a bed starts to pick the sheet apart. Jason’s mother cuts her eyes over and moans then grabs the back of her neck as she looks away. Jason pauses and tries to figure out what he had done wrong.

The doctor bursts into the room, she stops at the door and looks down at her clip board and looks up and smiles “Hi Jason!” “Hi” he responds shyly. “Hey mom what seems to be the problem with Jason?” “Well I got a call today from the school nurse, she said he is having a hard time paying attention in class, and while sitting in the waiting room he was showing these signs” Jason’s mom points inside the pamphlet. “Ah, restlessness, can’t sit still, not paying attention, these are all classic signs of ADD” the doctor says as she holds her clip board close to her chest, “Well we have a lot of options here, but I prefer to treat ADD with Ritalin.”

Now a few weeks have passed and Jason has been cured; he doesn’t play with bugs or wander in the fields. He no longer fidgets or daydreams. He silently stares at his schoolbook as his teacher reads aloud.

While sitting in class Jason sees a grasshopper sitting on the classroom window, he yawns and continues reading.

title: the last adventure

question: Why might Mrs Ratchet be singling out Jason?

answer: He seems to get distracted easily and cannot focus, but it's not clear how his actions are so much different from how other children behave.

question: What could be problematic about the prescribed "fix" to Jason's problem?

answer: It implies on pharmaceutical responses are able to improve someone's quality of life.

question: How many different adults have to agree that something is "wrong" with Jason before he receives any treatment?

answer: Four, if you count his mother.

question: Why might Jason's mother never have noticed on her own that he had different habits than some other kids his same age?

answer: Perhaps Jason had never been in a play situation with other kids in his age group before, so his behavior didn't stand out as particularly unique within his family unit.


text:
in vs. South Carolina_          Florida Citrus Bowl                  1 p.m.

  OUTBACK                                 Tampa, Fla.                          Jan. 1       ESPN
  _Iowa vs. LSU_                          Raymond James Stadium                1 p.m.

  ROSE BOWL                               Pasadena, Calif.                     Jan. 1       ESPN
  _Stanford vs. Michigan State_           Rose Bowl                            5 p.m.

  FIESTA                                  Glendale, Ariz.                      Jan. 1       ESPN
  _UCF vs. Baylor_                        U. of Phoenix Stadium                8:30 p.m.

  SUGAR                                   New Orleans                          Jan. 2       ESPN
  _Oklahoma vs. Alabama_                  Louisiana Superdome                  8:30 p.m.

  ORANGE                                  Miami                                Jan. 3       ESPN
  _Clemson vs. Ohio State_                Sun Life Stadium                     8 p.m.

  COTTON                                  Arlington, Texas                     Jan. 3       FOX
  _Oklahoma State vs. Missouri_           AT&T Stadium                         7:30 p.m.

  BBVA COMPASS                            Birmingham, Ala.                     Jan. 4       ESPN
  _Vanderbilt vs. Houston_                Legion Field                         1 p.m.

  GODADDY                                 Mobile, Ala.                         Jan. 5       ESPN
  _Arkansas State vs. Ball State_         Ladd-Peebles Stadium                 9 p.m.

  BCS NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP               Pasadena, Calif.                     Jan. 6       ESPN
  _Florida State vs. Auburn_              Rose Bowl                            8:30 p.m.
  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the lower-tier games, you have two Louisiana teams -- UL Lafayette and Tulane -- playing in what should be a fun New Orleans Bowl to kick things off.

Notre Dame and Rutgers will square off in the Pinstripe Bowl at Yankee Stadium in a game that the Irish will be expected to win handily.

The BCS picture looks quite enjoyable, with the only foreseeable mismatch coming in the Fiesta Bowl, as George O'Leary's UCF will try and hang with the explosive Baylor Bears.

Stanford will try and make it two straight Rose Bowl wins as they take on Michigan State in a game that everyone expects to be low-scoring (so, naturally, the points will pile up), while losses for Alabama and Ohio State mean the Sugar Bowl and Orange Bowl get some good match-ups.

Hey, we finally joined Facebook!

The main event, of course, is the national title game, where Florida State will get the chance to test their mettle against Auburn, who is looking more and more like a team of destiny. Both teams have seen high-scoring totals from their offenses, but Florida State's balanced attack and tremendous defense could make the difference.

More from SB Nation college football:

Follow @SBNationCFBFollow @SBNRecruiting

• Interactive bowl season calendar with picks and links to more coverage:

[Screen_shot_2013-12-09_at_2]

• What the Playoff would look like, from four to 32 teams

• Ranking all 35 bowl games by watchability

• College football news | Reaction to Heisman finalists and snubs

• Long CFB reads | The night Baylor died in Stillwater

question: What are the two teams in this article?

answer: UL Lafayette and Tulane

question: What are they playing in?

answer: New Orleans Bowl.

question: What will Notre Dame and Rutgers square off in?

answer: The Pinstripe Bowl

question: Who is expected to try to win their second Rose Bowl in a row?

answer: Stanford

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: In college football, there are many seasonal big games called "bowls". This season, UL Lafayette and Tulane are playing each other in the New Orleans Bowl; Notre Dame and Rutgers will square off in the Pinstripe Bowl; and Stanford will attempt to win their second consecutive Rose Bowl.


text:
This is my first short story. Initial apologies for grammar errors. I mainly write for SEO and product descriptions, but have a passion for fiction I want to get out. Here is my first work. Comment with anything that compels you.

Morning Scars

She stared in the mirror to look at her scars, a dark morning ritual. Like a repaired rag-doll, her body seemed to be covered with seems and discoloration, the places where the wounds once existed. Although she is no longer bleeding, the marks are still visible in the morning bathroom light. The sunlight breaking through the half drawn shades, enough to see the speckles of dust particles floating as if they just woke up themselves, floating without purpose. Soon it will be time to face the world. She won't let them see the old, but not forgotten gashes and puncture marks. Some mornings she feels like a war-torn veteran, but never having seen a battlefield or held a weapon.

The hot water stings her back, but helps her body make the final exit from the perils of her dreams, to the reality that is life. Steam enters her nostrils and fills her lungs with warm, moist air. Some mornings this breath almost hurts, from a night of red-eyes and short scuttled breaths; her strength always pushed her beyond that initial breath, to take the next and eventually have the warmth pass through her entire body.

Standing with a towel wrapped around her waist, the foggy mirror almost hid all of her marks. The faint shadowy woman could have been a model or a famous actress whom people adored. As the steam settled, the model would melt away and reveal the reality that existed right in front of her.

She would not weep today, make up brush in hand. She covers her flaws, just as she always does. No one knows they are there. Hidden beneath layers of coverup, she prepares for her day. Sometimes a lonesome teardrop would cause her to wipe-away and reapply some powder or eyeliner. Other times her eyes would well up and the smallest amount of mascara would dissolve under a blink, burning. The sting reminded her she could still feel, she was still human.

A noise in the bedroom signaled he was awake, her husband, the man who wielded the weapons to cause her scars. He wasn't a bad man, he just was put in bad situations. She didn't think he meant to do those things, but he did and she could see the evidence in the mirror.

Children's' laughs and Mickey Mouse cartoons caused a small lift in the sides of her lips, someone could have said it was a smile, others might have brushed it off as a twitch, an involuntary muscle movement. She was still alive, she still had her emotions, she still could laugh. Couldn't she?

The bathroom door opened and creaked slightly, the show must go on. She smiled and said good morning; just in time, as she could see all of her scars and bruises were hidden.

Her husband undressed and prepared to clean up for his day, there was enough hot water for his brief rushed shower. He smiled and offered his morning pleasantries; a laugh was even shared as he dropped the shampoo bottle on his big toe. Looking up though, he knew something was unsettled. For the first time, he saw something. Was it a blemish? Did she get hurt? Under her left eye he could see the swelling. He had never seen that before, how could she have possibly gotten that?

He asked, and the answer knocked him back. Even though he was mostly dry now, its as if the cool air just hit him after stepping out of the shower. As she explained, her scars appeared, one by one transforming from the inside to the out, like he was just given glasses and could finally see clearly.

He had given her those scars, even though he never physically hurt her. There were never any fists or weapons, but she bled.

As he saw his bride transform into the scar-laden woman, he wept. Tears seemed to come from a deep well that was never tapped before. He looked at his hands and they looked burned; his arms and chest and legs bore the same once burned flesh. She saw it as well, face of a man who seemed to have been set in a blazing fire time and again.

They embraces each other, each scar and mark touched on their bodies. They seemed to wince has their pain-ridden scars touched each other. Something seemed to heal, the need to hide their blemishes. Barren, nude and vulnerable they stood. Scars don't heal quickly, but they fade. They loved each other despite the marks left behind, they only knew there was one way to heal them. They needed each other to dab the wounds, one by one until they were gone. A new oath and promise was made, but it was hard to accept.

Each morning she woke up, looked in the mirror at her scarred face. Sometimes one has faded away, and she smiles. He touches her back and she feels a smooth soft hand again, the one she held on the day they took their vows. She was happy to not have to hide anymore, she was happy to see her beauty return a little bit each time she opened her eyes and looked in the sunlit morning mirror. The dust floated in the air, and this time she envisioned it was them, dancing with purpose and love.

title: [RO/MF] My first short story: Morning Scars

question: What did the scars on the wife exemplify?

answer: The scars that appeared on the wife were not a product of physicality, but of emotional pain. The scars represented her sad and dark self and her unhappiness with her husband. When her husband saw her scars, he was shocked and really became upset that this was her body and worried about the pain she had been suffering. Slowly but surly, the scars started to fade as the wife saw the beauty in herself.

question: Describe how the couple started to heal.

answer: The couple started to heal as they embraced each other, and their scars and marks touched on their bodies. As they love each other, the scars would fade over time. They had to dab each other their wounds, one by one until they were gone. This was the oath they made when they got married and it was to be kept.

question: Would the girl in the story be hurt again?


text:
The Projector Room

	 If given the opportunity to re-write history at any point he wished, Keaya would  go back and change the statue of that oh-so-familiar Greek God Adonis, so instead it reflects not a muscle-bound oaf with blonde hair—but his wonderful boyfriend of five years, Sabin.

Currently though, Keaya’s gaze was fixated on Sabin’s leaning form against the lavender walls of their bedroom, the latter staring out the window, contemplating. While Keaya found Sabin to be at an admittedly amusing height of five foot-two, compared to his own height of five foot-ten, Sabin was nonetheless an avatar of indulgent perfection, what with his long black hair back in a pony-tail and that little rainbow streak on the left side that—for whatever reason—refuses to stay put. In the warm sunlight that was streaming through the bedroom of their tiny apartment during a general Texas afternoon –that is to say humid enough to fog up windows—this coffee skinned god’s shirtless form was radiating light that would make even Zeus jealous; their room full of deafening, whirring projectors that gave off light of their own.

The projectors had accumulated over the years as Keaya had spent more time with Sabin—right up until a year or so ago. Grainy chat logs from instant messengers stacked precariously six or more inches thick on the cheap matte desk, next to the oaken dresser in a pile that fell over at some point, in the entire three foot space between the windowsill and the far corner opposite the desk but next to the bed—they were everywhere. There were drawings of Sabin and Keaya, too, and in a number that surpassed even the chat logs: Drawings of them relaxing on the couch, out to dinner on that rare occasion they could afford it, posing in a thousand different positions, and even drawings of more serious moments like when Sabin quit smoking for a few months. Sometimes they had been done by Keaya, sometimes by Sabin, or sometimes by both of them. They filled every page of notebooks that were stacked next to and as thick as the chat logs, in loose-leaf form cluttering up the desk, in haphazard piles neck to the notebooks and even on random scraps of paper crammed into folders next to the piles. Keaya would have thrown them all out long ago if he wasn’t so entranced by the damn things.
Impish in all the ways that were socially unacceptable to disclose in public but exceptionally gratifying nonetheless, Sabin’s smile—more specifically the one he was giving Keaya right now—was in turn surpassed by his way-too-sexy British voice, “What’s the matter, love?”

Keaya shuddered; that voice—it drove him up the wall, made him hunger and quake. Made him yearn, beg, and plead. Just a cop or a feel. Just one.  Keaya sighed as if he’d run a mile and sat on the edge of the decrepit office chair at the desk, looking away towards the dresser, seeming all of a sudden to need his undying attention; though it was filled with more projectors— more wearily stacked drawings, a clay sculpture of a lime green paw print, and a worn out purple leash. It was almost disgusting to want someone this bad, almost too cliché, almost too reminiscent of those disgusting-yet-somehow-entrancing romance books Keaya had taken more than a few peeks at in the “Romance” section of the local Borders he had gone to when he was still a teenager.

 “N-nothing.” Came the shaky lie, and again, “Nothing.”  Keaya’s elbows came to rest on his knees, head propping up on his hands for support.

“You always say that. Nothing, nothing, nothing is *ever* on your mind—but you’re *always* lying and you know it.” Sabin’s devious tone matched his grin perfectly, the way his smile curled up just a little at corner of his lips, one eyebrow lifted, head tilted forward a little. Standing up after a minute and striding over to the chair where Keaya sat, Sabin stood mere centimeters away—close enough to reach out and touch as the projectors whirred yet louder.

Turning his attention to the floor and taking a deep breath to steady himself, Keaya’s eyes closed only long enough for him to feel a thumb and forefinger cup his chin, Sabin’s fingers lifting his head up so he could stare into those hypnotic eyes, the color of warm sunlight through amber.

“Be right back, silly. Gotta smoke.” Sabin’s hand dropped to his side as he turned slowly and strode out of the room with that sickening idea obviously in mind. A single stack of chat logs and a large colored-pencil drawing that’d won 2nd place in a contest flickered incessantly as Sabin went into the hallway and out to the tiny balcony, the click of a lighter and puff of a cigarette heard even over the projectors, a relieved sigh shortly following.

Nodding, Keaya let out an exasperated sigh followed by a disgusted scowl, “Alright sweets,” not commenting on the cigarette—Keaya knew he wouldn’t stop—watching him go instead. It wasn’t as if this was the first time he’s seen his boyfriend or anything though— far from it.  After meeting Sabin six years prior on the Internet and after half a year’s worth of eight to nine hour conversations on the phone—albeit actual ‘conversing’ was only about three-quarters of it—Keaya decided to accept Sabin’s offer to actually meet in person. After a few weeks of knowing Sabin in person, the ability to go out on dates to any number of romantic places that hadn’t thrown them out yet, to just cuddle on the couch like they’d talked about for so many months prior, and even the simple act of being in Sabin’s presence caused everything to blend into months and then years. Smatterings of affection that gradually became irrepressible love, communication frequency that bordered on access, a total trust in Keaya, and many, many situations that more often than not resulted in Keaya getting kicked out of his favorite places around town amidst to screams of, “You two had better leave or else we’ll call the cops!”

That last thought to pop into Keaya’s head made him burst forth with a sudden and hearty laugh, his voice calling into the other room as he stood up and strode over to the doorway, leaning on it, “Hey, Sabin! Remember when we got kicked out of that fancy-ass mall near that stupidly-expensive chocolate store?”

There was a silence from the balcony before a jubilant laugh echoed into the bedroom, “Hah! How the hell do you remember that one incident? That sure wasn’t the only time we got kicked out for so-called ‘unacceptable behavior’. That was a year ago, wasn’t it?” The projectors stopped flickering, though not all the way; Sabin’s voice alone not enough to make them run smoothly again.

Keaya paused to think, *‘I met him six years ago on that website…started dating three months later. Four years and nine months after that…no, wait…’* Keaya gripped the sides of his head at the dates. There was a year missing.

Keaya twined his fingers in his hair, tugging at it as his weight shifted and he began sliding slowly down until he was resting on the floor. His knees drew up, arms came to rest on knees, and head got cradled in his arms— protecting it from the intruding memories.
A singsong voice called from the balcony, “Oh Keaayyaaa…Come ‘ere.”

Keaya shuddered as if he’d been punched in the stomach—a sob leaking out, quiet and wracked.

A few white leather cuffs that looked way too pristine to ever have been use for their intended purpose, a distinctly more one-sided stack of chat logs from late August last year that had been exiled to the corner, and a flag from one of the gay pride parades they used to frequent each shut off one by one in their various places throughout the room, each one a projector, whirring to life once more at the sound of Sabin’s voice, the image of Sabin flickering in the doorway to the bedroom.

He walks into the hallway where Keaya now sits, huffing impatiently and resting his hands on his hips, “Well? I’m not going to be here forever, ‘ya know.”

title: Made it into my college's literary magazine! Here's the piece. [1,388 words]

question: Who are the major characters in the story?

answer: The gay couple Keaya and Sabin are the main characters.

question: What habit of Sabin annoys Keaya?

answer: His smoking.

question: Why does Keaya miss a year in his memories?

answer: While the story doesn't state it outright, it seems like Sabin is dead and the projectors are playing old recordings.

question: Why did the couple routinely got kicked out of places?

answer: Their affection for each other bordered on inappropriate and perhaps because the people around them disapproved of their gay relationship.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: Keaya watches the intoxicating figure of his boyfriend in the projector room, many images playing around. Filled with lust and love, the couple banters for a while when Keaya recounts how long they have been dating. He misses a year in his memories and slowly sits on the floor as memories start creeping into his mind. [The rest is conjecture.] Keaya tries to shield himself from his memories as the image of his dead boyfriend comes near him, playfully teasing.


text:
I wrote this on the fly last night, may need some editing for grammar and such, but let me know what you think.
It is entitled       **WHOLE**

Not until living about twenty years of life did I realize that I was not alone in this world. I grew up in a Christian home and truly believed in God, I still do, but I never felt like there were people around me. I went to a private high school and was taught by fantastic teachers about all sorts of fascinating topics. I went to gym class and excelled at walking laps while the popular kids played basketball. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t an outcast, nor did I believe that I was better than everyone else and thus didn’t participate, it’s just, I once played a game of knockout and when I won against the star basketball player (who later went to play for the best college team in the country), I decided that I didn’t like basketball anymore. That’s in the past though; I am now in college and have nothing to do with the gym.
I guess before continuing with my story I should tell you who I am, but that is no simple task either. My name is, for all intents and purposes of this story, Daniel West. Not only is my name Daniel West, but my father’s name was also Daniel West. You see, my father died well before I was born and my mother named me after him. He didn’t know he was having a son before he died. Having a son was his dream.
Everyone always tells me that I look just like my father, but I have my mother’s smile. It’s the dimples. Sadly, I also inherited my eyesight from my father. My favorite thing in the world is waking up every morning and poking myself in the eyes several times after stubbing my toe on the dresser and nearly falling down the stairs, and all this happens before breakfast. My jet black hair and slim face are some of my favorite features that make me happy to be the descendant of my father.

Jess, my older sister by six years, adds another interesting dynamic to the house. She still lives at home and has two kids, she was raped three years ago; the man was never caught.  She hasn’t been the same since that day, but the twins are just learning to walk so she doesn’t have much time to think about it anymore. I wish she could find a nice guy to marry; she could use a man in her life. I offer to watch my nephews for her so she can go to a bar and meet someone, but she always says I am sweet, but she doesn’t have time to drink and she is too tired because of the kids and work to date. I don’t see why not, once the kids are asleep she sits in the Lazy Boy and drinks a cup of hot tea staring into space. She could stand to be staring into a man’s eyes for once.

My mother is the happiest, most hardworking, woman I know. She works two jobs during the week and another job on weekends, when she isn’t watching the twins. Beautiful as ever, she is. Her grey green eyes and bright smile, dimples as big as the craters on the moon always brightens anyone’s day. I am just glad that I didn’t inherit that hotrod red hair of hers; I like having a soul. Don’t tell her I said that, she always gives me sass when I pull out the ginger jokes. “Daniel that is not a way to treat you mother, or any other women! Red hair does not mean that I do not have a soul. What are they teaching you at that expensive college that you’re going to?” She scolds me, holding back a smile; it’s a little scary, even if she isn’t serious. I sometimes call her just to say something about her hair, because I never get to see her. Except during breakfast.

Breakfast is my favorite ten minutes on weekdays. The family all sits down together, except Tuesdays and Thursdays when my mom has to go into work early and Fridays when my sister takes the kids to daycare early so she can get some shopping done before work. I make us pancakes and eggs and we talk about the weather and what so and so did down the street. The simple conversations are my favorite, because it reminds me that, though we never see each other for more than ten minutes on any given day, we are still alive.

It does make me sad though. If my dad had been allowed to buy the hand gun he had tried to buy the week before he, along with five others, was shot, he would be with us and I would have a father. He had gone with a friend of his, a police officer, to the gun range weekly for months to learn how to handle and shoot a firearm. When he went to the store they informed him that he had to go through several levels of background checks and tests before he could purchase his first handgun. It angers me that the man who shot him had gone through the same process and was still a criminal. You would think that the governments’ strict control over the weapons would ensure that guns were not put into crazy people’s hands.

Growing up without a father and with a mother who works three jobs was tough and still is. I had to teach myself how to cook, shave, and tie a tie for prom. Not that I had a date to prom, I am too quiet and people think that I lack confidence because of that. “No one likes a man who doesn’t have enough confidence.” One girl said to me when I asked her out. The truth is, I am very confident in who I am, it’s just I can’t be loud or attract attention to myself; I never have been able to.  It’s strange, I try to yell and the loudest I can get can be heard no more than across the room, and that is when I am angry. I’m never angry so really, I can only be as loud as a normal conversation tone. That doesn’t explain the lack of appeared confidence. What does explain it is, I am humble, humble to the point that I can’t be mean and I feel prideful if I draw attention to myself in anyway. When I try to I usually get weird looks anyways, so it doesn’t matter to me. Much.
The point I am trying to get at, the one that started this whole rant is. It has been twenty years and I have always felt mostly alone. Despite my mother, sister, and nephews, a few good friends who all go to schools hours away, and a being in a great college, I couldn’t seem to shake my loneliness. That is until now. They thing that makes me feel like I am not alone, the thing that makes me most happy, is the simplest thing of all. It is something that I was born by and born with. It is something that most people spend their whole lives trying to find, but no amount of wealth or power or knowledge can take its place or bring it to a person. It is a four letter word. Love.

When you throw out everything else in my life, three things remain: Faith, Hope, and Love. The greatest of these is Love and it is Love that makes me whole. For I know that when all else fails me, my love for my family, my friends, my god, and all of those around me will never cease. It is my gift of love that holds back the worst this world can give me. And it is Love that makes me whole.

title: Whole

question: Explain the narrator's physical similarities to his father.

answer: The narrator, Daniel, shares a name with his father. Others tell him he looks like his father in general but in particular, his eyesight, his black hair, and his slim face resemble his dad.

question: Why is breakfast the narrator's favorite part of the weekday?

answer: Because it is a brief time when his family sits down together to eat and talk with each other. This simple conversation reminds him that they're all still alive.

question: What mood does the last paragraph evoke?

answer: It evokes a sense of hope and purpose, despite the circumstances of the narrator's life.

question: How is the reader supposed to feel about the narrator's loneliness?

answer: It seems as though the narrator desires sympathy but not pity.


text:
GEORGE ORWELL WAS A LITERARY MEDIOCRITY AND HIS VIEWS ON THE IMPORTANCE OF PLAIN WRITING ARE PLAIN WRONG, ARGUES WRITER WILL SELF.

"The English," GK Chesterton wrote, "love a talented mediocrity." Which is not to suggest that we don't also have a reverence for the charismatic and gifted, or that we're incapable of adoring those with nothing to recommend them.

Still, overall, it's those individuals who unite great expertise and very little originality - let alone personality - who arouse in us the most perfect devotion. The permatanned actor whose chat show anecdotes are so dull the studio audience falls asleep; the colourless athlete who's had a highly successful charisma bypass; the nondescript prime minister whose fractious cabinet is subdued by the sheer monotony of his speaking voice. I could go on.

At least residually, the Celtic cultures valorise the excessive and the extreme - the rocky eminence of a warrior-bard whose dark countenance is lit up by brilliant fulguration.

Or so they claim. In truth the grey hold sway in Edinburgh, Cardiff, Belfast and Dublin quite as much as they do in London. Is it any surprise? Whatever their own talents, the Scots, Welsh and Irish have all been colonised by English mediocrities.

Over the centuries during which they've held sway these administrators of ennui have built up a sort of pantheon of piffle, comprised of talented mediocrities' productions. There are entire syllabuses full of their lacklustre texts - galleries hung with their bland daubs, concert halls resounding with their duff notes, and of course, radio stations broadcasting their tepid lucubrations.

Each generation of talented English mediocrities seizes upon one of their number and elevates her or him to become primus inter pares. Of course, these figures may not, in fact, be talented mediocrities at all, but rather genuinely adept and acute. However, what's important is that they either play to the dull and cack-handed gallery, or that those who sit there see in them their own run-of-the-mill reflection.

The curious thing is that while during the post-war period we've had many political leaders, we've got by with just a single Supreme Mediocrity - George Orwell.

I don't doubt characterising Orwell as a talented mediocrity will put noses out of joint. Not Orwell, surely! Orwell the tireless campaigner for social justice and economic equality; Orwell the prophetic voice, crying out in the wartime wilderness against the dangers of totalitarianism and the rise of the surveillance state; Orwell, who nobly took up arms in the cause of Spanish democracy, then, equally nobly, exposed the cause's subversion by Soviet realpolitik; Orwell, who lived in saintly penury and preached the solid virtues of homespun Englishness; Orwell, who died prematurely, his last gift to the people he so admired being a list of suspected Soviet agents he sent to MI5.

Now, don't get me wrong. I like Orwell's writing as much as the next talented mediocrity. I've read the great bulk of his output - at least that which originally appeared in hard covers, and some of his books I've read many times over - in particular The Road to Wigan Pier and Down and Out in Paris and London, the long pieces of quasi-reportage that made his name in the 1930s.

The fiction stands up less obviously well, but I can still find solid virtues in the skewed satirising of Keep the Aspidistra Flying or the unremitting bleakness of A Clergyman's Daughter and Coming up for Air. At any rate they lack the more obvious didacticism of Animal Farm and 1984. As for the essays, they can be returned to again and again, if not for their substance alone, certainly for their unadorned Anglo-Saxon style.

It's this prose style that has made Orwell the Supreme Mediocrity - and like all long-lasting leaders, he has an ideology to justify his rule. Orwell's essay, Politics and the English Language, is frequently cited as a manifesto of plainspoken common sense - a principled assault upon all the jargon, obfuscation, and pretentiously Frenchified folderol that deforms our noble tongue. Orwell - it's said by these disciples - established once and for all in this essay that anything worth saying in English can be set down with perfect clarity such that it's comprehensible to all averagely intelligent English readers.

The only problem with this is that it's not true - and furthermore, Orwell was plain wrong. The entire compass of his errancy is present in his opening lines:

"Most people who bother with the matter at all would admit that the English language is in a bad way, but it is generally assumed that we cannot by conscious action do anything about it. Our civilization is decadent and our language - so the argument runs - must inevitably share in the general collapse. It follows that any struggle against the abuse of language is a sentimental archaism, like preferring candles to electric light or hansom cabs to aeroplanes. Underneath this lies the half-conscious belief that language is a natural growth and not an instrument which we shape for our own purposes."

George Orwell's rules for writing (from Politics and the English Language)

(i) Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.

(ii) Never use a long word where a short one will do.

(iii) If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.

(iv) Never use the passive where you can use the active.

(v) Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.

(vi) Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.

Well, in fact, as Noam Chomsky's work on universal grammar established to the satisfaction of most (although the idea of a universal innate grammar goes all the back to Roger Bacon), language very much is a natural outgrowth of the human brain, which is hardwired for its acquisition and use.

As for most people who bother with the matter admitting that English is in a bad way - hardly. Since 1946, when Orwell's essay was published, English has continued to grow and mutate, a great voracious beast of a tongue, snaffling up vocabulary, locutions and syntactical forms from the other languages it feeds on. There are more ways of saying more things in English than ever, and it follows perfectly logically that more people are shaping this versatile instrument for their purposes.

The trouble for the George Orwells of this world is that they don't like the ways in which our tongue is being shaped. In this respect they're indeed small "c" conservatives, who would rather peer at meaning by the guttering candlelight of a Standard English frozen in time, than have it brightly illumined by the high-wattage of the living, changing language.

Orwell and his supporters may say they're objecting to jargon and pretension, but underlying this are good old-fashioned prejudices against difference itself. Only homogenous groups of people all speak and write identically. People from different heritages, ethnicities, classes and regions speak the same language differently, duh!

More from the Magazine

George Orwell is one of the UK's best-known 20th Century authors but he's also claimed by a town in north-eastern India. Orwell was born here - and his home is being turned into a museum.

If you want to expose the Orwellian language police for the old-fashioned authoritarian elitists they really are, you simply ask them which variant of English is more grammatically complex - Standard English or the dialect linguists call African American Vernacular English. The answer is, of course, it's the latter that offers its speakers more ways of saying more things - you feel me?

It was Orwell's own particular genius to possess a prose style that stated a small number of things with painful clarity. Moreover it's a style that along with its manifest virtues has a hidden, almost hypnotic one. Reading Orwell at his most lucid you can have the distinct impression he's saying these things, in precisely this way, because he knows that you - and you alone - are exactly the sort of person who's sufficiently intelligent to comprehend the very essence of what he's trying to communicate.

It's this the mediocrity-loving English masses respond to - the talented dog-whistling calling them to chow down on a big bowl of conformity.

Because that's what it amounts to in the end. Any insistence on a particular way of stating things is an ideological act, whether performed by George Orwell or the Ministry of Truth.

Orwell's ideology is ineffably English, a belief in the inherent reasonableness, impartiality and common sense of a certain kind of clear-thinking, public-school-educated but widely experienced middle-class Englishman - an Englishman such as himself.

It's by no means as pernicious an ideology as Ingsoc and its attendant newspeak, but it's an ideology all the same.

And while I don't judge Orwell himself too harshly for his talent, I feel less well-disposed to those mediocrities who slavishly worship at the shrine of St George, little appreciating that the clarity they so admire in his writings is simply another kind of opacity, since in the act of revealing one truth it necessarily obscures many others.

_A Point of View is broadcast on Fridays on Radio 4 at 20:50 BST and repeated Sundays 08:50 BST_ or listen on BBC iPlayer

_Subscribe to the_ BBC News Magazine's email newsletter _to get articles sent to your inbox._

question: What is the author's main argument against Orwell's "Politics and the English Language" essay?

answer: He thinks the essay admonishes the natural change of a language while claiming to be championing clarity.

question: Why does the author think the English love mediocrity?

answer: It's not explained.

question: What is the author's view regarding language?

answer: He sees it as being in constant evolution.

question: Why does Orwell's essay work well according to the author?

answer: His prose style gives the impression that his readers are, each one individually, the only ones capable of understanding what Orwell is trying to say with brilliant clarity.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: The author decries the call for uniformity in Orwell's essay "Politics and the English Language." He says that the essay while claiming to be on the side of speaking simply and understandably, is actually a screed against change. The author thinks of language as an evolving entity, and that Orwell's call for a standard style is nothing but stagnation.


text:
_SATTATHIN THIRAPPU VIZHAA_ () is 1989 Tamil thriller drama film written, produced and directed by M. Bhaskar under the banner _Oscar Movie_.[1][2] The film's soundtrack was composed by Shankar - Ganesh. It stars Karthik, Shobana and Ravichandran playing lead, with Nizhalgal Ravi, Kuyili and Rajesh playing pivotal roles.[3]

Cast

-   Karthik as Rajesh
-   Shobana as Radha, Ethiraj's daughter
-   Ravichandran as Ethiraj, Radha's father
-   Major Sundararajan as DSP
-   Nizhalgal Ravi as Pilot Gandhi Raman, Rajesh Father
-   Sumithra
-   Kuyili as Ponni
-   Rajesh as Prabhu Das
-   Venniradai Moorthy as Punniyam
-   A. R. Srinivasan
-   Veera Raghavan as Judge

Soundtrack

Soundtrack was composed by Shankar Ganesh.[4]

  No.   Song                       Singers                                 Length (m:ss)
  ----- -------------------------- --------------------------------------- ---------------
  1     “Oh Vennila”               S. P. Balasubrahmanyam, K. S. Chithra   05:20
  2     “Javadhu Santhana Poovu”   S. P. Balasubrahmanyam, S. Janaki       04:52
  3     “Innum Enthan”             K. J. Yesudas                           05:04
  4     “Rama Rama Hare”           S. Janaki                               04:40
  5     “Inbame Inbame”            S. Janaki                               04:50

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4] https://bollywoodvinyl.in/collections/kannada-malayalam-telugu-tamil-lps/products/sattathin-thiruppuvila-1989-tamil-vinyl-l-p

title: Sattathin Thirappu Vizhaa

question: What was the film about?

answer: The article does not specify, though the film falls under the thriller/drama genres.

question: Is the film Bollywood?

answer: Yes

question: List some of the songs on the soundtrack...

answer:
Composed by Shankar Ganesh, songs include:
Oh Vennila
Javadhu Santhana Poovu
Innum Enthan
Rama Rama Hare
and Inbame Inbame

question: Name the lead actor?

answer: Karthik who played Rajesh

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: A page for the film 'Sattathin Thirappu Vizhaa', a Tamil thriller directed by M. Bhaskar.


text:
DELOS MARSHALL “TOBY” COSGROVE (born 1940) is an American Vietnam War veteran and former heart surgeon. He served as the president and chief executive of the Cleveland Clinic from 2004 until 2017.

Early life

Toby Cosgrove was born in 1940[1] in Watertown, New York and graduated from Williams College,[2] where he majored in history.[3] He received an MD from the University of Virginia School of Medicine.[4] He was an intern at the Massachusetts General Hospital, the Boston Children’s Hospital, and Brook General Hospital in London, U.K.[5]

Career

During the Vietnam War, Cosgrove served as a surgeon in the United States Air Force.[6] He was awarded the Bronze Star Medal for his service.[7]

Cosgrove began working at the Cleveland Clinic in 1975.[8] By 1989, he was appointed as the chairman of its Department of Thoracic and Cardiovascular Surgery.[9] He served as its president and chief executive from 2004 to 2017.[10][11]

Cosgrove practiced thoracic surgery until 2006.[12] During the course of his career, he performed over 22,000 procedures.[13] He served as the president of the American Association of Thoracic Surgery in 2000.[14] He is a member of the Society of Thoracic Surgeons, the American College of Surgeons, and the American Heart Association.[15] He also became a member of the Institute of Medicine in 2013.[16]

Cosgrove was offered the position of Secretary of the United States Department of Veterans Affairs by President Barack Obama in 2014, but he turned it down.[17][18] He was interviewed for the same position by president-elect Donald Trump in December 2016.[19][20]

In December 2016, Cosgrove joined a business forum assembled by president-elect Donald Trump to provide strategic and policy advice on economic issues.[21]

Personal life

Cosgrove has a wife, Anita.[22] He is dyslexic.[23]

Works

-

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

[12]

[13]

[14]

[15]

[16]

[17]

[18]

[19]

[20]

[21]

[22]

[23]

title: Toby Cosgrove

question: Who is Delos Marshall "Toby" Cosgrove?

answer: Delos Marshall "Toby" Cosgrove is a dyslexic American Vietnam War veteran and former heart surgeon.

question: When was he born?

answer: He was born in 1940 in Watertown, New York.

question: Why did he turn down President Obama's job offer?

answer: Information can't be found.

question: What was his role during the Vietnam war?

answer: During the Vietnam War, he served as a surgeon in the United States Air Force.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: Delos Marshall "Toby" Cosgrove is a dyslexic American Vietnam War veteran. He served as a surgeon in the United States Air Force.


text:
LUCAS DE TUI (or O TUDENSE) (died 1249) was a Leonese cleric and intellectual, remembered best as a historian. He was Bishop of Tuy from 1239 until his death.

Born in León, Lucas was a canon of San Isidoro there between 1221 and 1239. While a canon he wrote _De Miraculis Sancti Isidori_ in defence of Isidore of Seville. He also travelled extensively: to Rome, Constantinople, Cyprus, Jerusalem, Armenia, and France. He visited all four of the Holy Nails: in France, Constantinople, Nazareth, and Tarsus. In 1233 or 1234 he passed Easter in Rome and completed his tract _De altera vita fideique controversiis adverus Albigensium errores_ against the Cathars, taking inspiration mainly from Isidore and Jerome.

In 1236, upon a request from Queen Berenguela, he composed the _CHRONICON MUNDI_, a four-part chronicle of world history and his _magnum opus_. Beginning with Creation and ending in 1236, the _Chronicon_ aspired to give comprehensive coverage to two topics: the world and the Spains. Lucas' principal sources are Isidore, John of Biclar, Hydatius, Orosius, the _Chronicle of Alfonso III_, the _Crónica Silense_, and Sampiro. Lucas does contain a few historical titbits which are found nowhere else, but he is not generally regarded as reliable in this regard.

In 1239 he was made bishop of Tuy, and there he died ten years thence.

Bibliography

-   Davis, Gifford (1935). “The Development of a National Theme in Medieval Castilian Literature.” _Hispanic Review_, 3:2 (April), pp. 149–161.
-   Falque, Emma (2002). “Lucas de Túy y Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada: diferencias y similitudes en la narración histórica.” _Colloquium: Rodrigue Jiménez de Rada (Castille, 1ère moitié du XIIIème siècle) : histoire, historiographie_, University of Salamanca.
-   Falque, Emma (2003). _Lucae Tudensis Chronicon Mundi_. _Corpus Christianorum: Continuatio Mediaevalis_, LXXIV. Turnhout: Brepols.
-   Fraker, Charles F. (1978). “Alfonso X, the Empire and the _Primera crónica_.” _Bulletin of Hispanic Studies_, 55:2 (April), pp. 95–103.
-   Franklin, Albert B. III (1937). “A Study of the Origins of the Legend of Bernardo del Carpio.” _Hispanic Review_, 5:4 (October), pp. 286–303.
-   Gilbert, Creighton (1985). “A Statement of the Aesthetic Attitude around 1230.” _Hebrew University Studies in Literature and the Arts_, 13:2, pp. 125–151.
-   Gutiérrez, M. T.; Trobajo, A. (1993). “The Ends in Lucas de Tuy's «Book of the Miracles».” _Studium legionense_, 34, pp. 241–268.
-   Roth, Norman (1976). “The Jews and the Muslim Conquest of Spain.” _Jewish Social Studies_, 38:2 (Spring), pp. 145–59.
-   Roth, Norman (1981). “Jews and Albigensians, in the Middle Ages: Lucas of Tuy on Heretics in León.” _Sefarad_, 41:1, pp. 71–94.
-   Russell, J. C. (1938). “Chroniclers of Medieval Spain.” _Hispanic Review_, 6:3 (July), pp. 218–235.

title: Lucas de Tuy

question: Describe some interesting facts about Lucas de Tuy.

answer: Lucas de Tuy was the Bishop of Tuy from 1239 until he died. He took a lot of inspiration from Isidore and Jerome. Lucas also compised the Chronicon Mundi, which is a four part chronicle of world history and his magnum opus. Lucas  was most remembered as a historian.

question: Did Lucas de Tuy enjoy traveling?


text:
CHAPERAL is a neighbourhood located in the suburban Orleans area, in the east-end of the city of Ottawa, Ontario.

Part of the city's Cumberland Ward, the residential development is bordered to the north by Innes Road, to the west by Mer Bleue Road, the east by Tenth Line Road and to the south by Brian Coburn Boulevard.[1] The community includes a mixture of single family, semi-detached, town homes, and bungalows. Tamarack commenced the first phase of construction in Spring 2008. As of the Canada 2011 Census, the population was 766.[2]

Past OC Transpo plans saw a potential O-Train light train line to the area; however, some controversy and the December 14, 2006 cancellation of a previous proposal halted the plans.

Commercial Development

Taggart Realty Management are responsible for the future commercial development of the Chaperal Centre, to be located at the corner of Tenth Line Road and Brian Coburn.[3]

[1]

[2] Population calcuclated by combining Dissemination Blocks 3506187629, 3506187613, 3506187612, 3506187614

[3]

title: Chaperal

question: Where is the neighborhood?

answer: Ottawa, Ontario

question: When did construction of the neighborhood begin?

answer: Spring 2008

question: What was the population in 2011?

answer: 766

question: Who is responsible for commercial development in Chaperal Center?

answer: Taggart Realty Management

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: Chaperal is a neighborhood in the east-end of Ottawa, Ontario. Construction began on the neighborhood in 2008, and as of 2011, it had a population of 766.