text:
The WAR PRECAUTIONS ACT 1914 was an Act of the Parliament of Australia which gave the Government of Australia special powers for the duration of World War I and for six months afterwards.[1]

It was held by the High Court of Australia in _Farey v Burvett_[2] that during wartime, the scope of the federal Government's power under Section 51(vi) of the Australian Constitution (under which the Act was passed) expands to meet the exigencies of wartime. As a result, the responsibility for defence policy lies solely with the Parliament and the Executive. There were 3,442 prosecutions under the Act, almost all of which were successful.

Provisions

Under the Act, which was to be read as one with the _Defence Act 1903-1912_,[3] the Commonwealth could make regulations “for securing the public safety and the defence of the Commonwealth”,[4] including:

:* preventing espionage and other activity that could “jeopardize the success of the operations of any of His Majesty's forces,” securing “the safety of any means of communication”, and preventing “the spread of reports likely to cause disaffection or alarm” (the breach of which was subject to trial by court-martial)[5]

:* prohibiting aliens from entering the Commonwealth, or requiring their deportation therefrom

:* prohibiting aliens from residing or remaining in a specified place, or requiring them to reside and remain in a specified place

:* regulating the registration and change of abode of aliens, and any travelling and trading done by them

:* imposing similar restriction on naturalize citizens as can be imposed on aliens

:* requiring “any person to disclose any information in his possession as to any matter”

:* preventing “money or goods being sent out of Australia” except under certain conditions

Later amendments expanded the scope of regulations to cover:

:* the restriction the transmission abroad of all written communication other than through the post[6]

:* the ownership of property held by enemy aliens, and the regulation or restriction of any trade or business operated by them[7]

:* the conditions (ie, times, place and prices) of the disposal or use of any thing[8]

:* the requisitioning of any thing[9]

From 1915,[10] the scale of punishments for offences under the Act was:

:* on summary conviction: a fine of up to £100 or imprisonment up to six months, or both

:* on indictment: a fine of any amount or imprisonment for any term, or both

:* on court-martial: the same punishment as if the offender had been subject to military

:* where, on indictment or court-martial, an offence was committed with the intention of assisting the enemy: the person was liable to suffer death

Regulations issued under the Act required all persons over 16 years of age, on leaving Australia, to possess a passport.[11][12]

Other wartime legislation

Although the Act possessed very broad scope, it was not omnipotent. Other Acts were passed by the Parliament during the war relating to:

:* criminal and civil sanctions for trading with the enemy,[13]

:* cancellation of commercial contracts with firms in enemy countries,[14] and

:* levying of an income tax[15]

Controversies

During the conscription referendums of 1916 and 1917, a regulation that banned statements likely to prejudice recruiting was used to hamper the anti-conscription campaign. Almost any anti-conscriptionist speech could be construed as offending, and a number of prominent anti-conscriptionists were charged, including John Curtin.[16]

When coal-miners in New South Wales went on strike in 1916, the Act was used to empower the Attorney-General to order the men back to work. The following year, a nationwide strike of Waterfront workers was defeated by the passing of a regulation that deprived the Waterside Workers Federation of preferences in seven of the busiest ports in Australia. Although in many cases the use of the Act in settling labour disputes could be seen as necessary for the war effort, some other uses appeared calculated to suppress the labour movement. For example, in September 1918 the Act was used to ban the use of the red flag, a traditional labour emblem.

Following the end of the war, the Act's continued operation lead to a series of violent demonstrations known as the Red Flag Riots.[17][18]

Demise

The Act was later repealed by the _War Precautions Act Repeal Act 1920_.[19]

[1] , later amended by the , and

[2] .

[3] 1914 Act, s. 1

[4] 1914 Act, ss. 4-5

[5] 1914 Act, s. 4

[6] 1915 Act

[7] 1916 Act

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11] , later replaced by

[12]

[13]

[14]

[15]

[16]

[17] .

[18] .

[19]

title: War Precautions Act 1914

question: What was the purpose of the War Precautions Act 1914?

answer: The act gave special powers to the Australian government in order to allow them to conduct special policies during World War I.

question: Name a part of the act that appears to be an abuse of power.

answer: 'the ownership of property held by enemy aliens, and the regulation or restriction of any trade or business operated by them' could be said to be an abuse of power, as levying sanctions on those who descended from the enemy could be considered unfair. Though this would be by today's standards.

question: Was the act abused in order to take advantage of the powers it gave?

answer: Those who took an anti-conscription stance were charged within the confines of the act, for simply speaking about their views on the topic. The act was also used to suppress the labour movement in Australia, causing much civil unrest amongst the workers.

question: Was conscription necessary in order to win the war?

answer: The Australian government likely thought it was necessary, since they enacted policies that meant only a positive spin could be placed on the act of recruitment towards the war effort.


split: train

text:
CONSTITUTIONAL CONVENTION ELECTIONS were held in the Marshall Islands on 21 February 2017.[1]

Background

A constitutional convention is used in the Marshall Islands to consider proposed constitutional amendments that have been endorsed by the Legislature. The convention cannot propose new amendments and can only debate those approved by the parliament.[2] Previous conventions had been held in 1977–78, 1989 and 1995.[3]

The proposed changes for the 2017 Constitutional Convention included:[4]

-   Direct election of the President.
-   Creating the position of Vice-President.
-   Stopping the Legislature removing the President, Vice-President and Cabinet from office by motion of no confidence.
-   Requiring presidential candidates to be natural-born citizen.
-   Reserving six seats in the Legislature for women.
-   Requiring automatic rejection of appropriation bills that do not provide a balanced budget.
-   Protection from sexual discrimination being enshrined in the Bill of Rights.
-   Creation of an ombudsman's office.
-   Empowering the Attorney General to ask an independent body to investigate possible cases of fraud, corruption or unethical behaviour by elected officials and other high-ranking officials.
-   Increasing the number of members of the Council of Iroij by one.
-   Introducing a constitutional ban on the sale of land except where the lineage of the __ (clan) owning the land is extinct.

Electoral system

The 45 members of the Constitutional Convention consisted of 33 directly-elected delegates elected from the 33 Legislature districts, and 12 Iroijs (chiefs).[5] Postal voting was not allowed.[6]

Campaign

A total of 119 candidates contested the 33 directly-elected seats, whilst 24 ran for the 12 seats reserved for the Iroijs. All but seven of the thirty-three members of the Legislature ran for election to the convention.[7]

Results

  Elected members
  --------------------------------------- ---------------
  Seat
  Directly-elected
  Tony Aiseia
  Jack Akeang
  Maynard Alfred
  Jejwarick H. Anton
  Jerakoj J. Bejang
  Winnie Benjamin
  Kejjo Bien
  Donald F. Capelle
  Stephen K. Dribo
  McAvoy M. Espern
  Thomas Heine
  Peterson Jibas
  Jimmy Jonathan
  David Kabua
  Hilton Kendall
  Jien Morris Lekka
  Nuia Loeak
  Yoland Logdge-Ned
  Nidel Lorak
  Rebecca Lorennij
  Lomes McKay
  Almo Momotaro
  Phillip H. Muller
  Neti Nathan
  Casten Nemra
  Kessai H. Note
  David Paul
  Atbi Riklon
  Jorelik Tibon
  Stanny Tomeing
  Brenson S. Wase
  Ruben Zackhras
  Iroijs
  Bruce Bilimon
  Elbod Boaz
  Kiorina Capelle
  Wilbur Heine
  Kosma Johanes
  Michael Kabua
  Tommy Kijiner Jr.
  Kotak Loeak
  Christopher J. Loeak
  Lein Zedkeia
  Source: RMI Constitutional Convention

Aftermath

The Constitutional Convention opened in April 2017. Kessai Note was elected as the body's President, defeating Christopher Loeak by a vote of 22–21.[8]

[1] Voters stay home Marshall Islands Journal, 23 July 2017

[2] Marshall Is seats to be hotly contested Radio New Zealand, 23 December 2016

[3]

[4] At long last: Yes to Con-Con Marshall Islands Journal, 1 October 2015

[5] Brief Overview of Political Development in the Republic of the Marshall Islands RMI Constitutional Convention

[6]

[7] Marshalls candidates gear for Con-Con election Marianas Variety, 23 December 2016

[8] Long-awaited Con-Con starts Marshall Islands Journal, 20 April 2017

title: 2017 Marshallese Constitutional Convention election

question: When was the convention held?

answer: The convention was held on 21 February 2017.

question: Why are constitutional conventions held?

answer: A constitutional convention is used to consider proposed constitutional amendments that have been endorsed by the Legislature.

question: When did the previous convention take place?

answer: The previous convention was held in 1995.

question: How many seats are to be reserved for women?

answer: Six seats.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer:
A constitutional convention election was held in the Marshall Islands on 21 February 2017. The convention is used to consider proposed constitutional amendments that have been endorsed by the Legislature.

There was a list of proposed changes like the direct election of the President, reserving six seats in the Legislature for women, and the creation of an ombudsman's office.

The convention had 45 members out of which, 33 were directly-elected delegates from the 33 Legislature districts and 12 were Iroijis.


text:
BASÍLIO DE BRAGANÇA PEREIRA (born 29 April 1945 in Rio de Janeiro) is a Brazilian statistician.

He studied at Escola Nacional de Ciências Estatísticas since 1958 until his BSc in Statistics (1968), and obtained his Ph.D.and D.I.C. from the Imperial College of Science, Technology and Medicine (1976) supervised by Sir David Cox. He also obtained an MSc in Operational Research (1970) and a Docent Free in Applied Statistics (1989) from Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro.[1]

In 2003 he spent a year working on a Project on Neural Networks in Statistics with Professor C.R. Rao at Penn State University on a postdoctoral grant from the Brazilian Government (CAPES).

He is Professor Emeritus of the Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro where he has worked since 1970, in the Institute of Mathematics, Postgraduate School of Engineering (COPPE) and School of Medicine.[2] Associate Professor at the Institute of Mathematics (1970–1989 and 1994–1997), Research Professor at COPPE (1970–present), Titular Professor of Applied Statistics at COPPE (1989–1994, retired), Titular Professor of Biostatistics at the School of Medicine (1998–2015, retired). He has supervised more than 80 thesis and dissertations. Since 2018, he is a Courtesy Researcher at National Laboratory for Scientific Computing (LNCC).

He was Elected member of the International Statistical Institute.[3] His current statistical interests are Applications of Statistical Learning Methods in Medicine, acting mainly in choice of separated models, likelihood and Bayesian inference, time series, regression and survival analysis, neural networks in statistics.

Books

-   PEREIRA, B. de B.; RAO, Calyampudi Radhakrishna.; OLIVEIRA, F. B.;Statistical Learning Using Neural Networks: A Guide for Statisticians and Data Scientists with Python, CRC Press, London, 2020.
-   PEREIRA, B. de B.; PEREIRA, C. A. de B. Model Choice in Nonnested Families, Springer, London, 2016.
-   SANTOS, A. M.; PEREIRA, B de B. Modelos Gráficos e Aplicações. 56a RBRAS e 14o SEAGRO, Maringa, 2011, 56p 1
-   PEREIRA, B. de B. ; RAO, Calyampudi Radhakrishna. Data Mining Using Neural Networks: A Guide for Statisticians. State College, Pennsylvania, 2009. 186 p.
-   PEREIRA, B. de B. ; RODRIGUES, C V C . Redes Neurais em Estatística. Rio de Janeiro:, 1998. v. 1. 144 p. Associação Brasileira de Estatística
-   PEREIRA, B. de B. ; SANT'ANNA, A. P. . Análise Econométrica de Séries Temporais. Rio de Janeiro:, 1989. 343 p. IM/UFRJ
-   SALES, P. R. H. ; PEREIRA, B. de B. ; VIEIRA, A. M. . Identificação e Estimação Recursiva de Modelos de Séries Temporais Uni e Multivariadas. Rio de Janeiro: 1989. 60 p. 3a ESTE, Rio de Janeiro.
-   PEREIRA, B. de B. ; PAIS, M. B. Z. ; SALES, P. R. H. . Análise Espectral de Séries Temporais: Uma Introdução para Engenharia, Economia e Estatística. Rio de Janeiro: 1986. 109 p. Arte Final e Eletrobrás
-   PEREIRA, B. de B. . Séries Temporais Multivariadas., 1984. 219 p. Associação Brasileira de Estatística
-   PEREIRA, B. de B. Tópicos em Séries Temporais: Métodos Automáticos de Previsão. PDD 07/80 COPPE/UFRJ. Rio de Janeiro, 1980

[1] http://buscatextual.cnpq.br/buscatextual/visualizacv.jsp?id=K4783624H9

[2]

[3] http://isi.cbs.nl/ISImembers/c.asp?First_name=&Family_name=Pereira%2C++Basilio+de+Bragan%E7a

title: Basilio de Bragança Pereira

question: What does the article say about how neural networks function?

question: What part of Pereira's education is more prominent in his role as a Titular Professor of Biostatistics?

answer: He has a BSc in Statistics. Additionally, his Ph.D. is from the Imperial College of Science, Technology, and Medicine.


text:
The first night at Janie's was some what normal. She was pouty & distrustful but glad to have sister company. She was in the mood to prepare dinner but I hadn't gotten so much as a whole sentence from her. Giving up  I sat down  at her home computer & started to reply to my sons messages through email. I was reminding him that we lived in a small country town & he was by no means a gangster & all this talk of attacks was making him paranoid.  He didn't need another gun & the roughest thing he had ever done was shoot arrows & bb guns in the back yard. I sat back in my chair tired from the day & my sons insistent reminders that I was to old to know what was really going on in the world when I  heard Janie in the kitchen babbling away about more incoherent things. I ignored her & sat back up typing my son a "I love you,be good,watch ur brothers,charge ur cell phone, & we will talk this gangster protection stuff out when I get home." message. When I got his reply & we said good night I turned my swivel chair around & called to Janie, "hey! You ok in there?"
    Of course I didn't get any response, I was use to this game by now but I was in no mood to play along. I wanted to be home with my children & a small grudge was forming inside me against my sister. She didn't wanna answer fine I wasn't getting up. I started to turn back to the computer when Janie let out a blood curdling scream & i heard a thump.
        I jumped up to go around her nook that separated the living room from the kitchen figuring another mouse was in the house & caused her to faint again. This had happened the first day we were there. She spooked easily. But when i came around the nook i found her on the floor,eyes wide open,mouth slack, cigarette burning on her chest where it must have landed when she feel. I hit my knees,brushed the cigarette on to the floor & off of her while grabbing her wrist. There  was nothing. No pulse,no twitch, no ha ha I got you! I scrambled to pull her head in to my lap,tears streaming down my face as i blubbered & begged snot filled pleases. "Please Janie, please get up" I  don't know how long i sat there, Janie with her empty stare & my high pitched screaming...until I felt her head move slightly in my lap.
    The house was inshambles,curtains were torn,a small fire had started on the kitchen rug from my sisters cigaret, the computer was smashed on the floor from me throwing it at Janies head as she clawed at me with a look of hunger & evil. I sat in our old torn recliner with my head in my hands,trembling & sobbing like a baby. My sisters & brothers standing around me confusion & pain making their faces shallow gray masks.
"what happened?" Joyce asked chewing her lip,taking on the big sister roll that was mine because I was to emotionally messed up to  be the elder this time. "people were going crazy in the streets, we had to drive threw front yards just to get here."
"I don't know!" I sobbed between hiccups "sssshe just screamed & fell over! Oh God it was horrible,I was so scared she was dead & then....& then she was but wasn't!"
 "well,was she just drunk? Like maybe she just blacked out & came to durning one of her insane episodes?"
I looked up from my hands & in to my sisters hopeful  brown eyes & knew she was going to make ME point out the obvious.
"and what?" I screamed "tried to kill me cuz that's normal behavior for her when she's drunk?!
"well" said Joyce"their was the butcher knife incident that one time with Jon"
     "Granted thats true,but has she ever tried to take a bite outta any of us!?Look at her!" I jumped up & pointed to my sister who was disheveled,with milky white eyes,bond & gagged to a chair in the farthest  corner of the living room,secure but scary & still trying to get away.
"Does she look like  normal Janie?!" I sneered letting my hysteria get the best of. It was as if they were questioning my sanity.
"um...ya. She kinda does.Like a mess,half clothed,angry mumbling,with blood on her hands. So yes she does look pretty normal for her." Joyce pointed out matter of factly.
  "The gash in her head alone should have killed her! She has third degree burns on her feet,she bit half her tongue off not to mention its fucking purple! & what the hell is wrong with her eyes?!" my energy spent I feel back in to the old recliner never taking my eyes off the "Fake sister" in front of me.
" you don't have to be so crazy & mean Jessica! How am I to know what's going on? I just thought it best to rule out all normal possibilities first" Joyce spat back as she twisted her hands.
 Our older brother Jon was pacing between the windows during this conversation when he turned around nose flared & whispered a "sssshh" all four of us girls turned to give him the best of our full attention with out losing sight of that thing tied to the chair.
    "the guns have stopped" Jon stated"maybe they have cleaned this mess up. Turn on the news,see if anything is on yet,something has to have been figured out by now"
Julia sitting closest to the tv hit the power button & on came the fuzz. Groans went around the room & not just from their tied up sister. Channel after channel was white noise.
"what do we do now?"  Julia asked
"pray" Janice answered bowing her dark head & folding her hands  in prayer.
"I don't hear any rucuss other then crying." Joyce stated
        moving from the window to the radio Jon hit the on button & looked for something anything that would explain the nights events. But there was nothing but the emergency signals.
"What is going on?" I whispered to myself holding my head in my hands again.
"pray" answered Janice again,"I told you it's the only way to stay safe. I prayed through this whole night for us to stay safe & togeather,& look we did."
"pray" Julia laughed"what will your prayer do now!? Do you people not realize this is the end of the world as we know it? A new way is here,a harder way. This is the zombie apocalypse I have been talking about the last few years! Only the strong will survive!"
Letting her diagnosis set in she stood up on her long legs & walked  only a few steps till she was face  to face with their sister. Julia looked at the milky white eyes,the head snapping back & forth with every movement Some one made. Bitterly julia shrugged her shoulders,running her hands over her shaved head she sighed & gave her remedy,
"A bullet to the head is the kindest we can do for her now. I don't know why she died or why she came back,but clearly we weren't the only people to deal with this. Guns & sirens have been going off all night. Jon saw it all as he sped over here from work,I don't know why we're so lucky to have all made it  home but we were." silence fell & we gathered together to await the sunrise in hopes maybe this would be some what better in the daylight.

title: The Falling a.k.a The Taste 3

question: Who are the main characters of the story?

answer: Jessica (the narrator), Janie, Joyce, Julia, Jon, Janice

question: Where does the story take place?

answer: Janie's house.

question: What is their relationship with each other?

answer: Siblings.

question: Why is Janie tied up?

answer: Janie suddenly falls over, dies, and turns into a zombie that attacks Jessica.

question: Write a ~8 sentence summary.

answer: All hell breaks loose when people start dying unexpectedly and turn into zombies. Jesica is spending time with her troubled sister, Janie, who suddenly screams and falls dead. Janie turns into a zombie and attacks Jessica, who manages to subdue and tie Janie up until their other siblings arrive. Nobody knows what is happening as Television and radio stations appear to be off the air. The gunshots and sirens the siblings heard when they arrived at Janie's house have died down. One sibling, Janice, says all they can do is pray. Julia says she has been warning them of the zombie apocalypse for years, and after examining Janie, Julia suggests a bullet to the head is the most humane thing they can do for their sister. The siblings decide to wait until sunrise if things will get better in the daylight.


text:
This is a list of activities carried out by the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency in China.

Activities in the Republic of China

Chiang Kai-shek, President of the Republic of China, suspected that the United States was plotting a coup against him. In 1950, Chiang Ching-kuo became director of the secret police, which he remained until 1965. Chiang also considered some people who were friends to Americans to be his enemies. An enemy of the Chiang family, Wu Kuo-chen, was kicked out of his position of governor of Taiwan by Chiang Ching-kuo and fled to America in 1953.[1] Chiang Ching-kuo, educated in the Soviet Union, initiated a Soviet style military reorganization in the Republic of China's military, which reorganized and Sovietized the political officer corps, surveillance, and Kuomintang party activities. Opposed to this was Sun Li-jen, who was educated at the American Virginia Military Institute.[2] Chiang orchestrated the controversial court-martial and arrest of General Sun Li-jen in August 1955, for plotting a coup d'état with the American CIA against his father Chiang Kai-shek and the Kuomintang. The CIA allegedly wanted to help Sun take control of Taiwan and declare its independence.[3][4]

Activities in the People's Republic of China

1951

In order to open a second front in the Korean War, CIA officers decided to rely upon a second plan. CIA operators were fearful of Mao Zedong's entry into the war and estimated that a substantial amount of Kuomintang Nationalist guerillas were available to work with the agency. They also estimated that Muslim horseman led by Ma Bufang would be willing to launch attacks against China in its western regions. When both of these efforts proved to be overly projected in terms of success and strategic actualities, the U.S., convinced that a third force was available within China, decided to invest resources into securing such a force to its efforts. In order to facilitate resistance against China's involvement in Korea, the CIA invested over $100 million in buying weapons that would be used by “third force” guerillas in China. The Agency scarcely could find any anti-Mao sentiment within their contacts, however, with the only signs of life being a group of refugees in Okinawa, invariably proven to be a group more interested in obtaining their own goals than in truly assisting the United States.[5]

Eventually, the CIA declassified its records and admitted the failures of the Third Force strategy.[6] The list illuminated a quick study on insurgency failures. According to the documents, the CIA began dropping small guerilla units into China, the first Third Force team having been deployed in April, 1952. All four members of the team were never heard from again. The second Third Force team was made up of five ethnic Chinese agents, and dropped into the Jilin region of Manchuria in mid-July 1952. The team eventually reported contact with local rebel leaders. The team was, unbeknownst to the CIA, captured and turned by the Chinese, setting up the ensuing trap. The CIA responded by sending in a rescue unit, only to have its planes shot down and its principal agents assigned to the mission, Jack Downey and Dick Fecteau, arrested. Both men were subsequently sentenced to prison sentences in China. Beijing later boasted of the insurgency failures of their United States counterparts. At that point, the CIA had dropped 212 agents into China, resulting in 101 agents killed and 111 captured.[7][8][9] Michael D. Coe, who had been recruited by the CIA and worked within the agency during the Third Force events, stated that the CIA “had been sold a bill of goods by the Nationalists - that there was a huge force of resistance inside of China. We were barking up the wrong tree. The whole operation was a waste of time.” [10]

1959

The CIA provided the Tibetan Chushi Gangdrug Tenshung Danglang Mak group with material assistance and aid, including arms and ammunition, as well as training to members of Chushi Gangdruk and other Tibetan guerrilla groups at Camp Hale.

1989

The CIA assisted in a secret operation to transport Chinese dissidents who participated in the Tiananmen Square protests of 1989 overseas in order to escape arrest by the PRC government.

2010

According to an investigation by _The New York Times_, the government of the PRC was able to either kill or imprison 18 to 20 CIA sources from 2010 to 2012; an article in Foreign Policy cited a higher number, putting the number of sources killed at at least 30.[11][12] A joint CIA and FBI counterintelligence operation set up to investigate the intelligence failure advanced three different theories[13][14] as to why the spy network was dismantled: (1) there was a mole within the CIA, (2) “sloppy tradecraft” and (3) PRC intelligence agents had hacked the covert system the CIA used to communicate with its foreign sources. _The New York Times_ said that the debate over the cause remained unsolved while the a former American intelligence official cited by Foreign Policy said investigators concluded that it was caused by a “confluence and combination of events.”[15] In January 2018, a former CIA officer named Jerry Chun Shing Lee was arrested and would eventually plead guilty[16][17] on suspicion of helping dismantle the network[18] while the _Foreign Policy_ article ascribed, notwithstanding the arrest, the failure to the ability of the PRC intelligence agencies to penetrate the CIA's communication system.[19]

2018

Sun Bo, a general manager of the China Shipbuilding Industry Corporation, supplied classified information to the CIA, including technical specifications of the Chinese aircraft carrier _Liaoning_.[20]

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5] Tim Weiner, _Legacy of Ashes: The History of the CIA_ (New York: Anchor Books, 2007), 66-68.

[6]

[7] “Two CIA Prisoners in China, 1952–73”, Apr 05, 2007, CIA

[8] “Extraordinary Fidelity”, Apr 05, 2007, CIA

[9] “Extraordinary Fidelity”, Jun 05, 2013, (transcript), CIA

[10] Tim Weiner, _Legacy of Ashes: The History of the CIA_ (New York: Anchor Books, 2007), 66-68, 645.

[11]

[12]

[13]

[14]

[15]

[16]

[17]

[18]

[19]

[20]

title: CIA activities in China

question: Summarize the suspicions against the US in the 1950s.

answer: In 1950, Chiang Ching-kuo was suspicious of the US as he saw all those who were friends with Americans to be his enemies. In 1955, he had General Sun Li-jen arrested for plotting a coup d'etat with the American CIA against his father Chiang Kai-shek. His father had initially been suspicious when he was president. In 1951, the PRC had killed 101 CIA agents and captured 111 CIA agents. It could be assumed that this is because they were already suspicious of the US.

question: Summarize the CIA's failures.

answer: A large failure for the CIA came in the form of the Third Force strategy in the early 1950s. They dropped small guerilla units into China, but they and a rescue team were all intercepted. China ended up killing 101 agents and capturing 111 out of the 212 the US had dropped. From 2010 to 2012, there was an intelligence failure in the form of a rumored number of 30 CIA sources being killed by China.

question: What does the text say about Guerilla warfare?

answer: The CIA launched a Third Force team in the early 1950s as they feared Mao Zedong's entry into the war. At first they believed there were a substantial amount of Kuomintang Nationalist guerillas were available to work with the agency, but that proved to be an over projection. Regardless, they were still convinced a third force existed in China, and invested over $100 million in buying weapons for the "third force" guerillas in China. They began to drop small guerilla units into China, but they were all intercepted and the mission was a failure.

question: What does the text say about Nixon?


text:
Paul checked himself one last time in the mirror, making sure he looked impeccable before stepping out of his house and hailing a taxi to his date. He had made a reservation at one of these fancy, upscale restaurants with giant chandeliers, silver tableware and velvet seats, and he hoped he wouldn't be late. Nervously, he drummed his fingers on his lap and mentally cursed every red stoplight. Suddenly, world became monochrome. Just as quickly, the world returned to normal. Paul sighed, it had happened so many times before that he had already gotten used to it.

Arriving at the restaurant, Paul found his old rival in love, Nick, standing in line. Paul greeted Nick with a brisk nod, then stepped into the restaurant.

The date was going great, and  Paul was starting to relax. The food was delicious, and Paul was just about to start on his soup when the world turned monochrome again. After a few seconds, the world became normal again. Well, mostly normal. For some reason, his silver spoon was still blackish. Paul ignored this, and continued on with his meal.

That was Paul's mistake.

and that was the day Paul died.

title: Monochrome

question: Who are the main characters of the story?

answer: Paul is the main character. Nick is more of a minor character because he has no dialogue.

question: What is Paul's relationship with Nick?

answer: They are old rivals when it comes to girls.

question: Where does the story take place?

answer: In a restaurant.

question: What is happening to Paul?

answer: He has episodes where the world suddenly becomes monochrome.

question: Write a ~6 sentence summary.

answer: Paul gets ready for his date at the fancy restaurant he made a reservation to and makes sure he looks impeccable before stepping out and hailing a cab. Along the way, the world suddenly becomes monochrome for a few seconds before returning to normal. This happens a lot and Paul ignores it. The date is going well when Paul's world turns monochrome again. Everything is back to normal except his spoon, which was still blackish. Paul ignores this and continues eating, a mistake that kills him.


text:
The Scorching

“I remember one day of winter,” my grandfather looked mistily out the twelve inch synthesized window. He’s one of the few in our colony that knows of winter first hand. I have brought him to the observation point on the western end of The Dome at his request. This is his response to my request to tell us of how life felt in the days before artificial air and extreme heats of the wastelands. “The wind whisked down my neighborhood just as I stepped out into the white blanket on my porch. A chill ran up my legs but I hardly noticed, my friends were already playing across the street. Hmpff, I couldn’t have been taller than I am now.” He looks to me with a smile. “We spent the entire day by the hill behind Wilson’s house. We took sleds and lids down that hill, trying to guide it down to an alley so we could go the farthest. We didn’t stop till we saw a couple girls from school cutting through the alley. Linda Mould and Susan P. Cole,” He turns to me with a special grin. Susan P. Cole was my grandmother.

“I jumped line when I saw them, knew it was a special one the second I started. The boys whopped and hollered behind me, they knew it too. Susan and Linda had to leap from my way just as I flew by and crashed right into the Ralman’s garbage cans. Didn’t think about how I’d stop, never do at that age. No one did in those days.” Something in his voice changes. The mist in his eyes is more of a water haze now, he points to the empty horizon. “I use to see homes, grass, animals, and clouds. I never new that hope for the future was artificial till the mechanics of the world were stripped from us. It didn’t matter what we did to try and stop it neither.” I can see him slipping into more painful memories so I request him to point out when exactly he noticed the world changing first hand.

“Changes? Well them happen often and often.” (He means to say changes happen a great deal and always.) “Well, the first time I realized the talk was true was I woke up in some pain, not a good deal, but enough to shake you to. Round the time I was leaving college I suppose. I looked around my bed for whoever woke me, Susan hadn’t been over that night so I couldn’t figure out who’d hurt my arm. It was near midday and I had spent the better half of the morning sleeping off the night before. I wanted to sleep some more but the sun was slipping between my blinds and onto the side of my bed. I got up to close the drapes, but first to peak outside. I was looking for anyone of note when I noticed warmth and a near instant sting all over my face. I leapt back and closed the drapes. I felt relief right away. I knew it, right then, I knew it. The sun was burning like they said it was, hot and fast. My first thought was to call Susan and see if she was feeling it too.”

It’s not long after that our history lessons pick up, reminding those of us who weren’t yet here that the earth was becoming barren. My grandfather was one the first selected to one of the science division domes. The structures we all have been raised were in fact substitutes for an atmosphere we never knew, so we could have a life we never could have hoped for. “I broke through as a design engineer. Interning for the great Doctor Kepling. Now that man could work, spend entire months ruining chalk boards and burrowing floors with his pacing. I nearly didn’t sleep in my time there trying to keep up with him and the three kids at home. No one really knows his name anymore, yet his design saved what’s left of us.” His sigh holds a lot of weight out of his chest. I decide its time to broche a subject that has been refrained from in my family for years now.

I ask him as gently as possible, what happened in the evacuation. There is a long pause and silence before he can gather the breath to speak. The gruffness I had grown up knowing is back, he is the old man in the recliner I know again. “We…We only got the news of The Flare just as it started. I was at home sleeping in as I had the day off and Susan…Susan should have been shopping. The phone call came and the doctor himself was frazzled. I could tell before he said anything it was happening. I was to stunned to really hear him after that, he said he just wanted to make sure I made it and hung up. I forced myself out of bed and put these packs of necessities and valuables we had made in case it did come. I heard the kids downstairs playing, I yelled for them to get up and get there stuff ready. They knew what I meant but I don’t think they truly new what it meant.” My father swears it was all too quick to remember. One day your breathing humid air, the next day it’s artificial. Kids his age hardly caught on to the significance of things as they went.

“Once we were all packed I rushed the kids out to the car. It was so bright out I could hardly see my way to the car, still I had to find Susan. I had lugged her bag to car with mine. I was going to drive strait to the market to find her. I’ve sweat often before and since then, but I doubt any compared to that day. We got there and I can remember my sprint to the door seeming to last far to long to be a couple dozen feet. I burst through the door and screamed for her, Susan! Susan!” His outcry catches me off guard, “I ran back and forth through the aisles still she is not there. I looked to my watch, If I was to save my children I couldn’t wait any longer. I’d have to hope she received the message and caught the follow up busses to one of the others.

When I returned to car and began to head for my designated dome, it was clear the word was out. People we rushing all about in a frenzy. I don’t ever think I’ve seen such horror on so many men and women’s faces as on that day. I told the kids to duck down so they wouldn’t see. I speed out from our town into the dessert sands towards the dome. I think I was one of the last through, they closed those giant glass doors a little after we passed through.” After this he holds his head in his hands in silent hiding of his face. My Aunt recalls him braking down and crying over the wheel till some nice man came to get them from the back seat. They didn’t see him again for a week. My grandmother was never found, nor has our family ever discussed her final whereabouts.

From there the rest of the word documents well our methods to survival. Two generations of struggle-less survival, made us able to be complacent again. We should stay vigilant in pursuit of the solution; we should never allow ourselves to simply survive, but also to live. Even if it is only our grandchildren who will truly be unscathed. Never may we forget what great human loss we suffered in the Scorching.

title: The Scorching

question: Where is the story set?

answer: In a dome built to protect people from the sun in a post-apocalyptic earth

question: What was the apocalyptic event?

answer: The sun's rays suddenly became burning hot in an event people call the Scorching

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: The unnamed grandchild of one of the scientists who worked on the dome

question: What happened to the narrator's grandmother?

answer: No one knows, but she likely died in the Scorching

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator lives in a dome built to protect people from the sun, after an event known as the Scorching suddenly caused its rays to become lethal. They ask their grandfather what winter was like, and then about the evacuation. Their grandfather tells them about the evacuation, but explains that his wife was never found.


text:
Kick your shoes off as you settle down for a night’s work.  It may look like you have a lot on, but you’ll get through it.  When the office is quiet and you’re the only one there is when you are at your best, a situation your manager realises which is why you have been trusted to lock up after yourself.

Take a sip from the fresh cup of coffee on your desk and pay attention to the screen.  Ignore the Firefox icon begging for attention, that’s not what you’re here for.  Instead, fire up Winamp and play some music.  The Goldberg Variations by Bach to start with.  Seeing as how no-one else is here to complain about it.  Fresh pot of coffee, classical music and a pile of work.  Not everyone’s idea of a perfect night, but it’ll do.
Pulling the top file off your in tray, you get to work, opening the various programs needed for this particular task.  You spent an inordinate amount of time that afternoon arranging the tray in a specific order based on priority and complexity.  The biggest job is at the bottom as you know if you start with that one you won’t get anything else done.

The music plays softly in the background as you continue to work, steadily making your way through the file.  When you reach the bottom of the pieces of paper within, you shake the coffee pot, realising it is empty.  This has also had an effect on your bladder so you get up and go to the toilet, starting up the coffee maker on the way.  As you return, there is something that surprises you.  Although it is not yet finished, Goldberg Variations is no longer playing.  More surprisingly, what is now playing is Killing In The Name by Rage Against The Machine.  You know the song from the radio but it isn’t your type of music and certainly isn’t on the playlist.  Forgetting the coffee, you run over and check Winamp.  The track list shows that the Bach is still supposed to be playing.  Press the button to change song.  The computer is showing that Pachelbel’s Cannon in D Major should be playing.  The music, however, is more of what you call angry shouty music.  You stop the music and shut down Winamp.  Try playing the playlist on Windows media player.  When you start up the music on that program, the screen says that Suite for Solo Cello No 1 in G Major is supposed to be playing; it is in fact what sounds like a Guns N Roses track.  Irritated, you stop playing music altogether and go back to the coffee maker, refill your pot and get back to it.

Pick up the next file.  Open it.  Frown.  Close it again.  Open it again.  This file isn’t supposed to be the next one.  You spent so long that day sorting them exactly as they were needed that you know this automatically.  Pick up the next file.  This one is the one that’s supposed to be at the bottom.  Spend 5 minutes sorting them again.  Pick up the next one.  Sit down to resume work.

As you go to open the program needed for the first part of this job, you can’t find it on the computer.  Not in the start menu, not on the desktop.  Another funny thing is that demonic looking desktop wallpaper.  Definitely not the one you left there.  Your one is a picture of your brother, sister in law, nephew and niece.  You reboot the computer, confused as to what is happening.  As it starts up, there is a sizzling sound from across the office.  You get up to investigate and discover that the coffee maker has switched itself on.  With no pot, the water is cascading onto the hot plate.  But you definitely switched it off.  Flick the switch, nothing happens.  Unplugging it from the wall does the trick.

Loud music issues forth from your desk.  More shouty rock music that you don’t like.  Not sure what this one is.  But it can’t be from your computer.  You haven’t logged in yet.  You go back over and discover that it is.  Shut down Winamp (again) and start to work.  You’re not sure how your computer logged itself back in but the programs you need have returned.  Nervously, you start to make your way through the next file, hoping that this whole thing is over and you’ll be able to work.  Going home simply isn’t an option.

Just then the phone rings.  No problem, probably the boss wondering how you’re doing.  It’s unusually loud, though.  As you pick it up, the ringing doesn’t stop.  There is no-one at the other end.  Then you realise why it’s so loud.  Every phone in the office is ringing simultaneously.  That’s not possible.  Not with the number of different number and extensions involved.  You run around, getting scared now, taking all the phones off the hook.  Slowly, as this is done, the noise gets quieter and quieter until it stops altogether.  Just in time for the rock to start up again.

You run back to your computer and stare at the screen.  There are no music playing programs open and all the text that was on the screen has turned into gibberish.  No time to worry about that now.  Reaching behind the computer, you find the leads for the speakers and pull them out.  That stops the music.  You then set about the on screen problem.  Deciding to try highlighting the text and changing the font, only to discover that neither the keyboard nor the mouse are working.  This time you pull the tower round and discover that neither device is unplugged.  Look at the screen again.  It is going crazy, with the pointer whizzing around and text appearing, disappearing and then reappearing yet again on the screen.

Then the sizzling sound starts up again.  You run, panicking, to the coffee maker, only to see the plug hanging down the side of the table where it was left.  Freaking out, you pick the maker up and throw it as far as you can.  It lies on the ground, making a gurgling noise as hot water continues to pour out onto the carpet.

Then the phones start ringing again.  They’re still off the hook.  Frantically, you run round yanking the plugs out of the sockets and, in quite a few cases, out of the phones themselves, sending them crashing to the floor.  You return to your computer, wracked with fear.  You stare at your screen, unsure if what you are seeing is actually happening.  Scrolling rapidly down the screen, filling God knows how many pages in Word is the message:

ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JANE A DULL GIRL!

You yank the tower back round and start hauling at cables until absolutely nothing is plugged in anymore.  Yet, still rapidly filling the screen is that phrase:

ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JANE A DULL GIRL!

Then the music starts up again.  Or, rather the cacophony.  About fifty different rock songs emanating from every different machine within the office.  Yours is the only one switched on.  You run round pushing every single computer to the floor, including your own.  Still the music continues.  Just then, the phones start ringing again.  Grabbing the coffee pot, you run to the toilets faster than you thought you ever possibly could, powered by pure adrenaline and fear, leaving a trail of coffee on the floor as you empty the contents of the pot.
Run to the sink at the end of the room, all the toilets start flushing, none of them stopping, reach the sinks, every single tap switches on full power, steaming up the room, turn round, through the thickening mist, catch sight of something out the corner of your eye, with a scream drop the coffee pot, spin round and pound a mirror, smashing it, blood pouring down forearm and hand, reach down and select the biggest, jaggiest piece, gripping it extremely tightly, screaming through the pain, you prepare...

title: Do Not Go Gentle...

question: What is the protagonist's work routine?

answer: She sorts the files she'll do from the easiest to the hardest during the day. Her shift begins in the evening, and she goes through the files with classical music playing while sipping coffee.

question: What seems to be the final fate of the protagonist?

answer: Considering the story is a horror story, she's most likely to die after picking up the large piece of glass.

question: List the supernatural events that take place.

answer: The music changes on its own, and it plays on all the computers, even the ones that are turned off. The coffee machine turns on its own. The phones all ring together, even when their cables are unplugged. The toilets all flush together as well.

question: What is the genre of the story?

answer: It's mystery horror.

question: Write a ~8 sentence summary.

answer: The protagonist sorts the files she'll do from the easiest to the hardest during the day. Her shift begins in the evening, and she goes through the files with classical music playing while sipping coffee. Except, the music turns to rock and plays on all the computers, all the phones begin ringing, and the coffee machine works on its own. She unplugs everything. That doesn't do the trick. She runs to the sink, where all the toilets start flushing at the same time. She sees something on the corner of her eye, smashes a mirror, and picks the largest piece. She prepares...


text:
Dylan was a starving artist, often making more money raking yards than selling his photos. Even though he vows to quit his passion, he always makes his way to the State Capitol to catch candid images of people around the statues and lawn.

As another rather uninspiring day draws down to its end with no pictures worth taking, Dylan begins to pack his equipment and head for his small apartment. He's grown too used to this feeling.

Suddenly, ten young women in canary yellow dresses walk onto the lawn and form a circle, barefoot in the neatly cut grass. While people start to crowd around what must be the beginnings of some sort of performance, Dylan struggles to ready his camera and get in front of the onlookers.

The women fall to the ground in unison as he lifts the camera up to his eye; Dylan snaps several quick pictures as the crowd grows silent. The ten bodies lie there for about two minutes before people grow concerned.

"Somebody dial 911!" came the scream that broke the silence. The woman kneels there with her hand on the pulse--or lack thereof--of the redhead of the group.

After the hysteria died down, the police marked the scene, and the media has asked their questions, a journalist rolls through Dylan's rolls photos of what's being called a mass suicide. The fourth one on the roll was an almost surreal capture; yellow dresses appear to float in the air as they fall and the faces look dead before they hit the ground, like the souls can be seen leaving the body.

The journalist looks into Dylan's eyes, "I don't know what your portfolio looks like, but it seems as if you finally have your million-dollar photo."

title: Ten Canaries

question: Describe Dylan.

answer: Dylan is a photographer struggling to make money through his art.

question: What happens with the dancers?

answer: Ten women wearing yellow dresses form a circle; they fall to the ground in unison. Minutes later, the watching crowd realizes they're dead.

question: What are the emotions Dylan is experiencing?

answer: Dylan is feeling uninspired and unmotivated.

question: Does Dylan have a relationship with the dancers?

answer: He doesn't have a relationship with the dancers.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: Dylan is a photographer struggling to make money through his art. Feeling uninspired with another unsuccessful photography day, he prepares to leave the capital when he sees ten women wearing yellow dresses form a circle in the grass; he begins snapping photos. They fall to the ground in unison. Minutes later the crowd realize the women are dead. Police and journalists arrive; a journalist scrolls through Dylan's photos announcing he captured an award-winning shot.


text:
JON KINYON (born March 29, 1962) is an American writer, Emmy Award Nominated TV editor, filmmaker, music producer, and entrepreneur.

Hot Rod Condoms

Jon Kinyon is the founder and president of Hot Rod Condoms, a U.S. condom brand which he launched in 1994.[1]

God Squad!

In 2002 he wrote, produced and directed God Squad!, a comedy film which parodied Christian Films and 1970s Buddy Cop Films. It featured cult film actress and former Penthouse Pet of the Year (1993) Julie Strain as well as actor Al Israel who is famous for his roles in Scarface, Carlito's Way, and Body Double. Composer Bob Crail is credited with writing the film's musical score. After its premiere at the Academy Award accredited Los Angeles Film Festival the film went on to screen at Tromadance 2003, the Backseat Film Festival and several other U.S. film festivals. This film is included in the European version of “The Best of Tromadance” DVD.[2]

The Jimi Homeless Experience

Stop motion animation and webcomic

On March 6, 2008 he became the first “featured animator” on the now defunct MyToons,[3] a YouTube-styled website specifically geared for 2-D and 3-D animation, with a stop motion animation parody of Jimi Hendrix' key performance at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival. The animated piece features a fictional character named Jimi Homeless who first appeared in a series of webcomics published as _The Jimi Homeless Experience_. The webcomics are written by Jon Kinyon and drawn by an underground cartoonist known as Big Tasty.[4] The stop motion animation was a collaboration with Josh Curtis, the singer for the related band project, who molded the clay version of Jimi Homeless.[5]

Parody album

On August 23, 2007 he released a full-length CD of parody songs he had written and produced, all inspired by the aforementioned comic. The first CD by The Jimi Homeless Experience was released on the exact day of the 40th anniversary of Jimi Hendrix' first album release Are You Experienced, his Are You Homeless? features "Weird Al" Yankovic-styled parodies of some of Hendrix' biggest hits.[6][7]

Night of the Loving Dead (2014)

Jon Kinyon wrote and directed a parody of the classic horror film Night of the Living Dead. The short film was co-produced with his two brothers C.J. Kinyon and C.C. Kinyon, and was filmed at a long-abandoned cemetery in Half Moon Bay, CA. It premiered as an Official Selection in the web based film festival Once a Week Online Film Festival.[8]

Television Editor at Nickelodeon

Jon has worked in the film and television industry since 1988. He's been a film and TV editor in Los Angeles, CA. since 1997 and has been employed at Nickelodeon Animation Studio since 2005.[9] He served as Supervising Picture Editor for 3 seasons of the animated TV show Pinky Malinky. Season 1 of the show was released by Netflix on January 1, 2019.[10]

Daytime Emmy Award Nomination

The 2020 Daytime Emmy nominations were announced on Thursday, May 21, live on CBS’ _The Talk_ and later on Gold Derby. Nominated for “Outstanding Editing for an Animated Program”[11] was the show Pinky Malinky on which Jon worked as the lead editor.

Short Stories Published by OZY

Stepdaddy Dearest: Putting The Crime Into Crime Family

On August 29, 2017, a story Jon wrote about his criminal stepfather, “Stepdaddy Dearest: Putting The Crime Into Crime Family” was published by OZY Magazine.[12]

Will The Real Parachuting Hijacker Please Stand Up

On April 19, 2018 a second story written by Jon, “Will The Real Parachuting Hijacker Please Stand Up” was published by OZY Magazine, this one was about a family friend who spent 30 years as a suspect in the D.B. Cooper hijacking case.[13]

Who Murdered My Father?

On November 26, 2018 a third story he wrote, “Who Murdered My Father?” was published online by OZY Magazine. This story is about the murder of his father in 1972 and the subsequent lies and runaround the San Francisco Police Department forced his family to endure.[14]

Raising Hell, Raised by Hells Angels

On September 26, 2019 a fourth story Jon wrote, “Raising Hell, Raised by Hells Angels” was published by OZY Magazine. This story is about a long time family friend who became President of the Daly City chapter of the Hells Angels.[15]

That Time I Was Roofied In Hong Kong

On November 12, 2019 another of Jon's stories was published by OZY Magazine, “That Time I Was Roofied In Hong Kong.” The story is about a dangerous vacation experience in Wan Chai, Hong Kong.[16]

The Convivial Call of Casual Racism

On July 22, 2020, Jon's story, “The Convivial Call of Casual Racism” was published by OZY Magazine. The story is about a run in with a race-baiter at a 4th of July party in the Hollywood Hills.[17]

When Jesus Freaks Go Bad

On August 6, 2020, “When Jesus Freaks Go Bad” was published by OZY Magazine. An accidental death leads to Jon's friend becoming a religious zealot. As time passes, his friend's religious beliefs turn more political and radical.[18]

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title: Jon Kinyon

question: What does the article say about Hollywood?

question: What is the creative specialty of Jon Kinyon?

answer: It seems that Kinyon specializes in parodies. He has various parody works in different media, and his stories seem to veer toward a mix of realistic stories and parodies.

question: What can be said about Kinyon's political leanings?

answer: He has a condom brand he created, makes lots of parodies of popular media, and critiques or parodies religious ideas and racism. He's likely to be a Democrat. If not, he could be staying out of politics "ironically".


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 buys the book for the narrator?

answer: The narrator's mother

question: What type of computer game is the narrator playing?

answer: They seem to be playing some sort of civilization simulation game

question: Explain the issues the narrator is encountering in the game they're playing.

answer: The population is rapidly increasing, energy and resources are rapidly decreasing, the situation in Syria is getting out of hand, and the ozone layer is losing strength.

question: How does the narrator react to what they read in the book?

answer: They are dismissive and find the message of the book to be a farce, tossing the book aside.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator's mom buys them a book titled "99 reasons why you should get out of bed". The narrator is dismissive of the book's message and tosses it aside, opting to play a computer game before bed. In the game, they have to deal with an increasing population, depleting resources, and a weakening ozone layer. They decide to look at the second chapter of the book before going to sleep.


text:
You wake up in the morning just like everyone else. Your alarm rings, and you think “I should have gotten more sleep last night. That was a really poor choice I made to wait until 11 to go to bed when I knew that I had to get up early in the morning for school.” You think about it for a little bit, but decide that further thought isn’t of much use. You try to shake the tired off your eyelids as you yawn and swing your legs off of your bed.

As you adorn yourself with all sorts of colorful fabric stitched together into different shapes and garments, you think about all the stuff you’re about to fill a day with. There’s school, and then maybe you’re going to talk to some friends. You have some pretty great friends. Friends named Steve, or Clarice, or maybe even Betsy. Betsy is a good friend. You’ve known her since third grade and you two have always gotten along well.

You pour some cow milk onto your corn flakes and sit down for a heaping bowl of breakfast. Your hands shuttle portions of cereal from the bowl to their demise inside your mouth. “Don’t fret, cornflakes, your anguish is not in vain.” You think. Some might say you’re a little too sympathetic towards your cereal, but it doesn’t bother you. You’re a wonderful person. “You’re giving me energy to face a grand day; you’re a terrific little cereal.”  You idly read about the cereal you’re eating on the back of the box. You see smiling people, they must be happy because they’re eating cornflakes. You think they should just be happy because they’re alive, but you finish your cornflakes and don’t have time to think about it.

You go back upstairs, to your desk. It’s a good kind of messy- the kind of messy that shows you’re too busy working on important things to keep your desk clean, but not so messy that folks think you’re an outright slob. You gather up tomes of knowledge and dump them into your backpack. You slip the straps onto your shoulders. It’s not the most comfortable arrangement, but you’re just grateful that you have a backpack full of books that are in turn full of all kinds of knowledge and facts. People always told you that knowledge is power. You just think that knowledge was knowledge, but that doesn’t keep it from being pretty wonderful.

You go to school and learn all about new things and think all sorts of new thoughts. Your English teacher is a sad old man. It seems as if he wakes up every morning and sighs out his sadness, instead of breathing in the new day. He tells your class to read three chapters in Catcher in the Rye for tomorrow and summarize them. So far you find the book deeply fascinating. It seems that Holden has a lot to complain about, but you think his life seems OK. All the kids in your class grumble at the homework that seems to accumulate without fail every day in school. You quietly write down the assignment and leave the class with everyone else.

It’s lunchtime, and you arrive a little late to the lunch line. Most folks have already gotten to the line and are waiting to buy food, but you see some friends and start talking to them. You’re talking with your friends about things you enjoy doing, like watching sports and going to the movies. You really enjoy talking to your friends, and before you know it, you’re getting your food. You don’t really like the school’s food, but you’re just glad that you get a meal every day.

After lunch is over, you go to history class. Today the teacher, a middle aged woman with plenty of gusto who really enjoys teaching her students, is teaching your class about World War 2. Some of the kids seem interested in the topic, but some of the kids just dutifully get out their spiral notebooks and dull pencils and write down some of the things the teacher says. The teacher talks about all the awful travesties committed in war with enthusiasm, but it wasn’t a strange amount of enthusiasm, just enough to show that she enjoyed her job and no more. To you, it seemed irreverent to not be sad when talking about all that death. You recall the words of Stalin, who said one death is a tragedy but a million deaths is a statistic. It was a pretty morbid saying by who you would consider to be a bad man, but it seemed to surmise your thoughts well.

School ends, and most people seem happy. You hear people talking about how the day went fast, and other people saying about how the day dragged on and on. On the way home, you ponder the duality of this statement, how a day to some can be a labored affair and for others it sails by. To you it just seems as if a day is 24 hours long. There are some things that you find confusing, but other things that you think are fairly self-explanatory. After a little while, you’re at home.

You have a glass of water. The ice you put in the water chills the water, and your hand as you hold it. It tastes good, even though water doesn’t really have a taste. You also eat some crackers, because you’re kind of hungry, but dinner isn’t for a while. The salty crackers make you thirsty, and you finish your water and put the glass in the sink. Then you take your backpack with you and go upstairs.

You once again splay the books in your backpack all over your pleasantly messy desk. You’d like to get your homework done before you relax; it always made more sense to you to get the unpleasant things in life out of way early so you didn’t have to worry about them when you were doing leisurely things. You take open the appropriate books to the relevant pages and begin learning what they had to say and writing things down in the manner various teachers suggested you do.

You work clear until dinner, and your mom calls you downstairs. Walking downstairs, you see an arrangement meticulously prepared by your mother. There are delicious meats and vegetables and all the silverware lined up like it’s supposed to be. You ask your mother what the occasion is, and she just smiles and says she was in a good mood. You and your mother and your father and your little sister sit down at the table and eat together. Your mom asks your dad about how his day was, and he says it was a hard day at the office but he got a lot done. There are a few moments of silence garnished with the sound of food being consumed, and then your father asks you how your day was. You say it was fairly typical and nice, not because you want to be dismissive of your dad, but because you can’t really think of anything interesting that happened. You share about all the things you’re learning about, about Holden Caulfield and about the Battle of the Bulge. Your parents nod with interest while chewing meat and then sipping water. You wonder how much your parents are really interested in your day, but regardless, you’re glad they asked.

After dinner, you help put the dishes into the dishwasher without being asked. Your parents thank you for your help. You pour yourself a glass of milk and take some cookies upstairs, settling into a comfortable chair and an entertaining book. You nibble on the cookies and the crumbs fall down into the creases of the book. You try to brush them out, but there comes a point where your fingers are too wide to reach the small valleys formed by the binding of book. You feel kind of bad, because this is a book you’re borrowing from the library, but not too bad.

Later in the evening, after you’ve learned all about strange fantastical lands and engaging, heroic characters in your book, you see that it’s around 9:30. This isn’t terribly late in the evening, but you figure it would be a good idea to get some more sleep after waking up so tired this morning, because you stayed out with friends last night. You say goodnight to your parents, and then to your sister, and go into your room and fold yourself into bed.

As you wait for sleep to find you and take you to a world of your subconscious, you lay still in your bed, listening to a fan you keep running back and forth to keep silence at bay. You know that some people like their room to be quiet and dark when they fall asleep, but you’ve always been bothered by little bumps and sounds far away when you’re trying to fall asleep, so you keep a fan by your bed. You think about what kind of day it’s been, and all the things you’ve done. You start to drift off to sleep with a quaint little smile on your face.

It was a pretty good day. You’re certainly not a bad person, but you don’t think too highly of yourself, and certainly don’t think of yourself explicitly as a wonderful person, but I do. I think you’re just wonderful.

title: You are a wonderful person: A whimsical short story from my heart to yours.

question: What is the narrator waking up for?

answer: The narrator is waking up for school.

question: What is the narrator working on?

answer: The narrator is in school, and when they come home, they do their homework.

question: What classes does the narrator going to?

answer: The narrator has English and history class.

question: What does the narrator do at night?

answer: The narrator does their homework, eats dinner, helps with the dishes, and then reads a little before bed.

question: Write a ~6 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator wakes up for school after a short amount of sleep. They get ready for the day and head off. They attend English and History class. When they return home, their mother has prepared a nice dinner. After dinner, they help with the dishes. After doing some reading, they head off to sleep.


text:
WINIFRED JOYCE “WINNIE” DRINKWATER (11 April 1913 – 6 October 1996) was a pioneering Scottish aviator and aeroplane engineer. She was the first woman in the world to hold a commercial pilot's licence.[1][2][3]

Biography

Drinkwater was born on 11 April 1913 at Waterfoot, Scotland, the youngest of the three children of Emma Banner and Albert Drinkwater, an engineer.[4]

Drinkwater joined the Scottish Flying Club near Renfrew on 2 June 1930. She trained under Captain John Houston, an instructor at the club. When she qualified for her private pilot's licence later that year she became Scotland's youngest pilot.[5][6][7]

0n 8 May 1932, aged 19, she gained her “B” (Commercial) licence at Cinque Ports Flying Club at Lympne in Kent, making her the youngest professional pilot in the United Kingdom and the world's first female commercial pilot.[8][9] Regulations at the time required pilots to be 19 years of age, Drinkwater commented to the press, “I decided to qualify for a professional licence. I could not do that until I became 19 because of the regulations, and immediately after my birthday in April I started. I have been at Lympne for three weeks, and it has been a gruelling time.” A test of night flying was required as part of the qualification and despite the floodlights failing at Lympne aerodrome on the night of her test flight, she landed successfully with the assistance of flares.[10] Drinkwater also gained her instructor's certificate later in 1932, and her ground engineer licence in 1933.[11]

In September 1932 Drinkwater was awarded the Scottish Flying Club trophy for landing. On 11 October 1932 at Renfrew Aerodrome, she won one of the Club's cups for air racing, winning by just 2 seconds over a course of 15 miles.[12][13]

In 1933 Drinkwater was employed by John Cuthill Sword, the owner of Midland & Scottish Air Ferries as a commercial pilot. She made her first scheduled flight from Renfrew Aerodrome to Campbeltown on 27 April 1933 in a de Havilland Fox Moth bi-plane.[14][15][16] Later she flew scheduled flights from Glasgow to London in a de Havilland Dragon.[17][18][19]

Some of her charter work with the airline included delivery of newspapers to the Scottish islands, press assignments including flying photographers over Loch Ness as they searched for the Loch Ness monster,[20] air ambulance work on the Western Isles and undertaking an air search for a boat of kidnappers.[21]

She met Francisco Short, the director of Short Brothers aeroplane manufacturer, at Renfrew Aerodrome. When they met she was dismantling an engine, wearing dungarees and covered in grease.[22] They married in Dumfries on 19 July 1934 and had two children, a daughter Anne and a son Tupney. [23][24] Drinkwater rarely flew after her marriage. After Short's death in 1954, Drinkwater married William Orchard, a fisherman. After Orchard's death in 1983, she returned to Scotland living near Turnberry in Ayrshire. She later moved to New Zealand to live with her daughter.[25][26]

Drinkwater's achievements drew much attention in the press and with the public. She received admiring letters from all over the world and was said to be the _Scottish Amy Johnston_. When she married Francisco Short, they had planned a quiet wedding; however, news of their plans leaked out and a crowd formed, showering them with confetti.[27][28]

A bronze bust celebrating Drinkwater was erected at Clyde View Park in Renfrew in 2005.[29]

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[16]  Scotland {{!}} Squadron (Aviation)|website=Scribd|access-date=2016-12-27}}

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title: Winifred Drinkwater

question: Who is Winifred Drinkwater?

answer: She was a pioneering Scottish aviator and aeroplane engineer and was the first woman in the world to hold a commercial pilot's license.

question: When did she start taking an interest in airplanes?

answer: She joined the Scottish Flying Club on June 2, 1930. This was her first recorded aircraft experience.

question: Write a timeline of her achievements.

answer:
- On June 2, 1930, Drinkwater joined the Scottish Flying Club and trained under Captain John Houston.
- On May 8, 1932, she gained her "B" commercial license at Cinque Ports Flying Club. She immediately got her professional license at the age of 19.
- She gained her instructor's certificate in 1932.
- She gained her grounded engineer license in 1933.
- In September 1932 she was awarded the Scottish Flying Club trophy for landing.
- On October 11, 1932, she won a cup for air racing.
- On April 27, 1933, she made her first scheduled flight from Renfrew Aerodrome on Campbeltown.
- On July 19, 1934, she got married and had two children.
-In 1983, she retired and moved to New Zealand with her daughter.

question: Write a short summary of her family background.

answer: She was the youngest of the three children of Emma Banner and Albert Drinkwater, who was an engineer.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: Winifred Drinkwater was a pioneering Scottish aviator and airplane engineer and was the first woman in the world to hold a commercial pilot's license. Her achievements drew so much attention that a bronze bust was erected at Clyde View Park in dedication to her.


text:
KAMBUI OLUJIMI (born 1976) is a New York-based visual artist working across disciplines using installation, photography, performance, tapestry, works on paper, video, large sculptures and painting.[1] His artwork reflects on public discourse, mythology, historical narrative, social practices, exchange, mediated cultures, resilience and autonomy.[2][3]

Early life and education

Olujimi was born and grew up in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood of Brooklyn in New York City.[4]

In 1996, he attended Bard College. In 2002, he received a BFA from Parsons School of Design. He attended the Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture in Maine in 2006. In 2013, Olujimi received an MFA from Columbia University School of the Arts.[5]

Career

Reviews of his work have appeared in publications including _Art in America_, _The New York Times_, _The New Yorker_, _Modern Painters_, _Artforum_, _Hyperallergic_,[6] and _The Brooklyn Rail_.[7] Throughout his career he has received numerous grants and fellowships including from A Blade of Grass,[8] the Jerome Foundation, and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown.[9] He has also collaborated with interdisciplinary artist Coco Fusco.[10][11]

Olujimi's visual work is in the permanent collections of the Brooklyn Museum of Art[12] and the Cleveland Art Museum.[13]

Olujimi has been connected with the Catharine Clark Gallery since 2010.[14]

He teaches in the Visual Art programs at Columbia University and Cooper Union.[15][16]

Olujimi was one of the subjects of the short feature Through a Lens Darkly, concerning the struggle for African American photographers to receive recognition.[17]

Personal life

Some of Olujimi's work is inspired by Bed-Stuy community leader and activist Catherine Arline, a woman he considered a surrogate mother and referred to as his guardian angel.[18]

Olujimi currently lives and works in Brooklyn.

Honors

Artist-in-residency

-   2005: BCAT / Rotunda Gallery Multimedia Artist Residency (New York, NY)
-   2006: Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture (Skowhegan, ME)
-   2007-2009: Apexart: Outbound Residency to Kellerberin, Australia (Kellerberin, Australia)
-   2007-2009: Fine Arts Work Center at Provincetown (Provincetown, MA), 2nd Year Fellow
-   2009: Santa Fe Art Institute (Santa Fe, NM)[19]
-   2009: Bemis Center for Contemporary Arts (Omaha, NE)
-   2010: Acadia Summer Arts Program, (Mt. Desert, ME)
-   2011: The Center for Book Arts (New York, NY)
-   2013: Tropical Lab 7 (Singapore)
-   2014: Franconia Sculpture Park (Franconia, MN)
-   2015: Civitella Ranieri (Umbertide, Italy)[20]
-   2015: Meet Factory (Prague, Czech Republic)
-   2015: The Lower Manhattan Cultural Council (LMCC) (New York, NY), Process Space Residency[21]
-   2015: The Fountainhead Residency (Miami, FL)
-   2016: Queenspace Residency (Long Island City, NY)
-   2017: Robert Rauschenberg Residency (Captiva, FL)
-   2018: MacDowell Colony (Peterborough, NH)[22]
-   2019: Black Rock Senegal (Dakar, Senegal)[23]

Exhibitions

Olujimi's work has been exhibited in a number of institutions nationally and internationally: CUE Arts Foundation (New York, NY), MIT List Visual Arts Center (Cambridge, MA),[24] Apexart (New York, NY), Art in General (Brooklyn, NY), The Sundance Film Festival (Park City, UT), Smithsonian Institution, (Washington D.C.), Madison Museum of Contemporary Art (Madison, WI), Museum of Contemporary Art Los Angeles (Los Angeles, CA), Museum of Modern Art (New York, NY), Studio Museum in Harlem (New York, NY) and Yerba Buena Center for the Arts (San Francisco, CA), Museo Nacional Reina Sofia (Madrid, Spain), Kiasma (Helsinki, Finland), Para Site (Hong Kong, China), The Jim Thompson Art Center (Bangkok, Thailand), Contemporary Arts Museum Houston (Houston, TX), The Blanton Museum of Art (Austin, TX),[25][26] The Newark Museum *(Newark, NJ),[27][28] and the Brooklyn Museum (Brooklyn, NY).[29] He has given artist lectures in many institutions nationally and internationally, including Carleton University, Ottawa,[30] University of Buffalo,[31] Rhode Island School of Design.[32]

Works and publications

-   -   -   -   -   Olujimi, Kambui. _Zulu Time;_ essays by Sampada Aranke, Gregory Volk, and Leah Kolb_._ Madison, WI: Madison Museum of Contemporary Art. 2017. Exhibition Catalogue.[33]

Sources

-   Harris, Thomas A, and Kambui Olujimi. Through a Lens Darkly: Philosophy of the Artist. , 2014. Internet resource.

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[14]  Biography {{!}} Catharine Clark Gallery|website=cclarkgallery.com|access-date=2017-01-02}}

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[16]  The Cooper Union|website=cooper.edu|access-date=2017-01-02|archive-url=https://web.archive.org/web/20170105092725/http://cooper.edu/academics/people/kambui-olujimi%7Carchive-date=2017-01-05%7Curl-status=dead}}

[17] Harris, Thomas A, and Kambui Olujimi. _Through a Lens Darkly: Philosophy of the Artist_. 2014. Internet resource.

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[27]  Newark Museum|website=www.newarkmuseum.org|access-date=2019-08-17}}

[28]  Video|website=NJTV News|language=en-US|access-date=2019-08-17}}

[29]

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[31]  ubART Clone|access-date=2019-08-17}}

[32]

[33]

title: Kambui Olujimi

question: Where did Kambui Olujimi attend college?

answer: Olujimi attended Bard College in 1996 and received a BFA from Parsons School of Design.

question: Where has Olujimi received grants and fellowships from?

answer: Olujimi has received grants and fellowships from A Blade of Grass, the Jerome Foundation, and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown.

question: Where does Olujimi teach?

answer: Olujimi teaches in the Visual Art programs at Columbia University and Cooper Union.

question: How many times has Olujimi been an artist-in-residency?

answer: Olujimi has been an artist-in-residency 18 times.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: This article details the life and work of Kambui Olujimi, a visual artist working across many mediums. Olujimi currently lives and works in Brooklyn.


text:
   He walked to the treehouse, his feet crunching the dark brown leaves. The ground was dark and shadowy, almost appearing black and white because of the trees blocking the sun. He touched the rough bark of the sturdy oak tree, then climbed the frayed rope ladder. The floorboards, once rich with color, were cracked and sunbleached. This treehouse had been their second home for so many years. His eyes settled on what had once been a makeshift window covered in seran wrap, but was now just a few shreds of plastic stuck to a jagged rectangular hole. The branch was visible through it. Once, the sun had shined through, and he had so many happy memories of that time. But now overgrown branches allowed no light to touch the treehouse. So he instead focused on the large brown branch where they had once played. No one had bothered to remove the rope that had been used as a toy long ago. As he watched, a single strand of her hair left on the recently tied noose lifted into the air and blew away.

(So hopefully I'm not breaking the rules or anything. I think this is the kind of thing we're supposed to post here... Right???)

Edit: Someone pointed out my overreaction. I removed this edit. Kthanks.

title: I wrote a really short story.

question: Who was the girl that lost a strand of hair in the treehouse?

answer: Information not found.

question: How old was the narrator when he walked there?

answer: Information not found.

question: In what kind of three was the treehouse build in?

answer: An oak tree.

question: What was the state of the treehouse?

answer: The treehouse was unkept and dilapidated.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator walked to a treehouse where he used to spend time in his earlier years. There, he found a strand of hair that belonged to a girl.


text:
Okay Reddit. First time I'm posting something to an audience outside of my small circle of friends. Hope you like it. I'm from India so you have the references here and there. Shouldn't stop you from getting it, though. Hope you like it :)

This story formed itself on three separate occasions and was finally written on a cold winter day on a Lutyens' Delhi building's terrace. It became more special after I recited it to someone immediately after its completion. Not very often do I get to read stories out but for the one time I did, it sure feels good. This story for me (like the others) is like winter. Cold, numb fingers and dull aches, but some warmth inside, and just about enough. I hope you like it :)

"Do ghosts live on Peepul trees?" I ask, peering across the terrace into the hazy silhouette of a clump of trees far away. The winter sun trying its best to warm my bones against the chilly wind that plays with my messy hair. "Ghosts and Gods both." says my aunt knowingly as she pours me yet another cup of strong, milky tea. A mug, rather. I warm my numb fingers on it. I am cold. I'm in a village for all practical purposes. My phone does not work here, buffaloes sit lazily basking in the faded sun, children quarrel over a game of marbles, and a twenty-year-old misfit sips tea sitting on a cot.

Needless to say, this is not my natural habitat. For one, I can see the sky in all its sprawling, blue glory. Two birds skip off the draft and dive one after the other to swoop onto some unknowing prey. Somewhere, a rooster crows, which is quite odd for two o clock in the afternoon. Also odd for this time of the day is the cold that seeps through to my bones. I tell my aunt about life in the city. She listens wide-eyed. She cannot fathom the coldness of it all, the steel and glass prison that I work in, the dreadful fact that I know exactly how each day is going to be. She does not understand how free I feel here without my cell phone chaining me like an invisible umbilical cord, how clear the air here is without a thousand conversations riding the airwaves form tower to tower. All is well in my world though, as she pours me yet another cup of tea. I smile. Family.

As the clock strikes four, children start pouring into the terrace. My cousin sister, all of nineteen, is the neighbourhood teacher, a prestigious title earned through months of reading aloud the alphabet, teaching children to dot their i's and cross their t's and much red ink spread over her soft palms. The children eye me suspiciously. After a while they decide I'm no threat and a couple of them greet me. "Good Morning, Sir!" they say in that sing song chorus I used to be a part of, long back. I smile again.

This class is quite different from any I have seen. The children, aging from five to ten, do not sit still. They laugh and cry freely. They sing their lessons. Some are struggling to hold pencils while some are proud to be old enough to wield pens, prized possessions no doubt for those little fingers. It is, in a way, like an overgrown garden. Disordered and chaotic but oh, so beautiful.

One little boy stands out, though. There's something strange about him even in this scene which is none too familiar to me. He takes and exceptionally long time to write. I kneel next to him and peer into his notebook, bound with thread. All the words are misspelt, the letters are fractured,misshapen little creatures, and the boy's face is a mixture of confusion and terror. I look at my sister with concern. She nods silently and tells the class to write numeral to a hundred. She walks over to me and looks into his book. Then she looks at me, her eyes full of exasperation and silent despair. "There's something wrong with him." she says, the winter haze making its way into her voice. "He's just slow to learn. He's not too rich. His father was supposed to come see me today." She looks at him with sadness. He merely smiles as he squints into the sun. "Take care of him will you?" she says and leaves me with him.

I am now a helpless subject of the boy's scrutiny. he squints at me face, the winter sun giving me a halo. I try to smile, but it falters. This will not go well, I think. I need something to say, to engage his mind, so much more free than mine. "Do you like aeroplanes? I ask him , finding my saviour in a flash of supposed brilliance. "Planes." he says after a couple of seconds of incomprehension, his face lighting up. "Planes!" he says again, his hands tracing a flight path, cutting through the cold air. "Let's make one!" I say with poorly disguised relief and I tear out two pages from his notebook and give him one. I make the first folds quickly, my fingers using their own memory saved from eons ago when I used to fly. He sits there confused, his fingers not grasping the movements, ever so slightly out of his control. I repeat slowly. He follows this time. He laughs clearly as he does and the air is warmer, if only by a fraction.

As his small hands struggle to give life to the piece of paper, I see him deep in penance, wanting nothing more to bend the paper and his own limbs to his will. Ages pass by with me lost in the slow dance his fingers play with the paper, becoming more and more refined until he makes the final fold with all the grace of a finishing pirouette. As we walk to the boundary I silently pray that it flies well, to some unknown tree-dwelling deity, lord of planes and the winter wind.

The child blows into the paper plane in a ritual he is sure will lend it magical wings, and jumps slightly as he releases it into the vast, cold expanse of air.

And it flies majestically, circling us and riding a draft into a slow dive reminiscent of the two birds, then stalling, then diving again and continuing its graceful pirouette as the boy's wide eyes follow it in flight, even as he dives and stalls with the plane, no longer bound by his form, and having lived its short life with the grace of a dying star, the plane lands on a buffalo sitting some distance away. The animal merely grunts and goes promptly back to chewing its cud, a business more important than all the machinations of this world.

I look at him. He is laughing. He is in fits. "You did well." is all I can muster. I ruffle his hair gleaming brown in the sun, and he nods with twinkling eyes. I turn around to see an old man, whose eyes tell me he is the father. "He did well." I say weakly to him. He merely nods, other gestures being foreign to him. He picks the child up into his arms, never too weak for his son. Then he looks at me with a smile and moist eyes. I cannot look away. They are too deep for me to swim away.

My mind goes back five years when I had returned with my examination results to my father. "You could have done better." was all he had said. I remember sitting there under the same sun with the result sheep in my hand, a piece of paper that would never, ever fly.

I look at the child and his father again. It's not cold anymore. The wind stands still as if in respect, and for a moment the sun shines brighter.

Then it hits me .

The boy isn't broken.

I am.

I walk away silently and gaze across the open fields into infinity until my eyes are moist.

Perhaps it is just the cold wind.

Perhaps.

title: Broken

question: How does the narrator feel about being in the village?

answer: The narrator is in the village for practical reasons, rather than by choice or for leisure, but feels much more free than he does in the city, which is described as cold and monotonous. Being in the village with family brings him contentment.

question: How does the narrator's opinion of the boy change?

answer: When the narrator notices the boy is slow to learn, he is concerned, and seems overwhelmed when asked to watch over the boy by himself. He wants to engage the boy's mind and does so by teaching him to craft paper planes. He fears the boy's plane will fail, but after seeing it fly well and the boy's ailing father's pride in his son, the narrator turns his reflections from the boy to himself, comparing this loving father to his own, who always had high expectations. The boy and his father may have disabilities, but the narrator feels the most emotionally damaged.

question: Summarize the role of the buffalo.

answer: A paper plane lands on the buffalo and it responds by grunting and returning to chewing its cud.

question: What is the narrator's purpose in the village?


text:
The sand was blowing so hard it was difficult to see anything.  Even the tanks parked just a few feet away seemed insubstantial. The goggles I wore did little to keep the sand out.  I felt filthy.  My eyes ached and felt as if they could produce no more tears. My hands and all other exposed skin were raw and tender from the biting sand. I huddled in as close as I could to my battle buddy, Mike.  Outer discomfort was only part of the reason we kept so close to each other.  Fear dictated most of our actions. The need to hold on to something familiar. Mark and I had become good friends during our training. Our shared struggles in infantry and airborne schools had developed a trust that only deepened when we both washed out of the Ranger Indoctrination Program. Our faith in each other had become the only stable thing we had. Training was over and we were going to war.

We stood in that storm for what felt like hours before a wiry man stepped up to us and shouted in our ears to be heard over the wind “you fags follow me!”

Unquestioningly, Mark and I did as we were told and were lead through the sandblaster to a small tent where we could wait out the storm. As the storm failed we found that a meal and some water had been left for us. We had not had anything to eat or drink since landing in Kuwait at least sixteen hours prior to arriving at our little tent. Our hunger and thirst helped make short work of the food and water, but as we finished a wave of nausea washed over me and I ran outside to purge myself in the sand.

 “Why do I always throw up when I’m nervous?” I asked Mark after rinsing the bile from my mouth.
“I don’t know” he shrugged.
“That’s just the faggot coming out of you” barked a deep nasally voice with a hint of a southern drawl.

Mark and I both turned to the speaker ready to throw insults back in return.  Fortunately for us, our eyes were quicker than our tongues, and our words never quite reached the air. We both snapped-to upon seeing the same wiry soldier who had shown us to our tent.  Without the sand swirling between us we could clearly see the stripes on his collar.

“You privates want to say something?” he asked.
“No, First Sargeant.” we replied in unison.
“Good” said the First Sargeant.  “You two see that group of vehicles circled up about four yards to your twelve o’clock?”
“Roger, First Sargeant”
“Then double time over there and report to Lieutenant Black.”
 “And for fuck sake don’t salute” he yelled at our backs as we hurried off to follow his instructions.

We found Lieutenant Black playing spades in the back of a Bradley. He did not acknowledge our presence until he and the other soldiers with him had finished their hand. When he finally did look up he pointed at Mark and said “you first.”
“PFC Mark Strunk reporting for duty, sir” Mark replied.
“Sound like stump” grunted one of the soldiers who had been playing cards.
“Where you from Strunk” asked the Lieutenant
“Denver, Colorado, Sir.”
“Good. And who is this turd with you?”
Barely recognizing my cue, I stumbled over both my feet and my words and said “PFC Brandon McNair reporting for duty, sir.

“Alright, listen close Stumpy and Mcturd.” Said Lieutenant Black “The president is going to declare war any day now.  We are currently sitting less than a mile from the border. When he does declare war we are to be the point of the spear going into Iraq. You two are a liability to me. We don’t have time to train you up on unit SOP and I won’t have you getting someone killed by being in the way. So what that means to you is stay on the hip of the team leader I assign to you, keep your head down, and do what you are told.”

To be continued...

title: Stormcoming

question: Summarize what the narrator is preparing for.

answer: The narrator is PFC Brandon McNair, training was over and they were preparing to go to war. The trainees had landed in Kuwait awaiting on the president's declaration of war. They were a mile from the Iraq border and were being instructed by Lieutenant Black to stay close to the team leader assigned as McNair was considered a liability.