text:
GORDEYEVKA () is a rural locality (a _selo_) in Bryansk Oblast, Russia. It is the administrative, transport, trade and economical center of Gordeyevsky District. Population:

The selo is located in Central Russia southwest of Moscow near the border with Belarus in the west of the Bryansk Oblast.

In 2018 year the total population of the Gordeyevsky district was 10 620, with the population of Gordeyevka accounting for 28.4% of that number.

Gordeevka is one of the most comfortable and largest rural settlements in Bryansk Oblast.

Geography

Gordeyevka lies in western European Russia in the central to western parts of the East European Plain.

The relief is a typical East European Plain landscape, with alternating rolling hills and shallow lowlands, although lowlands dominate. [School in Gordeevka] Climate is temperate continental. The average temperature in January is −7 to −9 °C (19 to 16 °F). The average July temperature is +18 to +19 °C (64 to 66 °F). Average annual precipitation varies from 560 to 600 millimeters (22 to 24 in).

Ecological problems

As a result of the Chernobyl disaster on April 26, 1986, part of the territory of Bryansk Oblast has been contaminated with radionuclides (mainly Gordeyevsky, Klimovsky, Klintsovsky, Krasnogorsky, Surazhsky, and Novozybkovsky Districts). In 1999, some 226,000 people lived in areas with the contamination level above 5 Curie/km², representing approximately 16% of the oblast's population.

Administrative and municipal structure

There are 9 settlements in the Gordeevskoe rural settlement.

  Settlements of Gordeevskoe rural settlement of Bryansk Oblast
  --------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------ ---------------- --------- ---------------------
  №
  1
  2
  3
  4
  5
  6
  7
  8
  9

Sights

CHURCH OF THE ASCENSION IN THE VILLAGE VELIKY BOR OF GORDEEVSKOE RURAL SETTLEMENT OF BRYANSK OBLAST

The supplier on the hill of intermediaries is the compositional center of his development. Year of construction of the church (by order of Count Bezborodko) - 1809. By now, the side porticos and the top of the bell tower have been lost. An interesting example of a cross-shaped manor church in the style of mature classicism. Around the building were comparatively short side arms, which were slightly protruding rectangular altars ending in a lowered semicircular apse. [Ruins of the church in the village Veliky Bor (1809)] The originality of the composition is given by a large light quadrangle towering over the center with a tetrahedral dome cover and a small dome on a cubic pedestal. A small refectory with one window on the side facades is adjoined by a preserved quadrangle of the bell tower. All facades of the building at the level of the apse cornice are bypassed by a profiled belt. Four Tuscan pilasters decorating the ends of the side arms correspond to the columns of the lost porticoes.

Between them in the center there are side entrances marked with triangular sandrids, and on the sides - rectangular windows; above the openings there are, respectively, an oval and two round niches. In the upper part of each facet of the quadrangle, a large semicircular three-part Empire-type window is cut. The tier of the bell tower is decorated with large flat arched niches in the center of the facets, rusticated corner parts to the waist and round niches-medallions above it. In the interior, all the side parts are completely open into the high central one, forming a single space of the temple. The central part is covered with a four-lane closed vault, the altar is covered with a conch, and the altar vima, the side arms and the refectory are covered with cylindrical vaults. The lower tier of the bell tower with rounded inner corners has a corrugated vault along the north-south axis. On the sides of the trapezoidal passage to the refectory, there are small rooms with a staircase in the southern one. Only the plaster cornices at the base of the vaults and at the top of the main quadrangle, as well as pilasters between the windows on the north and south walls, have survived from the interior decoration.

title: Gordeyevka, Bryansk Oblast

question: What is the main topic of this post?

answer: This post is about Gordeyevka, a rural locality in Bryansk Oblast, Russia.

question: What is the geography of the area?

answer: The geography is typical of the East European Plains. It is characterized as having rolling hills and shallow lowlands.

question: What ecological problems exist in the territory?

answer: Parts of the territory have been contaminated by radionuclides from the Chernobyl disaster in 1986.

question: What was the Chernobyl disaster?

answer: As deduced in the article, it involved radioactive fallout. [Chernobyl  was a nuclear power plant, that had a significant nuclear accident].

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: This post is about Gordeyevka, a rural locality in Bryansk Oblast, Russia. Parts of the territory have been contaminated by radionuclides from the Chernobyl disaster in 1986.


split: train

text:
Oh God.  It happened again.  Oh God.

I was coming out the book store, and the wind was cold, even though the sun was shining everywhere.  It was one of those days.

And there was no one around.  Not even one of those tubby security guards that zip around on campus golf carts.  I was alone, and I felt it, all the way down.

I ought to be wearing a jacket, I  woefully pondered.  And I began my walk back to my car.  Past old bits of Fort Brown and the newer monuments of higher learning.  The walkways wore a crunchy coat of browning leaves that hid all the cracks and the windows from the science building dazzled in the mid-morning sun and the fountain with all the pennies was as green as ever.  And still, there was nobody.  Until I heard the birds.

You know when birds seem to explode out of nowhere in a violent cacophonous blur of squawks and coos and skees, creating a whirwind of black and blue and green and white feathers that swirls around and around?  And you know when those feathers seem to take shape, like you could almost see some monstrous hand reaching for you to steal away your soul?  Yeah, that probably didn’t happen.

But I could hear birds.  How long had they been chirping?  And where was I going?  I hadn’t parked over…  Where had I parked?  I couldn’t remember how I had gotten there.  Or the walk to the book store.  Or what I had done there.  My hands were empty, as well as my pockets.

*Shit.*  I thought to myself.  *This isn’t- shit. Oh, shit.*  And when I remembered what happens next I thought, *Oh!  Shit!*

What would a sane person have done in this situation, I wonder now, having experienced what these past few days have inflicted.  I suppose they wouldn’t be very sane if they did, now then, would they?

So what did I do?  I went looking for her, of course.  I ran, without thinking up anything close to a plan.  I didn’t know where she was, but I sure knew where she wasn’t.  I ran past that stupid fountain, the stupid windows, and the stupid leaves. Past the poorly stuccoed Student Union and across a lawn that was way too big to be practical.  I ran to the bridge that spanned the campus resaca.

And there she was.  Naked as always.  Even in that reality, my circulatory system had been unprepared for my gallant sprint.  That’s probably why I didn’t immediately swell up, and why, when I failed to stop without tripping to the ground, I could only lay there and breathe heavily.  A lot of things were in pain, but I’m a man, so I sat up after a while and I didn’t even cry.  Not even a little.

Oh, God.  Oh, sweet merciful sensory system.  She came and sat next to me.  I felt her arms wrap around me.  It was her.  It was her touch and her smell and that little freckle mole thing on her shoulder she used to get embarrassed about.  It was her and she was holding me again.

I looked into her eyes and began to bawl.  She squeezed me to stop.  She said I always do that, like I’m going to just get over these reunions overnight.  Overday.

I collected myself and things happened and, without a word, we walked hand in hand around the paths and plants and flowers and fountains.  We came back to the resaca to sit by the water’s edge.  And then we talked about everything.  We reminisced on that time we went to Houston in grade school and I made her throw up at that restaurant and that time last year when I put a fake spider in the shower.  We talked about the lunch we had last week and got into that argument over avacado again.  I asked her what Hell was like, to which she answered with that snort thing she does when I ask stupid questions.

I wanted to know, though.  With both hands, I pulled her face to mine.  This was the beautiful face of the smartest and funniest person I've ever known.  I looked past the tears and asked: What became of this brain when I was awake?   She rolled her reddening eyes, scoffed, breathed hard, looked away again, looked down, and repeated until I bumped her forehead with mine.  She swallowed audibly and told me.  She went into really awful detail.  You know when you don’t exist anymore, and everything you ever were is wiped away clean, and you are nothing, and you are now going to be nothing for the rest of forever?  Well, its a shitty feeling.

I reacted to this sadness by grabbing her with all my body, pulling her down to the grass, and laying there for as much of forever as I could greedily hold on to.  The sky stood still for a second, confused by my drastic intentions.  But I’m a stupid boy, and when she sprang the universe back into motion with a suggestion to go swimming, I sat straight up in my bed where I had fallen asleep after my classes.  My throat hurts and my arms ache from a flu, and my sheets are sweaty and gross.

I ask again:  How would a sane man react to this?  Chalk it up to the delusions of cough syrup?   Maybe turn on the TV and try to forget it, move on like everyone says?  Or perhaps do something really stupid like swallow the rest of the cough syrup and end up spending a weird couple of hours in the restroom chatting with the shampoo and conditioner?

Well I came here to write this down.  I know this isn’t the first time this has happened, but I can’t remember any details of the previous dreams.  Look, I need to do something and the cough syrup idea was a bust.  So I’ll write these dreams here.  Fuck you if you don’t want to read it.  I need this and I need her again.  She isn’t just some delusion and I’m not crazy.  Am I crazy?

I need some sleep.  Like you wouldn’t believe.

title: "Fuck Your Sleep Bullshit" (A Blog Entry)

question: What is the narrator referring to when they say it happened again?

answer: The narrator is referencing a recurring dream where they seem to have a girlfriend/lover that they have a whole dream history with.

question: What season is the story set in?

answer: It could be assumed that its fall due to the mention of browning leaves.

question: Who is the narrator referring to when they say "naked as always"?

answer: They are referring to the woman in their dream.

question: Why did the narrator bawl when they looked into her eyes?

answer: They seem to be crying because these meetings with the woman in his dream feel so real and he can't get over them. They also seem relieved to be in her arms again.

question: Why does the narrator keep referring to a sane man?

answer: They keep referring to a sane man to highlight that they may be crazy.

question: Does the narrator have a job?

answer: That information isn't clear, but the details of the dream makes it seem like they are a student.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator writes about a recurring dream they have where they keep revisiting a woman. He has many memories with this woman that would indicate they have an intimate relationship and a long history. He's emotional when he sees her again, and wonders what happens to her when he wakes up. The emotions he has for this woman make him question his sanity, and he doesn't believe she's just a delusion. He decides he will write these dreams down to keep track of them.


text:
Drew wore unicorn t-shirts, camouflage shorts, and hiking boots with thick wool socks. They clunked with every swagger-laced step he took. If someone criticized his outfit, he smirked at their obvious insecurity.

An ocarina dangled around his neck, the glossy black wood matching the greasy black hair draped across his shoulders. He played it whenever people were around. His face contorting into a wicked sneer, he spat upon anyone who learned piano.

He told terrible jokes, the tips of his lips always curling into a slight grin. After the inevitable silence, he blamed the lack of laughter on the audience’s stupidity. It was hard being smarter than everyone else.

But insecurity forced Drew to dress that way. No one could mock his clothes effectively if he didn’t try. And he desperately wanted to be the best at something, so he picked up an instrument with no competition. And every night, he cursed himself for being so stuck-up, the salty tears snaking down his cheeks and onto the dampened pillow. Drew knew he sucked; he thought hiding the fact would make it disappear.

title: A 180 Word Character Description. How would you make this character deeper?

question: What else could Drew do instead of smirking at people?

answer: It may be implied that Drew could simply ignore them.

question: What was Drew insecure about?

answer: It may be implied that Drew was insecure about himself.

question: What career does Drew seem to be pursuing?

answer: Drew seems to be a stand-up comedian.

question: What made Drew different from the others?

answer: It may be implied that his dressing sense made him stand out.


text:
As the title says this is an unfinished work. I use to do a a lot of writing a few years back, found this in an old google docs account from back then. this was dated 12/18/08.

"	Pausing for a moment in front of the semi-mirrored glass that he always thought seemed ill fit for the large stone industrial age building, he runs his hand over his hair. giving his reflection a quick glace head to toe, tugging slightly on his blue dress shirt to make sure it looked just right. Mark always made sure he dressed up on Friday. despite the general attitude of his co-workers to dress casual, he had to be perfect. It wasn't always this way he too had enjoyed and would other wise still enjoy the casual dress code of Fridays at his office had it not been for that Friday back in march. when in his usual scatter brained manner he misplaced his bank card. It being Friday and Mark being in his mid to late 20's he wasn't about to be left stranded home for the week end. So at five when he would have other wise walked out his office, taken a left to the elevator, where he would suffer through the daily unpleasant conversation with bill from HR. bill would go on and on about his plans of various sexual encounters down to the the grittiest of details. though mark would humor bill and cheer him on with the typical machismo fashion of a frat boy, bill was none the wiser that his eye betrayed his every fantasy. he would go home, grab a frozen dinner and proceed to watch what seemed an endless stream of  edited for television movies and infomercials till Monday morning when he'd return to work. spend most of the day searching dating sites in his office with brief interludes of actual work. bill would eat lunch alone as no one could tolerate his attempts at fitting in socially, often descried as pathetic and over bearing when mentioned around the water cooler. the later half of the day was spent day dreaming of fantastic social adventures at night clubs with two, three even four of the sexiest woman any man could desire, draping  over him like a royal robe. then at 5 he would wait to leave his office till he saw mark whom he saw as  his closet friend based solely on their 5 minuets of interaction at the elevator and on the ride to the lobby of the office build. When at the door bill would look at his watch make an exuberant claim about some meeting with a  "smoking hot bitch". at which point Mark would then make his way through the barrage of traffic and into the subway as quickly as possible. Except on that Friday in march. Instead of his usual hurried escape from his office and and even more hurried escape from bill into the sub way he decided he'd make his way over to the bank located just a hundred yards away. it was one of those banks build during the hay day of the industrial revolution. large and comprised of blocks of granite, with the entrance to the lobby ornately defined with marble pillars. All together a very imposing building except for the small detail which mark would often find him self obsessively pondering. the large semi-mirrored windows framed with brushed stainless steel. the type of thing done in the 60's in an attempt to modernize the design, or so he figured.Pushing open the large glass doors, adorn with polished brass mark was, as he usually is taken back slightly by the lobby. It has polished white marble floors that run up the walls to meet the ceiling that was just as impressive. made entirely of some kind of dark wood that was painstakingly crafted by hand.  a patch work of latticed beams  that intersected an oval dome housing a mural and the banks slogan all lit by a grand crystal chandelier. as he took in the rare beauty of such craftsmanship he made his way to the row of wooden counters in the center of the floor. As he stood there looking over the rainbow of forms. Red loan applications, yellow deposit slips, blue withdrawal forms, fliers and pamphlets his eye was slowly drawn to her.

 she was just standing there, paused in the entrance of the lobby. he watched her trying not to seem as of he was. Reaching out and grabbing a pamphlet, fumbling it around in his hand. his head tilted down as if to look like he was reading but his eyes fixed on her."My god, she's beautiful." mark thought to him self as he watched her walk over to the row of tellers to the left of the lobby. she had a swing in her step, her brown curly hair bouncing as she moved. her walk had a swing in it, he hips swayed. Mark found him self fantasizing that she had seen him watching her and was putting on a show  just for him. she had caprices on that hugged her form, emphasizing her womanly curves and a form fitting blue t-shirt. he couldn't help but notice her breasts. she stood about five feet 2 inches but she wore a slight heel, five foot even with out. proportionately her breasts seemed large.

   An over weight elderly man in an old three piece suite that barley fit had made his way to the counter and placed him self directly in front of mark on the opposite side blocking his view. He had lost all focus with what he was doing, perhaps this mans unfortunate placement was for the best. looking down at the pamphlet in his hand he realized he's been flipping through a"

title: stolen love:unfinished:

question: What emotion does Mark feel toward the woman at the bank?

answer: Lust

question: What would have happened if Mark hadn't misplaced his bank card?

answer: He wouldn't have gone to the bank and wouldn't have met the woman.

question: What is Bill lying about?

answer: All of the women he is meeting with.

question: What is likely to happen as the story continues?

answer: The narrator is presumably going to fall in love with the woman at the bank.


text:
On the final night of our initiation, my fellow Messengers and I were transported to an abandoned warehouse to carry out one final task. When we arrived at our destination the Leaders brought out twelve men. Each one of them had their face covered with a thick black cloth. The Leaders placed one of the men in front of each Messenger. The Leaders then came around and gave each of us a pistol; it was our present for passing all of the initiation tests. Mine was a small black revolver that was oddly heavy for its size.

After my fellow Messengers and I had received our guns, the Leaders began to give instructions. They told us where to shoot our victims, and they even specified the angle at which we should make the shot. I knew why they gave us these specific instructions; they wanted it to look like suicide. They think we are naive just because they raised us away from their society.

I looked at the man in front of me, the man I was about to kill, and something in my gut was telling me this wasn’t right. I've never had that feeling before a kill. Usually it felt right even when it shouldn't have. Why was this man having such an effect on me? I couldn’t even see his face. I held my gun parallel to the floor and placed it directly against the right side of his head, above his eye. I then tilted the gun slightly as per the instructions I had been given. Once it was my turn I took one last deep breath. I had my finger rested on the trigger but it felt like there was a hundred pounds of resistance stopping me from pulling it. What was happening, why was it so hard to kill this man? I took one last deep breath, and slowly squeezed the trigger until I heard a loud bang from the gun followed by a soft thud when the body hit the floor. Blood began to pool around the body and it began to circle my feet.

After a little while all of us had killed our target. The Leaders told us afterwards that if we wanted we could take the cloth away from our victims and see who we had killed. I was never interested in my victims before; it could have been an elderly woman or a child and it wouldn't have phased me. However, this was different because this was by far the hardest kill I've ever had to perform and I couldn't even see the man's face or the look of terror in his eyes. I needed to see his face; I needed to know why this kill was so hard. Slowly I approached the body, making my way through what felt like a sea of blood on the ground. I grabbed the cloth and began to take it off of the man's head. Looking into the man's eyes I quickly realized that they were my eyes; this man was me. I backed away suddenly and looked around and saw that all of my Fellow Messengers were having the same reaction as me. Also, I know we were all thinking the same thing: "Who the hell are we?"

title: The Initiation

question: Who have they been killing?

answer: This is unclear. Perhaps prisoners.

question: Why are they required in the end to kill a replica of themselves?

answer: Perhaps it is a warning that no one is sacrosanct

question: Why does he feel so reluctant to make his last kill?

answer: He doesn't know. It's a gut feel but perhaps the size and shape of the man he is killing is familiar and subconsciously he recognizes himself.

question: Why were the Messengers raised away from society?

answer: Perhaps so that the Leaders could brainwash them into doing their bidding. Perhaps they wanted no outside influence.

question: Write a ~14 sentence summary.

answer:
It is the final night of the initiation and the narrator and his fellow Messengers must carry out their final task. The Leaders bring out 12 men, each with their faces covered. Each Messenger is given a pistol, a gift for passing. They are told how to shoot the men to make it look like suicide.

For the first time, the narrator is reluctant to shoot his victim. His gut tells him it isn’t right. He has never felt this way before a kill. The man’s face is covered. It is really hard to do but he presses the trigger.

Once they have all killed their targets the Leaders tell them that they can remove the mask to see who they have killed. He has never felt the need to look before. He wasn’t interested, but this time it is different. He grabs the cloth off and stares into his own eyes. The other Messengers have all had a similar experience and they’re all wondering who the hell they are.


text:
SOURCES CLOSE TO LEON OSMAN HAVE REVEALED THAT HE IS CONTEMPLATING HANGING UP HIS BOOTS AS HIS CURRENT INJURY LOOKS LIKELY TO END HIS CAREER.

Osman suffered a split tendon in his foot in the away defeat to Manchester City in December after making 16 appearances for the Blues this season, and although he has so far avoided surgery, it is now thought that it could be his only option.

With a lengthy lay off already on the cards, an operation would set Osman back in his recovery and we have been told that he is considering whether he will ever play again.

Having worked his way up through the ranks at Everton, Osman is now one of the senior players at the club after serving the first team for the past ten years, and his presence will be missed if he chooses to retire from the game.

Highlights of his career include goals in key games such as the 3-1 win over Aston Villa in the 2004-05 season, as well as this wonderful strike against AS Larissa.

The following two tabs change content below.

-   Bio
-   Latest Posts

[]

Si has been going to Goodison Park for almost 40 years and has had a season ticket in all of the stands, currently taunting away fans from the Lower Bullens.

[]

[]

question: Who is Leon Osman?

answer: A professional athlete

question: Why is Osman contemplating retiring?

answer: He is already set to have a lengthy lay off, and an operation would further set back his recovery.

question: Explain how Osman was injured.

answer: He suffered a split tendon in an away game in Manchester. The details of the injury are not disclosed.

question: Provide an overview of Osman's career.

answer: Osman worked his way up through the ranks at Everton. He is one of the snior players at the club, and has served the first team for the past ten years. Career highlights include goals in key games against Aston Villa and a strike against AS Larissa.

question: What team does Osman currently play for?

answer: Everton

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: Leon Osman, an athlete who spent ten years playing for Everton, is considering retirement after an injury at an away game in Manchester. He is already facing a lay off, and he is contemplating an operation for his split tendon, which will further set back his recovery.


text:
             The Best Story Ever
Note: This started as a game of add-on and it snowballed.

Book One: The Beginning

Once upon a time, there was a handy dandy watermelon scooper. HDWS loved his life, but he had no one to share it with. He lived in a quaint garbage cauldron, apart from all the rest of scooper society. Then one day someone left a tiny watermelon scooper on his front porch, who had a lightning bolt insignia on his handle. HDWS was so happy to have a little scooper of his own, that he bought a little pet grape for his new son, named Beranabus the Raisin. The son's name was Handy, and he grew up a very happy little watermelon scooper... or so he thought. One day, on Beranabus's 75th birthday, they heard suspicious footsteps outside their cauldron. It was none other than Cullen, the notorious garbage connoisseur who loved to eat garbage fries. Cullen reached in with his fry grease-covered fingers, and accidentally grabbed HDWS by the handle, and carried him away in his hobo sack.
   "Daddy!" Handy screamed, unable to cope with the loss of his father. "I'll come for you!!!"
   Cullen swaggered away, high on the success of his crime. He was so pleased with himself that he was unable to notice the high-speed presidential jet zooming towards his happy little jiggle-sack. He tried to dive out of the way, but his legs got hit and he became a cripple.
   "This would be a perfect occasion to assemble my collapsable rocket wheelchair!" Said Cullen, the garbage fry connoisseur. He assembled his high-fashion, glow-in-the-dark, rocket wheelchair, and zoomed away with high-speed style. Handy, having witnessed this ordeal, realized what he had to do in order to get his father back. He would need to assemble a team. A team of scoopers specializing in avenging. This team, obviously, consisted of a pooper scooper by the name of Marissa, a shovel by the name of Thaddeus, an egg whisk by the name of Julius, and a diamond spork named Constantine. They were christened.... The Revengers.
   Cullen zoomed back to his box lair in his high-fashon, glow-in-the-dark, rocket wheelchair and put HDWS in the box brig next to his box shoes. "You will make some nice melon balls when I am finished with you!" Cullen laughed an evil laugh that would even have Gilgamesh trembling with fear.
   Meanwhile, The Revengers were desperately trying to gather information on the whereabouts of Cullen and HDWS. They ventured to the outskirts of Gothamopolis City, where they found a very interesting sight. It was a giant mustache, knotted and ghoulish in the light of the Sun. This was the lair of the Mustachios.
   "What is your business here people?" asked the guard.
"We seek the evil lord of garbage fries, Cullen. Will you grant us refuge?" Julius was trembling under the guard's heavy gaze.
   "You must ask The Creator, Leah, for Her blessing." He answered, "Come forth." He gestured towards a large flat stone in the center of a clearing. Carved upon the stone was a teenager's face, and surrounding the face was a series of marks and symbols. Handy could not read them, but he knew the moment he stepped forward that they were of great importance.
   "I see, youngling, that you gaze upon The Creator with great reverence," a mysterious voice said. Turning around, Handy laid eyes upon a man. However, he was not only a man. He was a box man.
   "Wha--who are you?" questioned Handy.
   "I am the wise old man who resides in this fortress. I serve The Creator of these creatures as a prophet. You have a long journey ahead of you, Avatar Scooper." The Box Man's eyes glistened with mischief. The crowd of Mustachios and Revengers gasped.
   "Avatar? What is an Avatar?" Handy questioned, a suspicious tone in his voice. Once again, the crowd gasped.
   "Well," the wise box man began. "It's--" Suddenly an arrow, flying with the speed of a thousand lemur-bats, pierced the box-man's cardboard skin. Time froze, and the universe held its breath. Handy only heard one thing, a single shrill word from the voice of a small Mustachio child.
   "Ambush."
   The arrows began to rain voraciously on the small village of Mustachios.
   ¨NO! Save the paintings of The Creator!¨ shouted the Box Man through fits of coughing up blood.
   ¨BOX MAN!¨ Handy screamed, sprinting over to the wounded prophet. ¨Please, tell me where to find my father! What is an Avatar?"
   "Handy, come closer." The scooper leaned in close to the Box Man's pencil thin mouth. He felt an onion ring being slipped shakily into his hand. "Take this ring. It will help you in dark times..."
   "What dark times?" Handy cried, "Box Man?"
   "One ring... to rule them all..." And the Box Man's soul departed to the Creator, where She welcomed him with grace.

End of Book One

title: The Legend of The Avatar and The Revengers

question: Summarize the important characters of the story and their motivations.

answer: HDWS, the watermelon scooper, is abducted by the garbage connoisseur Cullen. HDWS's son, Handy, assembles a team consisting of a pooper scooper named Marissa, Thaddeus the shovel, Julius the Egg whisk, and a diamond spork named Constantine. The box man, who serves as a prophet to The Creator helps them with cryptic advice before he dies.

question: What does the story say about ice cream scooper, Freddy?


text:
Facebook had long since faded into a distant memory. Hadley lay with one eye open. A pillow needlessly props her head forward so she can stare at the blank wall. Her tired eye looks up toward the ceiling and down to her feet. Looks up and looks down.

She is scheduled to die in a few hours. The top corner of her eye glass has a little count-down timer set by the doctors earlier that morning. They even have it play old episodes of Jersey Shore. Now she's finally at peace.

"OMG, I'm totally gonna die in 4.56 hours" she writes on her daughters wall.

It gets 100 views and 32 likes.

"k. bye :)" her daughter replies.

A single tear wells up and blurs her eye glass. After all these years. She's never felt so close to her.

title: Relative

question: Where is Hadley?

answer: Hadley seems to be in a hospital.

question: Why is she scheduled to die?

answer: Unclear.

question: Who is crying?

answer: It seems that Hadley is crying.

question: Who is the daughter?

answer: This seems to be Hadley's daughter.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: Hadley is schedule to die n a few hours. She writes on her daughter's Facebook profile that she is going to die in 4.56 hours, and she responds with "k. bye :)". Hadley begins to cry and feels close to her daughter.


text:
The book Mum had bought me last week was hardly a page turner. "99 reasons why you should get out of bed", read the front cover in bright red writing on a white background.  Why not make it 100? 99 reasons might sound a bit more catchy, but frankly I'd rather have an extra reason to get out of bed then a marginally punchier title on my shelf.

*Reason Number 1: Because You Mean Something to Someone*, proclaimed the first chapter with great pride, as though it was on the precipice of answering some of mankind's biggest existential questions.  What a load of bollocks, I thought.  It was true, in my case - presumably my Mother saw some value in my existence.  She bought me the book, after all.  But I'd wager that at least one person reading this book doesn't know anyone, let alone someone that cares about them.  Having read reason 1, they'd probably have sought out the nearest bridge.  This was a farce.

I threw it carelessly to one side, and breathed a deep, pensive sigh; staring at nothing in particular for a moment.  The computer in the far corner of the room hummed quietly, reminding me with as much courtesy as it could muster that it was still there, still switched on.  An hour before bed wouldn't hurt, I suppose.

I punched the keyboard blindly, awaking the machine from its dormant stupor.  The screen lit up suddenly - my game had continued uninterrupted in my brief absence.  I glanced at the date and time in the bottom corner - a day had passed, which was about half an hour in real time.  Nothing significant had changed whilst I had been gone.

Population level: Increasing rapidly

Energy and Resources: Decreasing rapidly

Financial Strength:  Increasing rapidly

Not bad, I thought.  The situation in Syria was rapidly getting out of hand; that was a pain in the arse.  Foolishly I had saved my game just before it really began to spiral - there was no going back now.  It was a waste on my resources, but there was a fair chance it would mediate the population growth, so perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing.

The ozone layer was losing strength every day - it was at 67% now.  I sat back in my chair and surveyed the damage.  I was tired, slightly grumpy, and in no fit state to commit myself properly to this game.  There were too many creases that needed to be ironed out, too many variables to consider at this time of the night.  I resolved to leave it until the morning, that would buy me a few weeks in game time - perhaps things will have resolved themselves by then.  If not, perhaps I'd have to start a new game.

I left the computer to fall asleep, before slouching gratefully back into the welcoming embrace of the sofa.  The book I was reading sat next to me, falling slightly inbetween the soft cracks of the cushions.  I resolved I would give it another chance, and turned to the second chapter, the second reason why I should get out of bed tomorrow.

*Reason Number 2: Because Every Day is a Chance to Change the World*.  Now it really was talking bollocks.

title: If I ruled the world

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: There's no clear answer to this.

question: What book is the narrator reading?

answer: 99 Reasons Why You Should Get Out of Bed.

question: Who gave the narrator the book?

answer: Their mother.

question: Explain the meaning of the title, 'If I ruled the world'.

answer: The story is presumably set in the context the title lays out, i.e. if the narrator ruled the world, the story is how they would go about it.

question: How would the narrator rule the world?

answer: Mostly with apathy, overwhelmed by the problems of increased population, depleted resources, and political conflict/oppression. There is no way to undo the damage, and instead of coming up with a strategy to fix things, the narrator decides to simply go back to bed.

question: How does the narrator view the world?

answer: As though it's a computer game, represented mostly by statistics.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: If the narrator ruled the ruled, i would be mostly with apathy. The narrator is given a book from their mother, titled 99 Reasons Why You Should Get Out of Bed. After looking at the state of the world as though it were a computer game, with the struggles of increased population, depleted resources, and political conflict/oppression, the narrator decides that instead of coming up with a strategy to fix things, it's time to just go back to bed.


text:
“Remember how Mom told us we would grow up into men who would change the world. I believed her. I still do.” I looked out the window, ignoring Hugo. Everything was grey outside. Ya, it was winter alright. This place is too damn cold. Turn up the fucking heater Nurse.
“Mario.” God his voice is so annoying. Sounds like the spoiled pomeranian bitch that old geezer neighbor owns.
“Mario!”
“Shut the fuck up!” The doctor down the hall snapped his head up. Thought I said that in my head. Hugo’s upper lip shriveled a bit. There were no words for minutes. Why is it that every single time I retort back to the cunt in a “non-suitable” way, he starts crying. Pussy.
“I’m going to the cafeteria.” He was looking down at the tile, which, honest to God, looks like a mirror. If it’s one thing I could talk good about this joint, it’s that they make sure this place is spotless. I was making my way down the hall, looking down, admiring the tile when the nurse and I exchanged shoulders.
“Oops! I’m sorry.” she said in a shallow voice. She seemed out of breathe.
“Ya...my bad.”
Her smile was very subtle, but promising. Her lips were pale. They stood out against her red hair. She needs to put a comb through that mess.
“Your mom’s glucose levels are returning to normal.”
I gave her a cold stare. Why? I don’t know. I was toxic.
“That’s... good?”
She nodded, only to catch her head halfway.
“It’s an improvement Mario, the coma hasn’t improved though.”
I turned and walked down the hall without saying another word. Fuck that nurse anyway. I looked out the windows of the corridor leading to the commons. Still grey outside. Another night of rain it seemed like. Great.
Chatter rose, the intercom continued to echo, and the busy hall of the hospital was filled with doctors, patients, family, and everyone in between. Same old shit. Doctor talk and prayers.
“Change the world my ass” I said under my breathe.
Then out of the corner of my eye, I heard wheels screeching. A high speed chase in a hospital? This I got to see. When I turned my head, I saw an older woman being wheeled down the hall on a stretcher.
“Move! Move! Out of the way! Out of the way!” yelled the nurse wheeling her. I shimmied over to the wall. I peered over to the woman on the stretcher as she passed by a hundred miles an hour. Her skin was lifeless, her eyes looking toward the ceiling, absent of blinking. My heart dropped. I looked down the hall back where I ran into the nurse, I saw a boy, twelve or thirteen, gasping for air, crying uncontrollably. He was all alone. No parents, no adults. Maybe that was his...Mom. He followed the stretcher into the room, only to be blocked by the doctor. That was his mom. She has his eyes.
“This way champ. Don’t worry your mom...will...” a pearl streamed down the doctors cheek. The boy noticed, and his face instantly filled with grief. The doctor grabbed the boys wrist, and wiped the tear with the other, trying to hide it. He took the boy through a door just a few doors down where the woman went in. “
Is she go..going...to...”
He started bawling like a loose fire hydrant. He sounded like he was being tortured. The door shut. I lost my appetite.
“Code red, room 13B, repeat code red!” the intercom belted. An army of doctors ran into the room where the woman was held. Yells erupted in the room, but the door slammed shut, leaving the hall in an eerie silence.
 I looked at Hugo down the hall. He was still looking down at the mirrored floor, his jet black hair obvious amongst the grey clouds through the window.
“Hugo! Hugo!” He looked my way. I beckoned. He got up, and came running. He smiled instantly when he caught up. My heart warmed. “Let’s get some food man, you’ve been here for days.”
“Fuck cafeteria food Mario.” We chuckled.
“Let’s get some dogs. I know a place.” We both smiled. God it’s been years since that’s happened.
“It’s on you bro, after all you are the lawyer.” I punched him, he flinched, and I wrapped my arm around him, and put him in a headlock.
“I love you man.” I said.  We walked down the hall, leaving the chaos of this hell-ridden institution behind. Mom would have loved to see us together like this.

title: "Grey" [778 words, critique welcomed]

question: How can you describe the temperament of the narrator?

answer: The narrator's temperament can be considered as short tempered and irritable.

question: How did the narrator feel towards the nurse?

answer: The narrator was annoyed at the nurse and was very rude to her.

question: How does the narrator think about his mother?

answer: The narrator cherishes his mother, who has passed on, and always thinks about how she would have loved to see him, Mario, and Hugo together.


text:
 What Is the Ex-Dividend Date?

The ex-dividend date, or ex-date for short, is one of four stages that companies go through when they pay dividends to their shareholders. The ex-dividend date is important because it determines whether the buyer of a stock will be entitled to receive its upcoming dividend.

Key Takeaways

-   The ex-dividend date or ex-date marks the cutoff point for shareholders to be credited a pending stock dividend.
-   To receive the upcoming dividend, shareholders must have bought the stock before the ex-dividend date.
-   There are four dates to know when it comes to companies' dividends: the declaration date; the ex-dividend date; the record-date; and the payable date.
-   On the ex-dividend date, stock prices typically decline by the amount of the dividend.

 Understanding the Ex-Dividend Date

To understand the ex-dividend date, we need to understand the four stages companies go through when they pay dividends to their shareholders.

1.  The first of these stages is the DECLARATION DATE. This is the date on which the company announces that it will be issuing a dividend in the future.
2.  The second stage is the RECORD DATE, which is when the company examines its current list of shareholders to determine who will receive dividends. Only those who are registered as shareholders in the company’s books as of the record date will be entitled to receive dividends.
3.  The third stage is the EX-DIVIDEND DATE, which is the date that determines which of these shareholders will be entitled to receive the dividend. Typically, the ex-dividend date is set two business days before the record date. Only those shareholders who owned their shares at least two full business days before the record date will be entitled to receive the dividend.
4.  The fourth and final stage is the PAYABLE DATE, also known as the payment date. The payable date is when the dividend is actually paid to eligible shareholders.

 Important Dividend Dates

To illustrate this process, consider a company that declares an upcoming dividend on Tuesday, July 30th. If the record date is Thursday, August 8th, then the ex-dividend date would be Tuesday, August 6th. In this scenario, only shareholders who bought their shares on Monday, August 5th (or earlier) would be entitled to receive a dividend. The payable date can vary depending on the preferences of the company; but of course, it will always be the last of the four dates.

Illustration of Key Stages of the Dividend Issuance Process
DECLARATION DATE
EX-DIVIDEND DATE
RECORD DATE
PAYABLE DATE
Tuesday July 30th
Tuesday August 6th
Thursday August 8th
Monday August 12th
Companies go through these four stages when issuing dividends

Many investors want to buy their shares before the ex-dividend date in order to ensure that they are eligible to receive the upcoming dividend. However, if you find yourself buying shares and realizing that you missed the ex-dividend date, you may not have missed out as much as you thought.

The reason for this is that share prices usually drop by the amount of the dividend on the ex-dividend date. This makes sense because the company’s assets will soon be declining by the amount of the dividend.

Because stocks usually decline in price on the ex-dividend date, you may not be worse off if you missed your chance to buy beforehand.

 Example

For example, if a company announces a dividend equivalent to 2% of its stock price, its stock will typically decline by 2% on the ex-dividend date. Therefore, if you bought the shares on or shortly after the ex-dividend date, you probably obtained a “discount” of about 2% relative to the price you would have paid shortly before. In this way, you may not be any worse off than the investors who received the dividend.

question: What is the significance of the ex-dividend date?

answer: It determines if shareholders will be eligible to receive upcoming dividends.

question: What is/are the requirement(s) for receiving dividends?

answer: Stocks must be bought before the ex-dividend date.

question: If shareholders miss the ex-dividend date, are they at a disadvantage?

answer: It might be implied that missing the ex-dividend date doesn't put shareholders at a disadvantage because of the price drop.

question: Is it compulsory to buy shares before the ex-dividend date?

answer: It appears it is necessary to buy to receive dividends but not compulsory.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: The ex-dividend date is the period companies determine shareholders that are liable to receive dividends. There are four stages involved in this process. They are; the declaration date, which is when companies announce when they will issue a dividend, record date, which is when companies determine eligible shareholders that will receive dividends, ex-dividend date, which is the date that determines which eligible shareholders will receive dividends and the payable date is when the dividends are paid to eligible shareholders. It's not considered compulsory to buy shares before the ex-dividend date because usually, prices drop by the amount of the dividend.


text:
Seventh grade was a complicated period of my life. I was basically a Freudian therapist's sloppy wet dream. With the early age of the internet at my disposal and a rapidly developing lust with no sexual outlet (due to the fact that my mother fixed my hair for me in the morning and that's just not what a girl's looking for in her first sex partner) rivaling that of a serial rapist, a sixth sense had evolved in me that could sniff out pornography like a fucking hunting dog.

My brother and I had a tradition of spending every Saturday night at my grandmother's. Legos. Mystery Science Theater 3000. Breakfast. Yard Sales. It was kind of a big deal. Just the most fun. The next morning, she'd make her way to the local grocery store to shop for breakfast acquisitions for the three of us. I'd had some suspicions about my grandmother's fast and loose nature in her younger years from fleeting comments that she'd made (referring to a series of wigs in her bedroom as 'bar bait' for instance). Therefore, I figured that a woman with such an insatiable sexual appetite must have a healthy collection of pornography at any age. A thorough search of her closet was called for while she was out, and I enlisted my brother as a lookout.

What we discovered in my 60-year-old grandmother's closet can't be described using traditional vernacular. It was the holy grail of pornography. El Dorado. The joy that swept through us surely beared some semblance to the elation that the team discovering King Tut's tomb had felt. Over the course of two months, I took every last fucking piece. Smuggled it out of her house VHS by VHS in the gay little blue "Going To Grandma's!" suitcase I'd bring along for our sleepovers. Which is also not what a girl's looking for in her first sex partner. Needless to say, we pulled the wool over her eyes pretty hardcore and I maintain a small pang of guilt because of it. But shit, bitch. It was an entire closet of hardcore pornography. What was I to do?

I learned some really disturbing things about my grandmother from that experience. Memories that I can't erase. Aside from the fact that it was largely porn from the 70's and 80's, which is essentially just grainy shots of matted clumps of fur bouncing off one another (explosively impressive mustaches buried in a jungle of pubic hair), her collection was alarmingly heavy in the hermaphrodite respect, which I wanted no part of. I was weird. But not that weird. I don't judge. Hey, I'm into some weird stuff, too. Must be genetic. She was also holding a lot of interracial gems too which was curious because she'd always been, well, kind of a racist. In a really sweet, older lady kind of way though. So I started selling the porn I didn't want and gradually became the Larry Flynt of my middle school. I kind of made bank for a seventh grader with no vehicle or job, not gonna lie. Money I used entirely on 90's PC adventure games, perpetuating a cycle of social exclusion.

On that infamous day in question, the memory of which still haunts me, the father of one of my high profile clients discovered his son's lunch money purchases in his backpack one day. Some pretty fucking ball-slapping filth. He always wanted the worst of the worst. His dad turned up the heat on him and he squealed like a pig, revealing his dirty, dirty source. Imagine that! It turns out to be the pale, chubby weirdo wearing shirts that are too big for him. I was being profiled, I'm sure of it. I was thrown to the academic wolves and forced to confess to my parents that I'd been smuggling interracial 70's hermaphrodite porn from my grandmother's trailer for months and peddling it during passing periods. That's a difficult one to live down. I should probably be on some kind of public listing for it, really.

title: "The Legend of the 70's Pornography Collection," the destruction of adolescent reputation in one act.

question: What does the narrator take from their grandmother's house?

answer: VHS porn tapes.

question: Does the narrator get caught?

answer: Yes, one of the kids they sell porn to squeals.

question: What kind of porn does the narrator's grandmother watch?

answer: Hermaphrodite interracial porn.

question: What happens to the narrator after getting caught?

answer: They have an embarrassing talk with their parents and their reputation is ruined.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: In the seventh grade the narrator smuggles porn from their grandmother's house and sells it to students in their school. The porn is very strange interracial hermaphrodite porn. Eventually the narrator gets caught and has to confess to his parents.


text:
It was strange how the animals acted no differently than they had before it happened.

Squirrels climbed over the piles of rubble, either completely oblivious or simply unconcerned with what that rubble could have been just a couple years back. Blue birds flew in the same patterns they did before, paying no attention to the fact that their shit was landing on history itself: on cobblestones and marble columns that could have been testaments to the collective knowledge of those who were here just a bit ago, yet so long ago as well.

It’s been said that the Earth is resilient and that, when left to run its course, nature fixes all. Perhaps someone would even say that that is exactly what happened, and that although the course can seem amoral and even outright wicked at times, it is nature’s course nonetheless and that it exists in a plane above all questioning. But of course, no one said that.

No one, especially not the only sign of this past world that remained, the sulking frame of muscle and bones and dried-out hair that was currently bathing at the bottom of a nearby waterfall. No, he, (and he is certainly an accurate term to describe this embodiment of animalistic masculinity) was more concerned with removing the foreign, black, sticky thing that seemed to have a death-grip on his foot. The deer were likely to cross the same path they do at this time every day, and he had to be rid of all distractions, poised and ready to pounce. Sadly for our primal protagonist, he was indeed too late and was forced to come to terms with the reality that he would be entering another growling match with his stomach tonight.

But this realization would go on to be as unfulfilled as the aforementioned one, for this night was not like the other nights. The squirrels still climbed and the birds still shit, but a disturbance had come to enter this formerly peaceful land. He was unable to sleep, and found himself staring at the sky, waiting for his fat, yellow friend to come back and tell him that the world was safe again.

Indeed the sun did return, as it always promised it would, even after the End. He did as he always did too, and followed his instincts to the tallest rocks he could see. There, as he approached the peak of the stony mountain before him, did a figure enter his view. It was like him, with meat and bone and hair, but different too. This figure had strange bulges at the chest and in its eyes was a longing that he would have said felt like coming home, if he could remember how to say that or knew what a home was.

And then, something magical happened. For the first time in a very long time, his mouth managed to form a very old word. Finally, he forced his throat to let it out.

	“Adam,” he said.

	She smiled coyly. “Eve.”

And so it Began.

title: A Very Old Story

question: What characters and story is the excerpt alluding to?

answer: The story of Adam and Eve from biblical Genesis.


text:
THE NUMBER OF people who took their own lives hit the highest level since 2001 in 2011.

Figures compiled from coroners’ reports by the Central Statistics Office show that 83% of those suicides were by men.

In total. 458 men and 96 women died by suicide in 2011. Strikingly, the highest number of suicides came from men aged 45-64.

For women, ages 25-44 saw the highest proportion.

The report shows that men are five times more likely to die by suicide.

It adds that Ireland’s rate of suicide is around the European average, while Greece and Cyprus having the lowest rates.

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Lithuania, Hungary and Latvia have the highest reported rates.

Read: Experts disappointed at ‘sensationalised’ coverage of Charleville murder-suicide

Read: Mixed reaction to new abortion guidelines for health professionals

question: Where do these statistics pertain to?

answer: Ireland and the rest of Europe.

question: What year do these statistics pertain to?

answer: 2011

question: What is the source of this article?

answer: The Journal

question: Which age group of women saw the highest proportion of suicides?

answer: The 25-44 age group

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: In 2011, the suicide rate in Ireland was it its highest since 2001. The statistics show a high rate of suicide among men, and a high proportion of the women committing suicide being a part of the 25-44 age group. Ireland's rate is near the European average, with Lithuania, Hungary, and Latvia having the highest rates, while Greece and Cyprus report the lowest.


text:
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
can wash the balm off an anointed king.

-William Shakespeare, Richard II

When I sit on this chair, I think of the others who sat before me.  The Great King who started it all. The Apostate King who betrayed us. The Savior King who rescued us from the depths of Hell. The Kings of Old, the Kings of New. Kings who achieved much, Kings who achieved little.

And Kings who were murdered.

When I sit on this chair, I think of the others who sat before me, and why they were here. Some war heroes, some because they carried the Royal Bloodline.

And some because they knew how to kill.

When I sit on this chair, I think of the others who sat before me, and how they looked down at the subjects below him. Some saw power for himself, some saw nothing but poverty and hunger.

And one saw himself.

When the doors to my chamber opened, I was startled awake. I was in a heavy sleep.

The first thing I saw when I woke was the bright colors on your cap. My eyes focused some more, and I saw you being dragged to me. It was then when I realized who you were- you were my Jester.

But why were you being dragged? You were perfectly able to walk yourself.

A voice foreign to me echoed across the room. “Your Majesty. This scoundrel has been caught plotting against the King. He planned to stab you in the chest while entertaining you, and claim the throne for himself.”

I looked at your low hanging head, your droopy eyelids. “Is this true?”

Miserably, you looked up at me. “Yes.”

When I sit on this chair, I think of others who will sit here. Kings with potential. Kings with hatred. Kings who have Royal Blood, Kings who don’t.

And Kings who failed.

You see, I do not deserve to be King. I was a blacksmith, no Royal Blood, no power at all. One day, the Queen was caught consorting with one of the townsfolk. They were both publicly impaled.

After a few months, the King got lonely. He went searching for a new Queen. He chose my beloved wife.

They came to our house, with their swords and shields. They beat me, and took her.

She lasted only 6 days. On the 6th night, she stuck a sword through her chest.

I started making tools. Not swords, as they are challenging, and take long, but heavy blunt objects and primitive shields. I started to gather a little militia. It was all individual. Anyone who was in the militia was asked specifically by me. If they found me, I would be hung.

Then, the day came. The anniversary of her death. The Kingdom had forgotten, but we had not.

We stormed the castle, leaving but 10 guards to recount the story. It was a brutal, viscous battle, with over 30 of our own dead. But we won. I killed the King.

And I took his place.

I ask, “Tell me, Jester, what did I do to you?”

You rise. “Every day, every night, I am summoned here. You make me dance, sing, rhyme. And what do you do? Sit on that throne, not entertained.

“Being a Jester has caused me nothing but pain and humiliation. My friends and wife all left me. I cannot get real work. So I stay here, juggling and balancing, all for your delight. And you sit there, bored.

“Every breath, every action, every moment in my life has lead to this. You crush me under your foot. And you don’t even get any satisfaction from it.”

I think of my wife.

“Guards!” I bellow. “Leave!”

They march out of the chamber.

I unlock your shackles and handcuffs. You look surprised and confused, but nothing is said.

I pull out my sword. You look frightened. You think I am going to harm you.

I hand it to you. “Do what you want.”

A dark look shadows across your face.

title: Unnamed (Story #2)

question: Describe the narrator.

answer: The narrator is a king, who won the position by killing the previous king in an act of revenge. The narrator is contemplative of his position, and is ultimately, feeling weary of the position that he holds. His weariness appears to come from lack of fulfillment in the position as opposed to feeling the pressure of the weight of responsibility.

question: How old is the kingdom that the king rules?

answer:
At minimum, at least 390 years, though the number is likely to be much higher.

The kingdom appears to have existed for many generations as the narrator alludes to stories of many kings who came before him. There are at least two major eras (the time of the kings of old, and the time of the kings of new).

If a generation were to be equal to 30 years (while some kings rule longer, this a rough estimate based on succession and the inevitable 'early' retirement of some kings), and each description of a king were to be interpreted as an individual king (no overlap), then there appears to be 13 kings counting the narrator ("one saw himself" appears to refer to the narrator). This would amount to approximately 390 years.

This however, only counts the minimum age of the kingdom as most of the descriptors are plural instead of referring to just one king. Give and take that each Considering that, it would be possible that the kingdom has existed for well over a thousand years.

question: Does the Jester kill the king?

answer:
It is implied that the Jester wants to kill the king enough to set a plot, so it is possible that the Jester would act upon this when the king gives him the sword at the end.

However, there is another way to interpret the "dark look" that appears on the jester's face -that the jester may have other plans for the king or the that the jester may be reconsidering if killing a person who wants to die would even satisfy his resentment.

question: What is poetic about the story?

answer:
Normally, kings are killed for the killer to gain the throne.

The narrator is a blacksmith who killed the king for revenge. He won the throne by doing so, but that was not his intention or goal.

The jester wants to kill the blacksmith-king, for a similar reason -retribution for his bitterness. The jester showed no desire for the throne, but simply resentment for how the king never appreciated his work as a jester.

question: Write a ~6 sentence summary.

answer:
The blacksmith-king contemplates on the other kings who came before him. He has no desire for the throne, only gaining it after killing the previous king. The previous king took the blacksmith's wife, who killed herself less than week after.

The jester is caught for plotting against the king. When the king learns of the Jester's motivation, which is resentment for lack of appreciation for the jester's work, the king frees the jester. Then the king hands the jester a sword and says that the jester can do what he wants.


text:
He sat silently in his bedroom with the shades pulled down and the lights switched off. It was afternoon, so this failed to create the effect of complete darkness. Rather, it caused a bluish dimness to permeate the room. How dramatic, he mused, but it soon passed from his mind, replaced by a shade of some other train of thought.

It was only a shade because he had never truly had a fully formed thought about it. ‘It’ was an emotionally destructive event that had happened only a day prior. The thoughts he had had about it weren’t full in that they lacked any amount of emotion; they were totally logical, totally reasonable.

He was no stranger to such a thing; this had happened to him a number of times before in similar situations, but an emotional shock had always come a few hours later. Not this time. The fact that it had been a full day and nothing of the sort had transpired was enough for him to know the shock would never come.

The event was that his girlfriend had broken up with him. Naturally, the few people he had informed had given him plenty of advice on the matter. “There are other fish in the sea”; “Don’t give up! You can get her back!”; “Don’t be too sad”.

‘There are other fish in the sea’ was entirely obvious. The boy knew he would eventually find someone else, forget about his old girlfriend, and be happy. He knew that there was no such thing as “the one”.

‘Don’t give up! You can get her back!’ was foolish: no he couldn’t. The only way she would want to be with him again would be if she made the decision of her own accord. People were stubborn. Unwavering. Illogical. Their minds could not be changed on these matters.

‘Don’t be too sad’ was the most curious. Its stupidity and uselessness aside, the boy seemed to be following it of his own accord with his aforementioned lack of emotional thoughts. He had felt no rush of sadness, of helplessness or of desperation. His sadness had been private, internal. Its effects on his behavior were nothing more than some tiredness, and perhaps a tendency not to laugh as hard at jokes. Anyone who was unaware what had happened would assume he was just low on sleep; not that an event of immense consequence had just occurred in his life. Quiet sadness.

The boy knew from experience (both personal and of others) that ‘getting over a breakup’ typically involves a feeling of superiority, of maturing, of scorning your former partner. This was foolish, he felt. It was natural, and he had nearly given into it, but he had stopped himself. Perhaps he was above her, but not by all that much. He tried his best not to think any lower of her than she objectively deserved.
The silhouette of a tree outside his window shone through the shades. He stared as it danced in the wind for half a minute, then blinked.
Seemingly out of nowhere, the words ‘stupid bitch’ entered his mind, but he shook them off. There it is again, he thought; that unrelenting desire to show himself that it didn’t matter. That she was inconsequential, and that the prior event had been a fortunate one. But it hadn’t been. And he knew that he could never truly ‘get over her’ unless he accepted that it had indeed been a bad occurrence.
And she truly was not a stupid bitch. She was a wonderful, intelligent girl, who had been nearly perfect for him. And yet, she possessed a select few qualities that made the two of them incompatible. It was a terrible shame.

At that moment, his mother opened his bedroom door, bringing in light from the hallway, “There you are, sweetie. I’ve been looking for you. What are you doing in here all by yourself?”

“Nothing, Mom. I was just going to go mow the lawn.”

She smiled, nodded and left the room. The boy followed a few moments later, and went to get the mower.

title: Quiet Sadness

question: Summarize the narrator's responses to his friends' advice.

answer: He believes his friends are right in stating that there are other fish in the sea and that he will eventually find someone else. He believes the chances of him getting his girlfriend back are unlikely, as the decision is entirely up to her. And he finds that he isn't sad anyway, having a lack of emotional thoughts.

question: What does the text say about the reasons contributing to the breakup?

question: What does the text say about the narrator's ex-girlfriend?

answer: She is the one who decided to break up with him. He thinks she was wonderful, intelligent, and nearly perfect for him.

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

answer: They boy has has experienced emotional turmoil due to the fact that his girlfriend broke up with him. He is struggling not to think negatively of her and trying to get over her.


text:
The sun had decidedly set and dew was already forming on every blade and leaf with its usual impersonal intimacy. Light still remained in the sky, however, and the temperature was warm enough to lull passersby into security. I walked barefoot through the wet grass without purpose or hesitation. A pleasant stasis enveloped me as I ambled along the lawn towards the hill.

It was my feet that realized it first, I think. Deceitful twilight temperature -- No matter, I walked. Even with nothing else left to fight, gravity remains. Fight and bitch all the way up any minor hill or climactic Katahdin, you'll enjoy the salt you can only taste at the top. If you want anything from her, you have to bleed a little.

And so I found myself, at the top of this hill and bottom of the next, in a clearing ancient to me and still ignored by nature. My father and I dragged the trampoline here when we were young. And somehow it was sitting on its haunches in front of me now.

My fingers hooked into the tattered safety netting and my feet found each step of the miniature slide which was pulled up beside the trampoline. The padding around the edges and poles was essentially disintegrated. The surface was a little wet and slippery. But all the springs seemed to be attached -- that was a plus. My steps undulated the trees around me. My knees flexed and I extended into my first

jump: a fleeting instant of parabolic freedom. Everything cascaded from there. The memories melted out of my muscles and I was thrown into the washing machine of spins and frontflips and corkscrews. I tumbled ever forwards until dizziness was content.

It was my feet that figured it out first, I think. Was I afraid to look back? What could possibly be so irreconcilable? I tried to roll heels-over-head, but kept twisting to the side. It was the permanent crick in my neck, or the unfading slump in my posture. I simply couldn't commit. My fingers curled slightly with realization in the cold. Two hesitant steps -- inner ear silenced -- inner voice deadened -- hops crescendo -- suddenly --

Down upside? Certainly floating, airborne, but the sky had faded and at any rate eyelids were shut, content to never decide. My legs kicked out, frantic to find ground. The whole of me answered that question without even falling.    Had I

stopped? I wasn't moving. I was only dripping dew and sweat, pushing in every direction, uncertain of which up to believe, when it occurred to me. Up was simply every direction I was not. I wrapped myself in this thought and, tucked in for the night, slept.

title: Bounce

question: What is the narrator doing?

answer: The narrator is walking over a hill to find the old trampoline their father and they put up when they were young.

question: What is the setting?

answer: The story takes place in the hills. It's twilight, and the temperature is dropping. The narrator finds an old trampoline.

question: How is the narrator feeling?

answer: The narrator is reminiscent of their youth.

question: What is important to the narrator?

answer: The story doesn't indicate.

question: Write a ~6 sentence summary.

answer: The story takes place in the hills. It's twilight, and the temperature is dropping. The narrator finds an old trampoline that they and their dad set up when they were young. They climb into the deteriorated trampoline and begin jumping. They seem to be having fun, their body remembering how to do flips and spins. It seems that the trampoline broke and the narrator tumbles to the ground.


text:
OKLADNIKOV CAVE () is a paleoanthropological site located in the foothills of the Altai Mountains in Soloneshensky District, Altai Krai in southern Siberia, Russia. The cave faces south and is located on a Devonian karst escarpment, lying about above the left bank of the Sibiryachikha River valley below; the river itself is a tributary of the Anuy River.

Okladnikov Cave is one of the most extensively studied Paleolithic sites in the Altai-Sayan region. A rich Mousterian stone industry, dating to between 33,000 and 44,000 years ago, was discovered, as well as several highly fragmented hominin fossils. Along with a few other Neanderthal sites in the Altai-Sayan region, Okladnikov Cave contains fossil evidence for the most easterly confirmed site with Neanderthal presence.

Background

[As viewed from Sibiryachikha] The cave was originally named after a nearby village, Sibiryachikha, located away. The cave was renamed by Anatoly P. Derevianko in honor of Alexey Okladnikov. Okladnikov Cave was first excavated in 1984. The cave is one of several Paleolithic sites located in the Anuy Basin, along with Denisova Cave, Ust-Karakol, Kamminaya Cave, Isrkra Cave, Karama and Anuy I-III.

Palynological evidence suggest that, like today, the surrounding area during the time associated with Paleolithic hominin finds was composed primarily of dry forest steppe, albeit in a slightly colder and more humid context.

Description

Situated around north of Denisova Cave, Okladnikov Cave is actually a complex of interconnected cavities: the cave consists of an overhang, an entrance stone bench that is wide, high and deep; and five corridors (galleries). The narrow cave extends into the hill for about . Its entrance faces south at above the river. Just one hundred meters away is an animal cave, dubbed _Sibiryachikha VI_, in which an as yet unclassified child’s humerus was found in 1985. Researchers suggested that this cave would have served better for human use than the actual Okladnikov Cave, although they found no traces of human occupation.

Archaeology

Stratigraphy

Archaeologists have identified seven archaeological layers at Okladnikov Cave.

Artefacts

Nearly 4000 lithic tools have been recovered from Okladnikov Cave. Mousterian artefacts are found throughout all seven layers. The tool assemblage consisted mostly of scrapers and scraper-knives. Around a quarter of the tools at Okladnikov Cave were made from jasperoids, while around 5% were made from hornstones.

The lithic industry at Okladnikov Cave shares most similarities with another site in the Altai-Sayan region, Chagyrskaya Cave, and are rather distinct from other Altai sites. However, unlike at Chagyrskaya Cave, Levallois-type tools are uniquely found at Okladnikov Cave. Both sites contain a great number of Neanderthal/Mousterian stone tools. The lithic culture was initially referred to as the _Altai Mousterian_; nowadays, the culture is more commonly referred to as the _Sibiryachikha culture_ or the _Sibiryachikha variant_.

Fauna

Over 6000 animal fossil elements were discovered at the cave, representing at least 20 different species. The remains of marmot, gray wolf, red fox, bear, horse, cave hyena, woolly rhinoceros, reindeer, steppe bison, red deer, Siberian ibex and argali sheep were commonly found inside the cave, with a heavy presence of cave hyena and woolly rhinoceros remains. Some beaver, _Panthera spelaea_ and red wolf remains were also discovered.

The heavy presence of cave hyena remains indicate that the cave was most likely intermittently shared between cave hyenas and hominins.

Diet

Comparative studies on diet show that Neanderthals from the Altai-Sayan region lived in a manner similar to that of late European Neanderthals. Both show signs of being specialized hunters who were likely dependent on the subsistence hunting of large herbivores.

Hominin fossils

168 hominin fossil elements were discovered at the cave, with the majority coming from adults. The hominin remains include five teeth and nine cranial fragments, most likely representing at least four distinct individuals. Archaeologists had long suspected that the fossil hominin remains belonged to Neanderthals; however, some had argued that the remains belonged to humans with mixed _Homo erectus_ traits. Rather fragmented and consequently hard to classify, morphological comparisons with Neanderthals did not produce definitively convincing results. This question was resolved through the successful application of DNA testing to some of the hominin fossil remains.

Samples

Dating information was directly obtained from several hominin fossil elements at Okladnikov Cave (SOURCE:).

  Lab number   Material                    Normalized Age   Locality
  ------------ --------------------------- ---------------- ---------------
  KIA-27010    Neanderthal adult humerus   24260 ± 180      Sibiryachikha
  RIDDL-719    Neanderthal adult humerus   37750 ± 750      Sibiryachikha
  RIDDL-721    sub adult neanderthal       32400 ± 500      Sibiryachikha
  RIDDL-722    sub adult neanderthal       43300 ± 1500     Sibiryachikha
  RIDDL-720    sub adult neanderthal       40700 ± 1100     Sibiryachikha
  SOAN-2459    sub adult neanderthal       28470 ± 1250     Sibiryachikha
  SOAN-2458    sub adult neanderthal       16210 ± 0        Sibiryachikha
  RIDDL-718    bone                        33500 ± 700      Sibiryachikha

Archaeogenetics

In 2007, researchers from the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology succeeded in extracting DNA from two fossil hominin fragments from Okladnikov Cave: the humeral diaphysis of a juvenile and a separate femur fragment. mtDNA sequencing confirmed that both fragments most likely belonged the same individual, dubbed _Okladnikov 2_. The mtDNA sequences of the HVR I (hypervariable region I) from _Okladnikov 2_ confirmed that the individual was Neanderthal. On the basis of mtDNA analysis, _Okladnikov 2_ was found to be more related to European and western Asian Neanderthals. A 2014 re-analysis teasing out ancient DNA from contaminated sequences allowed researchers to complete the mtDNA sequence from _Okladnikov 2_. The completed sequence shows that the _Okladnikov 2_ mtDNA is basal to that sequenced from _Mezmaiskaya 1_ from Mezmaiskaya Cave and is even closer to western Neanderthals than previously thought.

Implications

DNA extracted from skeletal remains has shown that Altai Neanderthals (closely related to Neanderthals found in western Europe) roamed some 2000 kilometres further east than previously thought. This close relative of modern humans obviously migrated very long distances.

The local habitat was rich in mammalian resources, allowing the Altai Neanderthals to permanently settle in the foothills of the Altai Mountains by at least 300,000 years ago. The Altai Neanderthals appeared to have chosen occupational sites primarily based on their strategic locations close to rivers and within valleys, locations ideal for hunting prey. During the early to middle Late Pleistocene, the broader region in general was most likely composed of forest and forest tundra, based on a mix of conifer and some broad-leaved trees. Under these conditions, the Altai-Sayan region provided the early hominin inhabitants with a very appealing environment.

title: Okladnikov Cave

question: On the foothills of which mountain is the Okladnikov Cave located?

answer: The Altai Mountains.

question: What era is the cave from?

answer: Paleolithic.

question: What country is the cave in?

answer: Russia.

question: Approximately how many tools have been discovered at the site?

answer: 4000.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: The Okladnikov Cave is a paleoanthropological site located at the foothills of the Altai Mountains in Siberia, Russia. It was originally named after a small nearby village. The cave is one of the most extensively researched Paleolithic sites in the Altai-Sayan region. A rich Mousterian stone industry, dating to between 33,000 and 44,000 years ago, was discovered, as well as several highly fragmented hominin fossils. Along with a few other Neanderthal sites in the Altai-Sayan region, Okladnikov Cave contains fossil evidence for the most easterly confirmed site with Neanderthal presence.


text:
It was my first visit to this dentist. I noticed that the office was just a tad off. There were a number of teenagers, who seemed too young to be working in a dentist’s office. Rock and roll music was playing, I believe Led Zeppelin, and it gave the place and air of a club house.

The dentist would see me shortly, but I was pretty sure I was seeing him at the reception area sniffing like mad. It could have been a cold, but with my extreme paranoia, coupled with the music and the teenage kids, I assumed he was a coke addict. I may or may not have been on cocaine at the time. I can’t remember. It gets fuzzy at this age.

One does not come to such an assumption (that a dentist is a coke fiend) lightly, but it was a new dentist and no one likes the dentist and the mind wonders with nothing but a Time magazine and a Keurig coffee.

Finally, the time approached and I was called in to receive my cleaning. I was approached by a beautiful blond who instructed me to lie still while she began my cleaning.

I couldn’t help but notice all the women in the office were beautiful blonds. My theory on coke use soon was compounded by a theory of wanton women cleaning teeth and giving happy endings.

But no happy ending was given. I was left alone after the cleaning to talk to the dentist. Most dentists and orthodontists will leave the cleaning and maintenance work to staff and just come by to just look at your mouth and make the extreme decisions that make their PhDs worthwhile and notable.

The dentist approached me and commented on my shoes. He liked them. In my mind, I formed an idea of a swinging dentist who ran a brothel, snorted cocaine, and occasionally dabbled in same sex couplings. There’s nothing wrong with the latter, but I was in no mood to shoot down a PhD. I don’t think I would have it in me. Heterosexual or not, there is something about doctors orders – you take them.

He began talking and I volunteered the information that I was a smoker. I wanted him braced for any staining and bad breath. Dirty smokers do have some nerve coming to see dentists when they have no care for not only their teeth, but there lungs, heart, etc. I felt bad for the man and his being forced to look down the barrel of a tobacco’d maw.

He didn’t seem to mind the admission, however, and he related to me that his friend had tried to quit smoking and told him that it was tougher than giving up cocaine.

For those that thought the paranoia was just paranoia – AH HA!

“Really?” I said.

He went on to tell me about the friend and then began asking me about work. I explained my job the best I could. Having little or no interest in one’s own job makes it a hard conversational piece.

But he nodded in all the right parts and continued sniffing. He could have had a cold or he could have been smuggling smack out the back on donkeys, anything was possible.

He then began talking about some of the dumb things he did as a kid. I laughed along until he got to a part where he was explaining his carefree youth. He started the story on the end of another story about toilet papering houses. His mood was jovial and with each word you heard a laugh at the back of his throat, like he was explaining some elaborate joke. He began:

“Then there was this one time. Me and my buddy, well we decided to get all dressed up in Mormon garb and go biking around town.”

It came out as the beginning of a joke. And with my idea of a coke-addled polygamist bisexual I was ready to assume the worst: that this man had dressed up as a Mormon missionary with a buddy as a joke. It was at this point I decided to not return. But to just take the tension out of his admission of mean-spirited religious joking, I:

“You mean as a goof?”

His face turned sour. He then “No. I was a missionary in the Mormon church.”

My reality from coming into the office to that moment was shattered. This was not a coke sniffing polygamist bisexual, but an upstanding Mormon of the utmost decency.

I felt like a royal bastard. The man had to have thought I decided the only reason you would dress up in Mormon gear was as a goof. I began back peddling. I began explaining how much I admired the Mormon religion. I pledged allegiance to Mitt Romney…

The man had his hands in my mouth – what else could I do?

The moral of the story is never assume a dentist is a coked out polygamist bisexual who runs a brothel and makes light of other religions – because you would be wrong.

Most of the time.

title: New Dentist

question: What made the dentist's clinic different from others?

answer: The clinic had a number of teenagers working there, who were too young to be working at a dentist's office. Another difference was that there was rock and roll music playing which gave the clinic a club vibe.

question: Why was the narrator visiting the dentist?

answer: The narrator was visiting the dentist to get his teeth cleaned.

question: What do the narrator and the dentist converse about?

answer: After the cleaning was done, the dentist talks to him about a friend who was smoking then asks him about his job. Following this, he starts talking about the dumb things he did as a child.

question: Describe what the narrator thought of the dentist.

answer: On entering the clinic and noticing the environment, the narrator thinks he might see the dentist sniffing cocaine. He also notices how there were many blonds working at the clinic and assumes that he may be running a brothel. After the dentist compliments his shoes, he thinks he may be homosexual.

question: Write a ~7 sentence summary.

answer:
The narrator pays a visit to the dentist. The clinic is quite different than a regular one. There are many teenagers, mainly blonds, working and there's rock and roll music playing. Looking at the environment, the narrator assumes that the dentist may be running a brother, snorting cocaine, and occasionally dabbled in same-sex coupling.

After he gets his teeth cleaned, the dentist goes to check his mouth while narrating to him how he got dressed in Mormon garb and went biking. The narrator thinks it's a joke, but it's not. He feels like a complete idiot and tries to peddle back by complimenting the religion.


text:
    Red Ribbon

    	Each blink is more difficult and it takes me just a bit more effort to open my eyes than it did the last time. The     cold of my bathtub is comforting. I lean back, take a deep breath and slowly exhale. My mind hasn't stopped     racing, showing me images from my childhood, from my adolescence, from high school, from college.
	At four years old, I ran away from a camping trip to try to catch up to my parents on a hiking trail. I didn't know which direction they had gone, so I just followed the river. Ten minutes later, I was still alone and it started to sink in. No one is going to take care of me but myself. “#%!^, that's a scary thought. How will I be able to eat? I don't know how to do anything...” I wandered for what felt like forever, never straying from the security of the path I was on. Ah, the path.
	I snapped back to the present. That path. Nearly thirty years later and I realized I was jealous of that path. It had a direction, it knew where it was going. The only surprises on that path came from off the trail. Was this the right way to live my life? Is this how I would find happiness? Should I become a singularly focused individual, striving only for one goal, ignoring anything outside of that? This path is more soulful than I would have imagined a dirt road could be.
	I blink again. My eyelids feel sticky. I'm in my kitchen and I'm nine years old. Our kitchen is being remodeled and the floor is missing. I can see the dirt, spiderwebs, the century of unuse under the house. There is no rot, there is no termite damage, there is no foundation. Our house sits directly on the dirt hillside, raised up just enough to allow air to flow underneath. The house feels sturdy but there is nothing holding it in place, it could slide down the hill at any moment. Who cares? What does this mean?
	The hole in the floor of the kitchen is all I can think about when I open my eyes again. This house has lasted for more than 100 years. All without any sort of foundation, in earthquake country. It has been shaken and beaten more then I ever could be. It refuses to collapse but instead welcomes new people and wraps them in its love. This house is like a grandmother nearing senility; a shaky foundation, but a strong outward presence. A welcoming hug every time you enter through the front door. Is this how I should live? Wandering the earth, rootless, searching for a place to make a stand and show my love for my fellow man? I tried that in college, it didn't work. Free love and no foundation made me completely insecure. At any moment I could be cast aside and would have nothing to fall back on.
	My eyes lose focus as I follow the wall down from the ceiling to the bathtub, finally coming to rest on the floor of the bathtub. The rouge river winds down hands to my knees and finally pools at my heels until there is enough to continue its one-way journey. The thin thread heads straight into the darkness at the end of the tub, where it drips nosily into the drain.
	I blink twice. The second blink takes me away again. It's my Sophomore year of high school and I'm in love for the first time. Her name was Carrie, she was blonde with blue eyes. She was the co-captain of the JV Cheer squad and she always smelled like a freshly picked peony. We went on our first date together when I asked her to the Winter Formal. When I picked her up, I had to sit through “the talk” from her father while I waited for her to put her finishing touches on. After the dance, we went to an after party thrown by one of the Seniors. I didn't drink at all (it was part of “the talk”) but she did and by the time I got her back to her house, the alcohol was in full effect. We made out for half an hour. That 30 minutes was all it took, I knew I was in love. Our relationship lasted for the rest of the year but it didn't make it past the Summer she spent working on her uncle's ranch in Wyoming. I got two reasons out of her, and I've never known which one was more true. She said, “You're just too....nice” and “Cowboys.” My soul crushed, I spent the next two months sad and pitiful. First love, first loss, first time the nice guy finished dead last.
	My eyelids are heavy, but I open them and sigh. I'm back in the bathtub. I'm not an adolescent any more. I sigh again, this time in relief. The bathtub isn't so cold anymore, it has stolen my body heat giving only white porcelain in return. I brush my hand against the side of the tub, leaving irregular streaks as I move my fingers and paint with my essence. I see bits of Van Gogh and Cezanne in the chaotic crimson my fingers trail behind. I shut my eyes and am transported to my friends dorm in college. Jill is seated on her bed with Starry Night peaking at me over her right shoulder. There are two other friends in here, but I can't see their faces or remember their names. We have been discussing which super power we would want to have and why for the last three hours. I have held to my contention that being able to stop time would make one unstoppable while heavily debating flight and superspeed. We finally stop debating at 2am and I go home to sleep. In the morning, I hear from friends in the dorms near Jill. They are all asking me what I was talking about last night, apparently they could hear my laugh from the next dorm over. I tell them. They laugh more. I feel ashamed that my laugh has made me recognizable from hundreds of feet away. I am embarrassed by our conversation. I make a mental note, which I will immediately forget, to tone down my laugh.
	As I open my eyes from this memory, I realize the truth. I have spent most of my life running from my emotions. They crippled me time and again. My brain doesn't see it that way however, it relishes the emotions, the differences, the change, the unique. The problem is that I don't. My brain is pleading with me in the only way it knows how. It is pleading for me to reverse this process. It is imploring me to lift myself up, to stand up again. I finally relent and lift my heavy hands, attached to heavy arms, to the edge of the tub. I set my feet flat against the floor of the tub, toes pushing against the side so I don't slip in the pooled and partially coagulated blood. I see my phone, it is across the room. It is now my only chance for survival. I strain my muscles to stand.

My eyes close.

title: Red Ribbon [1200 words] (first post here, feedback welcome, please comment)

question: What does the story say about the narrator's age?

question: What does the story say about its timeline?

question: What does the story say about the narrator and his first love?

answer: The narrator's first love was Carrie, who had blonde hair and blue eyes. Their relationship lasted a year. During that summer, she broke up with him for being too nice.

question: What does the story say about happiness?