text: I, am the lord of all things and none. Follow me if you will. I have seen everything and nothing. Known all and none. In the beginning there was the end and all there ever was will be again. I have walked long roads and seen tall mountains. I have burnt into the depths of the Earth and broken the glaciers of the North. I know your despair. I know the demon that haunts you. Follow me into the void and I will be your light. I will be the hand that finds you in the darkness. I will come when no one will. Follow me. I am the lord of all things and none. I am the Lord of Life. Follow me to Death's door and knock unafraid because you know I am with you. I am always with you. I am all life. Death, is none. Follow me into the light or join him in darkness. I will rake the legions of Death over the Sun and Stars and settle them in Oblivion. Follow me and we will build a kingdom on their ashes. Follow me or be thrown to them. I am the lord of all things and none. And the time to live is now.

title: The King of All and Nothing

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: The narrator is the self-proclaimed lord of all things and none.

question: What does the narrator promise to do?

answer: The narrator promises to lead the person they are addressing into the light. They promise to destroy the legions of death and build a kingdom on their ashes.

question: Who is the narrator addressing?

answer: That is unclear.

question: What is the significance of the story's title?

answer: The piece is narrated by an individual who claims that they are the King of All and Nothing.

question: Write a ~2 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator, the self-proclaimed King of All and Nothing, urges you to follow him into the light. He promises to vanquish the legions of Death and build a kingdom in their ashes.


split: train

text:
Billy, Danny, and Michael, all students in Mr. Yeard’s third grade class, sat outside for lunch on the far picnic table in the courtyard, where they were approached by an out-of-solar-system guest, Yarou, who asked to join them. The kids kindly accepted his request and offered to share their lunches. Yarou graciously took half of the sandwich that Billy was straining to hold up above his head.

“Thank you very much. You are very kind,” he said. His voice was light in delivery and high in pitch but easily understandable. Yarou took a bite and a single chew. He suddenly froze and immediately spit the food out of his mouth and onto the table.
“What is in that food you gave me!?” Yarou yelled, raising his voice.
Billy, having brought his sandwich up to his open mouth, slowly lowered it and placed it on the table. He looked up at Yarou’s glaring eyes, which had begun to glow.
“That is a turkey sandwich,” Billy replied, starting to shake.
“What is turkey?” Yarou yelled again. Billy stared back, not knowing how to answer the question. Steam began to emerge from the pores on Yarou’s face. “Is it a plant? A tree? A species? A seed?” Yarou’s voice became louder and more threatening. The three boys were staring at the table, trying not to make eye contact.
“It’s a bird,” Billy said, almost crying.
Yarou walked over behind Billy, who still refused to look up. Yarou’s eyes were now bright red and steam flew from his face at a staggering rate. He raised his right arm and violently came down on Billy’s head with a thundering crack. In an instant, Billy’s body went limp and fell to the ground, after which Yarou proceeded to step on him. After several powerful kicks and stomps, Yarou looked up at Danny and Michael. His eyes dimmed in color, and the steam lessened. Then he spoke.
“Killing is wrong, especially for food. Let this be a lesson to you.”
Danny and Michael began to cry.

title: Lunch with Yarou (340 words)

question: Who is Yarou?

answer: Yarou is an alien from outer space.

question: Who says, "Thank you very much. You are very kind."?

answer: Yarou.

question: Why do Danny and Michael cry?

answer: Because Yarou becomes upset after realizing Billy gave him a turkey sandwich to eat. He apparently kills Billy.

question: What is the lesson learned?

answer: Killing is wrong, especially for food.

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: Danny, Billy, and Michael are eating lunch when an alien approaches. They offer to share their lunch with him. Yarou becomes upset after realizing Billy gave him a turkey sandwich to eat. He apparently kills Billy, then says that killing is wrong, especially for food.


text:
BETH LORD (born 1976) is a Canadian philosopher specialising in the history of philosophy, especially the work and influence of Immanuel Kant and Baruch Spinoza, and contemporary Continental philosophy. She is currently a Professor in the School of Divinity, History and Philosophy at the University of Aberdeen, where she has worked since 2013.

Education and career

Lord was raised in Ontario, and initially studied at the University of Toronto. She intended to study drama, but graduated with a degree in Philosophy and Literary Studies. She went on to the University of Warwick, where she read for an MA in Continental Philosophy and then a doctorate.[1] Her doctoral thesis, which was supervised initially by Andrew Benjamin and then by Stephen Houlgate, was entitled _Kant's Productive Ontology: Knowledge, Nature and the Meaning of Being_. In the thesis, Lord argues that Kant's ontology is a “productive ontology”; i.e., a theory which rests upon an idea of production.[2] Lord completed her doctorate in 2004.[3] In the same year, she started a permanent position in the philosophy department at the University of Dundee.[4][5]

In 2010, with funding from the Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC), Lord founded the Spinoza Research Network, of which she remains the director.[6][7] In the same year, she published _Spinoza's Ethics: An Edinburgh Philosophical Guide_ (Edinburgh University Press), a study aid for Spinoza's _Ethics_ (1677).[8] The following year, she published _Kant and Spinozism: Transcendental Idealism and Immanence from Jacobi to Deleuze_ (Palgrave Macmillan), in which she examined the work of Johann Gottfried Herder, Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi, Salomon Maimon and Gilles Deleuze, all of whom, she argues, drew upon both Kant's transcendental idealism and Spinoza's immanence. For Lord, Spinoza's thought is key to understanding the influence of Kantian ideas.[9][10][11] In addition to publishing these books, Lord co-edited _The Continuum Companion to Continental Philosophy_ (Continuum, 2010, later republished as _The Bloomsbury Companion to Continental Philosophy_) with John Ó Maoilearca[12] and was the sole editor of _Spinoza Beyond Philosophy_ (Edinburgh University Press, 2012).[13]

Lord left Dundee in 2012, starting at the University of Aberdeen in January 2013,[14] where she led the AHRC-funded Equalities of Wellbeing project.[15][16] As of 2019, she is a professor in the School of Divinity, History and Philosophy at Aberdeen,[17] and is serving as the secretary of the British Society for the History of Philosophy[18] and the chair of the Society for European Philosophy.[19]

Select bibliography

-   Mullarkey, John, and Beth Lord, eds. (2009). _The Continuum Companion to Continental Philosophy_. London: Continuum.
-   Lord, Beth (2010). _Spinoza's Ethics: An Edinburgh Philosophical Guide_. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.
-   Lord, Beth (2011). _Kant and Spinozism: Transcendental Idealism and Immanence from Jacobi to Deleuze_. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.
-   Lord, Beth, ed. (2012). _Spinoza Beyond Philosophy_. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

[1] Protevi, John (11 April 2012). “New APPS Interview: Beth Lord”. New APPS. Accessed 21 December 2016.

[2] Lord, Beth (2003) _Kant's Productive Ontology: Knowledge, Nature and the Meaning of Being_. PhD thesis, University of Warwick.

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7] “About the Spinoza Research Network”. Spinoza Research Network. Accessed 21 December 2016.

[8] Lord, Beth (2011). _Spinoza's Ethics: An Edinburgh Philosophical Guide_. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

[9] Davies, Paul (2012). “Kant and Spinozism: Transcendental Idealism and Immanence from Jacobi to Deleuze”. _Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews_ 4 (13).

[10] Somers-Hall, Henry (2014). “_Kant and Spinozism_”. _Kant Studies Online_ 2014: 160-9.

[11] Boehm, Omri (2012). “_Kant and Spinozism: Trancendental Idealism and Immanence from Jacobi to Deleuze_”. _British Journal for the History of Philosophy_ 20 (5): 1041-5. .

[12] Mitscherling, Jeff (2013). “_The Continuum Companion to Continental Philosophy_”. _The European Legacy_ 19 (1): 125-6..

[13] Gatens, Moira (2013). "[ndpr.nd.edu/news/38755-spinoza-beyond-philosophy/ Spinoza Beyond Philosophy]''. _Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews_ 4 (2).

[14]

[15] “People”. Equalities of Wellbeing. Accessed 21 December 2016.

[16]

[17]

[18] “The BSHP Management Committee”. British Society for the History of Philosophy. Accessed 21 December 2016.

[19] “About”. Society for European Philosophy. Accessed 21 December 2016.

title: Beth Lord

question: Who is Beth Lord?

answer: A Canadian Philosopher.

question: What does Beth Lord specialize in?

answer: In the history of philosophy, the work and influence of Immanuel Kant and Baruch Spinoza.

question: Where does Beth Lord work?

answer: She is a professor in the School of Divinity and History & Philosophy at the University of Aberdeen.

question: Summarize Beth Lord's education background.

answer: At the University of Toronto she intended to study drama but graduated with a degree in Philosophy and Literary Studies. At the University of Warwick, she pursued an MA in Continental Philosophy and then a doctorate.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: Beth Lord is a Canadian Philosopher specializing in the work and influence of Immanuel Kant and Baruch Spinoza. After receiving her MA and doctorate from the University of Warwick she became a professor in the School of Divinity. She also teaches History and Philosophy at the University of Aberdeen.


text:
It had been cold ever since i saw the newsman tell me it was cold. I wonder how he always knew it was my birthday? Ever since my last birthday I've noticed he'd tell me all about my day would go. would it be Sunny? Would it be rainy? Was there a 10 car pile up on the Pilldon Rd.? No, but i wouldnt know that when I got in my car on My Last Birthday.

You know birthdays are something you take and go with, like a pat on the back or a kiss on the tongue in the cheek. you cant always have a birthday, but when you do, boy its a day all right. no one ever expects to die on their birthday, but neither do some ones. foreshadowing is a subtle artform, like predicting the weather. also every famous person ever died on their birthday.

And with that, I woke up. Dreams are like words except abstract, kind of like birthdays. I knew today would be the best birthday ever, but would it be the last? I looked up at my ceiling fan watch.

"Half-past-birthday?"

"Oh no i better get ready for my party at the Birthday Party Emporium, right off Pilldon Rd." I said with a confident haze of enjoyment streaking across the night sky that was my face.

"Computer, hold my calls" and with that I began my birthday rituals, and after I finished draining my blood, I started getting ready for my birthday.

I sat down in the for the cathy ray tubivision fully dressed and with a bowl of corporate culture on the table in front of me, i was ready to hear my first birthday wishing-well of the day (from the weatherman remember?)

"warning there will be a pile up at -" and then i noticed the ticker at the bottom of the screen. its quarter-past a birthday. i hated to break tradition but i had to go. "i'll make it up to you next year weatherman" i said winking at the tubivision with coy birthday joy.

I hopped in the front seat of my carwagon and proceeded to my destination (Pilldon Rd.). There wasnt much traffic, which was odd. It was almost like 9 cars were missing from the road.

I turned right onto Pilldon Rd. It was  9 car pileup. I realized I was the 10th car. I wish I could say my entire life flashed before my eyes or I had some profound realization as I blew out my candles for the last time, but since I just told you it wont come true.

"In recent weather news, the 10 car pile up happened ... it turns out there was a birthdayman involved. Happy birthday to him."

Fact: 100% of important people die on their birthdays.

title: [Fiction] The Last Birthday

question: Where was the pile up alluded to before the narrator became a part of it?

answer: It was mentioned by the weatherman.

question: Why is the narrator draining his blood?

answer: It is unclear why he is draining his blood.

question: At what moment did the narrator realize he may die?

answer: As he turned onto Pilldon Rd

question: Where is the narrator's destination?

answer: The Birthday Party Emporium on Pilldon Rd.

question: Write a ~5 sentence summary.

answer: It is the narrator's birthday. Usually the newsman knows and lets him know how his day will go. When the narrator watches the news today, a pile  up of cars in mentioned, but the narrator takes the tubivision off to head to the Birthday Party Emporium. As he turns onto the road, he realizes that he is about to become a part of the pile up. He dies on his birthday.


text:
**Seven.**

Anna had just turned seven when she first discovered she had the ability to impose stasis on objects she willed so.

She had received a lava lamp from her father, a thing she had made space for on her study table, to be placed in between her reading lamp and the stuffed bear. She had wanted one since everyone could remember. Cake and ice cream were ignored as she ran up the stairs to her room, two steps at a time.

As Anna pushed her door open, however, she felt the lava lamp slip from her small hands and it began to fall. She quickly understood that her new treasure; her prize and fortune — as children consider things such — was to meet the wooden floor boards and, consequently, break. Her young mind reeled from realization, to the utter horror of it, and to the sheer sadness of losing something that was hers for such a short while.

She could not decide whether to berate herself for her clumsiness or the unnecessary celerity, feeling tears welling up. She watched uselessly as the lamp fell, and fell, and fell some more. She did not mean for it to happen, and she did not think it fair. She did not want the lamp to hit the floor.

Then it stopped.

Anna wiped her eyes as she stared at the lava lamp. She smiled.

She sat before the lamp, and studied it. It hung suspended in the air and flickered, as if a television image that suffered from bad reception. The blobs of blue and red wax within ceased to float around as it should. Amongst the noises of her family downstairs, she could hear the faint drone of static. The flickering and sound disappeared as she plucked the lava lamp from the air. Then the world around her turned black.

Anna had collapsed from fatigue, the doctor said, and for the next two days, she remained in bed.

title: The Story of the Once Called Stasis Girl pt.1

question: How did Anna gain the ability to impose stasis on objects?

answer: This information is not found.

question: Is there a way that Anna can use her ability to her benefit?

answer: Yes, according to the story, she uses her ability to stop a lava lamp from falling on the floor. It may be implied that she could use this ability to her benefit even in the future.

question: Could Anna misuse her ability?

answer: It may be implied that Anna would be able to misuse her ability, although as far as the story is concerned she hasn't misused it yet.

question: What could possibly be the outcome if Anna were to put her ability to the wrong use?

answer: It may be implied that since her ability to impose stasis came out of the blue, similarly if she was to misuse the ability her power could be completely withdrawn from her.

question: Is Anna's family aware of her power?

answer: This information can't be found.


text:
The 249TH AIRLIFT SQUADRON is an inactive unit of the Alaska Air National Guard, formerly located at Joint Base Elmendorf–Richardson, Alaska and assigned to the 176th Wing. The 249th was an associate unit of the 517th Airlift Squadron, which was equipped with the Boeing C-17 Globemaster III.

Mission

The 249th's mission was strategic airlift of troops and cargo to main operating bases or forward locations worldwide. It also conducted theater airlift, aeromedical evacuation and tactical airdrop missions. Tactics to accomplish the mission include air refueling, low-level contour navigation and use of night vision goggles. Its crews mix with crews from the active-duty Air Force 517th Airlift Squadron to fly eight Boeing C-17 Globemaster III jets around the world. In the event of mobilization the squadron would become an element of Pacific Air Forces.[1]

History

In association with the 517th, the Alaska Air National Guard established a detachment of the 176th Operations Group in 2007 to fly airlift missions. The detachment was organized under the “classic” association model in which the 517th retained principal responsibility for the aircraft flown. Although the 517th and the detachment were administratively separate, they were operationally and functionally integrated for performance of missions.[2] Missions flown by the detachment included combat missions in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom in mid-summer of 2007.

On 1 September 2009, with the expansion of the mission, the 249TH AIRLIFT SQUADRON was activated and absorbed the personnel and mission of the detachment. The squadron achieved initial operational capability sixteen days later.[3]

Following the January 2010 Haiti earthquake members of the 249th and three C-17s deployed to Jackson Air National Guard Base to fly cargo and relief assistance personnel to the destroyed areas of Haiti. At Jackson, they integrated with the 183rd Airlift Squadron of the Mississippi Air National Guard. Squadron members flew equipment like fire trucks and fork lifts into Haiti, while evacuating more than 800 refugees on the return trips.[4] In July of that same year, a C-17 flown by a joint crew of the 249th and 517th crashed while practicing for an airshow, killing the four crewmembers aboard the plane.[5]

In the fall of 2011, the squadron once again participated in a major disaster relief operation, when it transported Sikorsky HH-60 Pave Hawk helicopters of the 176th Group to the northeastern United States to assist in recover from Hurricane Irene.[6]

In 2017, the 144th Airlift Squadron, the oldest flying squadron in the Alaska Air National Guard transferred its Lockheed C-130 Hercules aircraft. In order to maintain the 144th as an active unit, the 249th was inactivated and its personnel and equipment were transferred to the 144th in August 2018.[7]

Lineage

-   Established as the 249TH AIRLIFT SQUADRON and allotted to the Alaska Air National Guard

    Activated on 1 September 2009[8]
    Inactivated c. 4 August 2018[9]

Assignments

-   176th Operations Group, 1 September 2009 – c. 4 August 2018[10][11]

Stations

-   Kulis Air National Guard Base, Alaska, 1 September 2009

    Joint Base Elmendorf–Richardson, Alaska, 18 February 2011 – c. 4 August 2018[12][13]

Aircraft

-   Boeing C-17 Globemaster III, 2007–2018[14]

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

[12]

[13]

[14] The aircraft flown by the 249th were assigned to the 517th Airlift Squadron of the 3d Wing. It was not assigned aircraft of its own.

title: 249th Airlift Squadron

question: Summarize the operational history of the 249th Airlift Squadron.

answer: The 249th Airlift Squadron, established by the Alaskan National Guard as a detachment of the 176th Operations Group, was associated with the 517th, who had the principal responsibility. They flew combat missions supporting the Operations Iraqi Freedom and Enduring Freedom in 2007. The Squadron became active and operationally capable in 2009. They flew relief missions after the Haiti earthquake in January 2010. They flew another relief mission in 2011, assisting the recovery efforts from Hurricane Irene. The Squadron was deactivated and absorbed into the 144th Airlift Squadron to keep it active in 2018.

question: What does the article say about air vs sea warfare?


text:
Two weekends ago, after Beyoncé released a mythologically forceful visual album that attached the most significant art of her career to the narrative of her husband Jay Z cheating on her with a woman she called “Becky with the good hair,” the fashion designer Rachel Roy—presumably operating of her own volition—inserted herself in that narrative by posting an Instagram with a caption that read, in part, “Good hair don’t care.” When the typically extra Beyhive spammed her with comments and bright yellow emojis, Roy deleted the post. Afterward, she called the response to her caption “bullying.”

“Bullying” describes a situation in which powerful people intimidate a less powerful person about something that the person in question cannot control. Properly used, the word does not apply to Rachel Roy’s situation at all. She might have expected the response her caption elicited, and not just the part where public ire fell harder on her, the presumed other woman who talked about it, than on Jay, the man who cheated on his wife and did not. Specifically, she’d already experienced the scrutiny of these exact circumstances before: Roy had been made out as the woman for whom the dog would step out on Beyoncé, in “Elevatorgate,” in 2014.

This of course was the incident when Solange roundhouse-kicked Jay Z on camera in an elevator after the Met Ball, allegedly because Roy—a former Rocawear designer and the ex-wife of Dame Dash, Jay’s former best friend—was “hovering” too near Jay Z at the afterparty. In the story reported to the press, Solange confronted Roy first; Roy gave it back to Solange, then left to go to the club Up & Down; Jay Z said he would follow, though Beyoncé was going home. Then the grainy footage, the purse swinging, the impervious queen, the sister’s wild-eyed video-game kick.

Afterwards, Roy’s name was all over the place; the story stayed in the news for months. Having even vague knowledge of the incident—let alone being at the center of it—meant that you could not possibly thereafter underestimate how intensely the public responds to any glimpse of irregularity in the life of a pop star like Beyoncé, whose image is fascistically controlled. Roy may not have thought through what she was doing (or the racial implications of asserting “good hair” in this context). But I wouldn’t demean her by suggesting she’d have been surprised by what came next, which was the Beyhive—a slightly more benign version of any name-brand online mob—swarming her comments, editing her Wikipedia, calling her messy and attention-hungry (the lie is nowhere)—but mostly, as trolls do, performing for and entertaining themselves.

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The day after she put up the Instagram, Roy tweeted, “I respect love, marriages, families and strength. What shouldn’t be tolerated by anyone, no matter what, is bullying, of any kind.” Her use of the word “bullying” was reinforced and repeated by most outlets that wrote about the developing gossip, including Jezebel, and the term was used interchangeably—as it is very often these days—with “harassment” as well as “abuse.” Last Tuesday, _People_ published a statement from Roy saying, again, that the “real issue” was cyberbullying:

  Online haters have targeted me and my daughters in a hurtful and scary manner, including physical threats. As a mother – and I know many mothers would agree – I feel that bullying in any form is harmful and unacceptable. I would hope that the media sees the real issue here – the issue of cyber bullying – and how it should not be tolerated by anyone.

But I know from online haters, and it seems to me that the “real issue” is never “cyberbullying” as much as it is the specific (and more interesting) circumstances of every case at hand. For example, when my colleague Julianne had a horde of Gamergaters in her mentions two weeks ago because the feminist critic Anita Sarkeesian had linked to her article about Prince, the issue was not “cyberbullying” but reactionary gender politics, the video game industry, the ongoing campaign against Sarkeesian, and the fragile psyches of men. When Jewish journalist Julia Ioffe profiled Melania Trump for _GQ_ last week and subsequently found herself with Trump trolls tweeting Holocaust jokes and imagery at her—something that my colleague Anna has been experiencing for months—the issue wasn’t cyberbullying as much as it was sexism and anti-Semitism and the way Trump has encouraged bald discrimination at every turn.

If there’s ever a general issue at play in these instances, it’s deeper than cyberbullying, and it’s more than either half of that word. Rachel Roy getting called a “dusty side hoe” after she tried to come for Beyoncé is no more about online platforms than a fight in a schoolyard is about that school; it’s not ultimately about “bullying,” either, particularly not in this case, as you cannot be bullied by someone less powerful than you. But Rachel Roy did something canny, something a lot of people are learning to do these days: she identified her opposition incorrectly, by a word that everyone feels automatically obligated to oppose. If you are against bullying, which, of course you are—then you must be for Rachel Roy.

Luckily, this particular misuse of the word is blatant enough that the underlying truth becomes clearer: that the real issue is much more complicated than bullying—that, as always, the problem is _people_, a group that includes you and me and all our bad behavior. The problem is the way we learn to assert our interests over one another, the way we cheat on our partners, or gossip about that cheating, or gang up on someone for the fun of it, or make people believe that everything personal needs to be worked out in public when probably not much needs to be that way at all.

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

In March of this year, a blogger named Ella Dawson who writes most frequently about having herpes and working to de-stigmatize it (her three-sentence professional bio on her website reads, in part, “She got genital herpes and just kind of ran with it, professionally speaking”) drew widespread media attention after a journalist trying out the platform Genius annotated one of her blog posts.

In a follow-up post called “How News Genius Silences Writers,” Dawson acknowledged that the annotation itself did not contain abusive content. (Though, as Dawson is not a major public figure, Sara Morrison’s decision to annotate her personal writing about herpes did qualify as punching down.) She then called the platform “worse than Twitter,” because it lacked a block button, and spoke up against its “high potential for abuse.”

Since then, Genius has added a “report abuse” button to all of its annotations, which is smart and necessary; otherwise, the annotation technology remains the same. It’s still relatively new. The company’s core technology, originally intended for crowdsourcing annotations to rap lyrics, now allows any Genius user to put a prefix before an existing page that will then make that website annotatable; the result is a portable, standardized, line-by-line comments section on most any website, which some have compared to graffiti, others to footnoting.

Comments sections (as Rachel Roy or any individual who has ever been on the internet can tell you) are unlawful. They are open for people to respond essentially however they want to, and people (as Rachel Roy or any individual who has ever been on the internet can tell you) tend to be bad. For a prolonged and then publicized period, Jezebel writers were once inundated by rape gifs at their digital workplace; we are all still well-acquainted with the major bad-comment genres, the ones that are virulently racist or aggressively sexist, that comment on our faces, our ethnicities, our subhuman intelligence levels, our personal lives as cobbled together by our writing, our likelihood to be assaulted, etc.

However, those conditions aren’t comments-section-specific. They hold (if to a blessedly lesser degree) in my inbox, and on social media, too. In other words, the Genius tool is not a revolutionary intrusion. It is notable mainly because it is visually startling upon first encounter, laying commentary directly onto your piece. It is, also, crucially, opt-in. You have to click a Genius-prefixed link to see an annotation, the same way that I would have to make myself a Google alert to see what some conservative blogger thinks of my writing, or read Get Off My Internets to see what some barnacle thinks about my personality, or read Ripfork, an annotation site of sorts, to see what some bitter man thinks when I write a Pitchfork review.

Essentially, what Dawson wrote about the platform’s abuse potential was equally applicable to the Internet itself:

  When you create a tool that pastes commentary directly on top of my work without letting me opt-in and without providing a way for people to turn off the annotation on their pages, you are being irresponsible. You are ignoring the potential your tool has to be abused, and you are not anticipating the real harm your tool can do. News Genius adds one more way for people on the Internet to be made unsafe. The potential it has to intimidate and silence marginalized voices needs to be recognized.

She continued: “A tool that allows my abusive ex-boyfriend to interact with me and my content is a tool that should not exist.”

That _is_ true, in a sort of abstractly ideal-moral sense. But in practice, it’s fatalistic and mostly impossible. (And here’s what always bothers me about extreme attention to the granular symptom: it often lets the cause, which here is the ex-boyfriend and the system that produced him, off the sharpest point of the hook.) By that definition, if we want to ban any tool that allows my abusive ex-boyfriend to interact with me and my content, we would also ban email, social media, working in an outward-facing industry, and being physically present in public spaces in the world.

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

What we’re dealing with, in this new rhetoric about bullying and abuse, is a good, generous and necessary moral impulse: the impulse to account for power, and to understand and compensate for the fact that life in America has been so terrible, for so many people, for so long. But when a word enters the public conversation, its meaning gets inevitably diluted. “Bullying” and “abuse” still denote things of life-and-death importance, but that fact is obscured by our growing practice of looking at points on the same spectrum and then collapsing that spectrum—of effectively using these words to mean whatever we want.

Last week, Heather Havrilesky, at the _New York Times Magazine_, wroteabout how objectively powerful people have now begun to deploy the term “bully.” For one example, last month, lawmakers in discrimination-forward North Carolina said last month that Bruce Springsteen’s boycott was a bullying tactic, and:

  A few days later, a (white) North Charleston, S.C., police chief refused to attend a community meeting on the one-year anniversary of the death of Walter Scott because of what he called the “bullying tactics” of its (black) members at previous meetings. Last September, Kylie Jenner, a reality star worth millions, claimed that she was being cyberbullied by commenters on social media. In 2009, the blogger Heather Armstrong tweeted that no one should buy a Maytag washer because of what she called the company’s inadequate response to her broken appliance, and onlookers on Twitter accused her of bullying Whirlpool, the company’s $19 billion parent corporation.

So, people think you can bully a corporation. And in fact, the only example I can think of—of a corporation being anything close to bullied—deployed the fake weight of the word “bullying” itself.

The wild dilution of the idea of bullying is an example of what Australian psychology professor named Nick Haslam calls “concept creep.” In April, Conor Friedersdorf wrote about concept creep at _The_ _Atlantic_, going into detail about the ways that social progress has made us, for both good and ill, increasingly sensitized to the ways bad things are done to people. He quotes Haslam: concept creep is a phenomenon that exists in the interest of equality, “align[ing ]with a liberal social agenda by defining new kinds of experience as harming and new classes of people as harmed.”

And so “bullying” gets expanded as a concept, and we get the overdue and very correct idea that (for example) when a high school starts widely sharing nude photos taken of a girl while she was unconscious, it is bullying, properly, rather than just the way things are. This is “an entirely beneficial sign of moral progress,” writes Haslam. “It defines previously tolerated forms of abusive, domineering, and discriminatory behavior as problematic, and extends professional care to people who experience adversity.”

But, then, there’s a flip side: Concept creep, in “applying concepts of abuse, bullying, and trauma to less severe and clearly defined actions and events, and by increasingly including subjective elements into them,” may lead to a “flood of unjustified accusations” (one example here may be hot teenage millionaire Kylie Jenner earnestly saying she’s been a victim of bullying all her life) or “excessive and disproportionate enforcement regimes” (another, milder example being, say, a blogger writing 1,600 words about how Genius silences bloggers, or a Congresswoman requesting action against abuse that was already prohibited and had not yet even occurred).

“Concept creep,” Haslam wrote, “can produce a kind of semantic dilution.”

  If a concept expands to encompass less extreme phenomena... then its prototypical meaning is likely to shift... If trauma, for example, ceases to refer exclusively to terrifying events that are outside normal human experience, and is applied to less severe and more prevalent stresses, it will come to be seen in a more benign light.

This is one of the most dangerous political powers we hold in language—that of misusing a word that’s meant to identify a vitally important phenomenon, and obscuring the true nature of that phenomenon as a result. If we believe that violence is important—if we believe that bullying, harassment, and abuse refer to harmful things that are important to identify clearly—it is within our best interest to watch these definitions, to be careful not to think of them as words that, because of our concern for other people and their unknowable experiences, simply _cannot_ be misused.

And yes, we’re talking about fine distinctions. Harm is personal, and so it’s subjective; it’s in the eye, the body, the heart and the mind of the harmed. But this doesn’t mean that the best option is to regress to the point of maximum fear and caution, as Dawson seemed to say to Slate. “The lines between annotating and questioning, questioning and invalidating, invalidating and silencing are unclear in the best of circumstances,” she told them. Even taking that as true—which I don’t personally—wouldn’t the goal be to make these lines clearer? Don’t the terms of every case, of every power relationship, clarify the difference between criticism and silencing? Isn’t protection an abstract idea unless harm is understood concretely?

It is more interesting and more helpful, I think, to consider any case specifically, than to speak in broad categories: to look at what’s actually happening, as the Guardian is doing, rather than what hypothetically might. On her blog, Ella Dawson’s comment moderation policy reads: “Comments that are disrespectful, hostile, or have the potential to harm readers will not be posted. Ask yourself this: would my comment be dangerous to a newly diagnosed, potentially suicidal teenager? Then it won’t appear here.”

This is the ideal standard for some people. (My ideal comment moderation policy/mode of online discourse would be to say anything you want to me as long as you’d have the guts to say it to my face.) But to me, when we’re talking about danger, there’s too much “is” for a “would” to be so prominent. Remove all the hypothetical harm and there’s still plenty to be dealt with, and it probably should be dealt with first.

In a new piece at _Harper’s_, Rebecca Solnit writes about an attitude she calls “naive cynicism,” a style of engagement that “bleeds the sense of possibility and maybe the sense of responsibility out of people,” that relies on the “heavy artillery of grim confidence.” She’s not writing about speech in that essay—she’s writing about the type of liberal ideology that dismisses Occupy for being imperfect, for example—but see if the motion is recognizable here:

  [Naïve cynicism] is a relentless pursuit of certainty and clarity in a world that generally offers neither, a desire to shove nuances and complexities into clear-cut binaries. Naïve cynicism concerns me because it flattens out the past and the future, and because it reduces the motivation to participate in public life, public discourse, and even intelligent conversation that distinguishes shades of gray, ambiguities and ambivalences, uncertainties, unknowns, and opportunities. Instead, we conduct our conversations like wars, and the heavy artillery of grim confidence is the weapon many reach for.

  [...] Naïve cynicism is absolutist; its practitioners assume that anything you don’t deplore you wholeheartedly endorse. But denouncing anything less than perfection as morally compromising means pursuing aggrandizement of the self, not engagement with a place or system or community, as the highest priority.

In other words, there’s a type of conviction that makes a person avoidant—and there’s nothing we love to feel convicted about more than the idea that everything we’ve done is right. It is tempting to oversimplify reality in the interest of a stance against which everything else will necessarily fall short, leaving us victorious. And there, suddenly, is the temptation to think that if people criticize us sharply, they are _abusing_ us; that if they call us names, we are being _bullied_, no matter the material circumstances, no matter what.

I’m not saying we have an obligation to take the shit, either. Just that we shouldn’t kid ourselves about why. When I block someone on Twitter, I’m reacting to a large, flawed system that made anonymous men feel like I’d care what they think of me. What I’m doing, though, is not laudable in itself. We cannot be avoidant on first principle; we are not, on principle, above the effort, the knowledge, the fight.

And anyway, back to the fun of comment moderation: if we rule out what has _potential_ to be dangerous, we rule out everything. It’s like we’ve wandered into a forest and deduced that some growth within it is poisonous. If we were practical, if we really did care about community, we’d retrace our steps, look at patterns, concern ourselves with identification and prevention, burning and regrowth. If we were impractical, or primarily concerned with ourselves, however—we’d call up _People_ and say “the real issue is poison,” or else we’d sit in the forest feeling put-upon and then burn down all the trees.

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

At this moment there are two contradictory, devilish trends in play. First, there’s the aforementioned expanding definition of words like violence and bullying, which has done a lot of good on the one hand and on the other made a victim out of the very important concept of victimhood. Imagine a circle of people who understand that something quite bad has been done to them; imagine the boundaries of that circle going out to contain sexual assault victims, and overweight teenagers who get told every day that they’re garbage, and people in minority groups who can’t get a good mortgage—good, we’re on track—and then, horribly, to contain Kylie Jenner, the lawmakers who fear trans people in bathrooms, the publicly charged rapists that email Jezebel asking that we remove their names from our blog posts, and Donald Trump.

Second, and just as troubling, is the contracting definition of what it means to be a shithead. This is enabled by the growing acceptance that success in a creative field is inextricable from a flood of commentary that you didn’t ask for, as well as by the new types of micro-focused mob behavior that is possible online. If you believe very strongly in what you are doing—stanning for Beyoncé, “setting the record straight” on some candidate, sending death threats, telling some woman writer exactly how stupid feminism really is—then you will find out there a community to support you, to echo you, to reinforce you, to tell you to find someone _on their own territory_ and stick a megaphone up your asshole and fart in their ear. Many people who would never, ever do this in the real world—who would never have the indecent courage to approach someone in their physical space and verbally threaten them—have been encouraged to engage in some version of this on the internet. And so the goalposts of egregiousness get moved, and moved again.

The result is a mutual escalation that has erased proportionality—that has put the same word in the mouths of both Rachel Roy, who has a bad Instagram now, and the three girls in Norman, Oklahoma, who were raped by the same teenage monster and taunted about it, over and over, at school. The result is a situation that has made me and my colleagues nearly completely numb, because we know about the woman who got dragged out of a bathroom because police didn’t think she was a woman; the State Department employee who’s used his position to phish, stalk and blackmail hundreds of women; the classical violinist who received thousands of messages filled with racial slurs and calls for her to abort her unborn children; the art curator who receives hundreds and hundreds of death threats and tit-obsessed letters from her stalker and can’t get the police case going; the Ellen Pao case; the sexual harassment problem at Berkeley; the death threats against abortion providers; the absolute inability of police departments to take online threats seriously; the teenagers who used the Ice Bucket challenge to dump feces on an autistic child’s head; the teen who committed suicide after a video of him masturbating became public; and on and on and on. And because we _know_, because of our jobs, what it really looks like when the powerful abuse the powerless, what it _really_ looks like to be bullied, to be abused—we barely notice when we get death threats for criticizing _Star Wars_, when we get comments suggesting we should quit our jobs and start giving out bathroom handjobs for quarters, when we have dedicated trolls that make new accounts just to tell us we’re pieces of shit, when we get emails saying we’ll swing from the trees with the rest of the niggers, when someone @s us on Twitter and calls us a stupid cunt rag or suggests the “Trump Train” will take usstraight to the ovens.

And maybe it’s not right, it’s not good for us, that we just mute them or block them and we don’t call it bullying, because we know bullying is what powerful people do to less powerful people in order to get those people to do what they want, and we know we are more powerful than these anonymous commenters, and we know we are never going to do what they want. We don’t call it abuse, either, because we’re numb, mostly, and we’re so accustomed to cruelty that we barely register it anymore. And it’s not fair and not good for us, but we know that if we want to do this job well, if we want to keep writing about real bullying, which is not what happened to Rachel Roy, and real abuse, which is not a hypothetical annotation of a personal blog post, we have to decide to meet the world where it receives us. We have to save these words by using them carefully, by remembering what they really mean.

_Illustration by Jim Cooke_

question: What is the title of the album Beyonce released?

answer: This information can't be found.

question: Why did Solange kick Jay Z?

answer: Solange kicked Jay Z because a former Rocawear designer named Rachel Roy was "hovering" too close to him at the Met Ball afterparty.

question: Is the issue always only about cyberbullying?

answer: No, the issue is most of the time about more than cyberbullying. It is about us wanting to assert our interests on someone else.

question: What tool did Genius come up with?

answer: Genius added a "report abuse" button to all its annotations.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer:
The article takes the example of Jay Z cheating on Beyonce to explain cyberbullying and abuse. The question of abuse and cyberbullying goes beyond what we think of it.

The meaning of the word "bullying" is being diluted, this wild dilution is called "concept creep."


text:
The water ran like molasses, tinged crimson with the blood of the the swordsman's fallen foes. Countless bodies, some with missing limbs, lay broken in the surf. The swordsman lay on the rust-red sand, his left arm trapped underneath the battered torso of an enemy archer. He had tried to stand, but his legs didn't seem to work. His blade, eighteen inches of lethally sharp, carefully-detailed steel, was half-buried in the ground.

Night fell. As the sun dipped below the waves, its glow illuminated a solitary figure staggering down the beach. The black-armored man stepped over mutilated corpses, kicking aside a half-shattered helmet. The swordsman grunted in pain as he raised his head, in an attempt to identify the shadowy fighter. Suddenly, his mind flashed with recognition. The bloodied, scarred man standing before him was none other than the one he had trusted with his darkest secrets, with his most desperate plans and the terrible details of his horrific past. It was his Lieutenant.

"So, it was you." The swordsman spit blood onto the sand. "It was you who let the enemy know. You let my men, your men, the soldiers who trusted you to lead them, die at the hands of their worst foes." The Lieutenant said nothing. With a burst of lightning quickness, the swordsman pulled his weapon from the sand. Rivulets of blood ran down the side of the blade. He stifled a scream of pain as he pushed himself up on his elbow, and then rolled to his feet. Painful as it was, the swordsman took a fighting stance. A look of amused surprise slowly appeared on the Lieutenant's face. He reached behind his back and drew a bone-white sword, its smoothly-finished metal hilt glinting in the dying sunlight. "Don't fight me, my General," the Lieutenant said. "It cannot end well for you. Stand down, and I'll make this quick." The swordsman responded with a single, sad shake of his head. Then he charged.

The swordsman's blade came down in a silver arc, spattering blood across the already-saturated ground. The Lieutenant, taken aback at his former commander's spurt of energy, was forced to parry. He whipped his blade around at the swordsman's head, only to find that the old man was no longer where he expected. The swordsman had ducked under the slash, bringing the tip of his sword up into his opponent's armpit. The Lieutenant screamed in rage, his armor penetrated. His foot swung furiously back, catching the swordsman by the ankle. The swordsman fell, exhaling thunderously as he hit the beach. The Lieutenant's blade was a white blur as it swung down at its master's old friend and confidant, but it was rebuffed by the swordsman's leather vambrace. The swordsman rolled to the right, sprung to his feet, and delivered a vicious kick to the side of his subordinate's head. As the swordsman landed, he pummeled the Lieutenant's sword hand with the hilt of his blade. The Lieutenant cried out, his hand shattered. His blade, once as white as ivory, was bloodied by the sand upon which it landed. The swordsman brought his blade down in a savage curve, severing the Lieutenant's head. The body of the swordsman's foe hit the surf, splashing bloody water onto the victorious General.

The swordsman, his energy spent, laboriously opened the fingers of his right hand, allowing his blade to fall. He sank to his knees, a slow stream of blood staining his cheek. He sighed, and his body twisted around as he landed on his back. He let out one last groan as he looked up at the silver circle of the moon, the seawater lapping up past his ancient greaves. And as the breath left his body, the swordsman realized that he had reached his equilibrium. He was, at last, at peace.

title: At Peace

question: Who are the main characters of the story?

answer: The General (aka the swordsman), the Lieutenant

question: Why is the swordsman killing everyone?

answer: The swordsman only killed the enemy soldiers who ambushed him and his men.

question: What is the relationship between the swordsman and the Lieutenant?

answer: The Lieutenant is the swordsman's subordinate and confidant who betrayed his commanding officer by siding with the enemy.

question: Who is the General?

answer: The General is also the swordsman.

question: Write a ~8 sentence summary.

answer: The swordsman is a General who leads his men into slaughter when his Lieutenant and confidant betrays them to the enemy. The swordsman is the last man standing but is tired and wounded. All his men are dead. The swordsman lays on the ground, his sword arm trapped beneath an enemy archer as night falls. He sees his former Lieutenant surveying the carnage and immediately calls the man out for betraying them. Seeing the old swordsman trapped and wounded, the Lieutenant offers to make it quick, but his General is fueled by rage and quickly attacks. The fight ends when the swordsman lands a finishing blow that severs the Lieutenant's head. Energy spent, the swordsman lays down once more and sighs for the last time, now at peace.


text:
[Working together better in development cooperation activities]

Education unions have reaffirmed the importance of increasing and enhancing development cooperation activities at global and regional levels, and developed tools to this end.

“I first came to know Education International (EI) through development cooperation (DC) meetings,“ recalled EIGeneral Secretary David Edwards, addressing the 60 participants in the EI Development Cooperation Network’s annual meeting in Brussels, Belgium, from 14-16 January. “It is where you get to understand solidarity, as we can see it materialise in trade union and human rights issues. And remember: solidarity is not for sale!”

“It has represented a great education for me, being among you,» he also explained.

He continued by stressing that “capacity-building, DC, is ranked as top priorities of the organisation across all regions,” that “our struggle as an organisation is to be able to cooperate, respecting each other” and that “how EI and its affiliates can cooperate to face the challenges in the world is important.”

Underlining that “we know we have to lead our profession”, he urged participants “not to leave it to other forces and organisations. We do have some things that others do not have!”

“We are independent, and the issue of unity cannot be understated,”he said, highlighting “work in the area of renewal and young union members, the issue of the future.”

Edwards also noted that “it is crucial to defend democracy, because we are part of movement, for solidarity, justice, professional terms and conditions, etc.”

“We need to organise around ideas, and think about structural changes and ways our unions are built,”he insisted, acknowledging that “we have many things to do, plus the ones we do already.

At the same time, we must be there and support each other, and build long-term relationships.”

“We rely on your commitment to see where we need to do more, where we need to do better, and what to do next,”the EI leader concluded.

COLLECTIVE DRAFTING OF A« GUIDEBOOK- A DC PROJECT FROM A TO Z »

After mapping the needs and resources in solidarity and development cooperation projects, representatives of EI member organisations discussed the EI draft document called “Guidebook- A DC project from A to Z”, aiming to gather good practices on how to conduct DC projects.

The EI DC team underlined that the document is still a draft and that that the intention is to “co-write”it with the participants. It called on participants to take this document as an explanation of what is at stake for their leadership in a DC project.

The guidebook should clearly explain how to lead a DC project, and be easily accessible to non-experts in the field. The participants, therefore, reflected on the different issues raised in the guidebook and updated and enriched EI’s knowledge base with the use of concrete examples.

Source

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question: Summarize the importance of relationship building.

answer: The EI General secretary David Edwards stated that capacity building is one of the most top priorities of the union. It is necessary to be able to cooperate. It also is the function which facilitates the creation of unity, which Edwards likens to a kind of independence.

question: What is the role of participants with regard to the document?

answer: The EI DC says the document is still a draft. The intention is to co-write it with participants. It calls on participants to take this document as an explanation of what is at stake for their leadership in a DC project.

question: What relation does the union have to democracy?

answer: The secretary states that it is crucial to defend democracy. Edwards goes on to say that the union is part of a movement for solidarity, justice, professional terms and conditions, and so on. He claims there is a need to organize around ideas and think about structural changes and ways unions are built.

question: What is the disclaimer on this article?

answer: The disclaimer states that any third-party views expressed via accounts linked to and from this page do not represent the union. This is an attempt to protect the union from personal views of those who may be associated with it. It states that the opinions and beliefs expressed in those views are solely the opinions of the speakers, not the organization.


text:
CHARLES JEAN BAPTISTE CLAUDE LORIN is a French glass painter and manufacturer, born on 16 October 1866 in Chartres, capital of the Eure-et-Loir department, and died in the same city on 23 April 1940.

Life

Charles Lorin was the son of Nicolas Lorin (1833-1882) and Marie Françoise Dian (1840–1928). His father founded in 1863 the _Maison Lorin_ in Chartres, still active in 2017.[1]

Charles married on 18 January 1898 Étiennette Jeanne Piébourg (1873–?), daughter of Alfred Étienne Piébourg, architect of the city of Chartres.

His first signed achievements date back to 1899 and he continued producing for more than 40 years, until death in 1940.

-   His first son, Charles Étienne François, born in November 1898, died at the age of 18 on the World War I battlefield in Belgium; this is probably one of the reasons why Charles Lorin was so involved in decorating the memorials of this war, like the stained glass windows of Brezolles or Le Puiset churches
-   In 1900 he had a second son, François Lorin (1900–1972), who continued the workshops Lorin after World War II .

Commissions

Commissions by Charles Lorin, 1899–1929

-   The Basilica of Bois Chenu of Domremy-la-Pucelle (Vosges) has three windows made in 1899, in association with the painter Lionel Royer[2]

-   The St. Christopher Church of Baron (Gironde) is decorated with stained glass windows made in 1900 ;

-   Church of St. Peter of Épiniac , Ille-et-Vilaine, France (1904), built by architect Arthur Regnault : this church is decorated with 14 skylights listed in the general inventory of cultural heritage (00, 03-14 And 16 bays)

-   St. Jean Baptiste Roman Catholic Church, New York (1912–1914): due to World War I, the installation of these windows took place only in 1920[3]

-   Chartres Cathedral , Eure-et-Loir (France):
    -   1919 : restoration of the 12th century West Rose Window[4]
    -   1921 : restoration of two 13th century stained glass window in the ambulatory : Saint James the Greater (bay 5)[5] and Charlemagne (bay 7)[6]
    -   1924 : realization in the south west transept of a grisaille with reinvestment of a fragment of a resurrection of Lazarus, dated late fifteenth century or early sixteenth century (Bay 34)[7]

-   The St. Aubin church of Pleines-Œuvres (Calvados) has four commemorative figured glass windows made in 1920[8]

-   The St. Stephen church of Janville (Eure-et-Loir) has a 1921 oculus (Bay 16), listed in the French general inventory of cultural heritage.[9]

-   Charles Lorin was chosen for Notre Dame de Lorette basilica in Ablain St.-Nazaire French Military Cemetery. He worked with Henri Pinta, one of the decorators of the basilica of Montmartre (1925)[10]

-   The Notre-Dame-de-Clignancourt church in Paris. He installed the Art Deco stained-glass windows in the nave (need date).

-   http://www.cheminsdememoire.gouv.fr/en/memorial-battles-marne-dormans

Commissions by Charles Lorin and Co., 1930–1940

Associates

During this period, Charles Lorin associated numerous painters to his works, such as Charles Alexandre Crauk, M. Dano,[11] Jondot,[12] Gabriel Loire, Henri-Marcel Magne, Henri Pinta[13]

Articles

Charles Lorin publishes several articles in 1906, for the 50th anniversary of the Archeological Society of Eure-et-Loir :

-   _Middle Ages stained glass windows, those of Chartres, particularly_[14]
-   _Renaissance stained glass windows_[15]
-   _12th century medallion in St. Peter's Church of Chartres_[16]

[1] _Maison Lorin_, on Association des Verriers de Chartres et d'Eure-et-Loir (AVCEL) .

[2] Palissy base, French Ministry of Culture .

[3] The Charles Lorin Stained Glass Windows at St. Jean Baptiste Church, New York, Margaret M. Duffy, M.A., Ph. D. (abd) October 2012

[4] Arts of the Medieval Cathedrals: Studies on Architecture, Stained Glass and Sculpture in Honor of Anne Prache, Professor Kathleen Nolan, Professor Dany Sandron, Ashgate Publishing, Ltd., Jun 28, 2015, 270 pages : :Chapter 7 _The West Rose Window of the Cathedral of Chartres_, Claudine Lantier, page 124.

[5] Palissy base, French Ministry of Culture

[6] Palissy base, French Ministry of Culture

[7] Palissy base, French Ministry of Culture

[8] Palissy base, French Ministry of Culture .

[9] Palissy base, French Ministry of Culture .

[10] _From Death to Memory: The National Ossuaries in France after the Great War_, Annette Becker, History and Memory, Vol. 5, No. 2 (Fall - Winter, 1993), pp. 32-49, Published by Indiana University Press

[11] Signature appearing particularly on Lorin glass windows of Notre-Dame de Clignancourt of Paris and Notre-Dame de l'Épine near Verdun.

[12] Signature appearing particularly on Lorin glass windows of Notre-Dame de Clignancourt.

[13] The “Vocabularies - Authors” base of the French Ministry of Culture presents the associated following [http://www.culture.gouv.fr/public/mistral/marque_fr?ACTION=RETROUVER&FIELD_1=DOMN&VALUE_1=%20&FIELD_2=NOM&VALUE_2=%27LORIN%27&FIELD_3=INI&VALUE_3=&FIELD_4=SYMB&VALUE_4=&FIELD_5=loca&VALUE_5=&FIELD_6=r%e9f%e9rence&VALUE_6=&NUMBER=1&GRP=0&REQ=%28%28%27LORIN%27%29%20%3aNOM%20%29&USRNAME=nobody&USRPWD=4%24%2534P&SPEC=9&SYN=1&IMLY=&MAX1=1&MAX2=150&MAX3=150&DOM=All Fact sheet “Vocabulaires-Auteurs” of Charles Lorin, references PV004999], French Ministry of Culture .

[14] Les vitraux du moyen âge, ceux de Chartres en particulier.

[15] Les vitraux de la Renaissance.

[16] Médaillon du XIIe siècle dans l'église Saint-Pierre de Chartres.

title: Charles Lorin

question: What was Charles Lorin?

answer: A glass painter and manufacturer.

question: When was Charles Lorin born?

answer: 16 October 1866.

question: Where was Charles Lorin born?

answer: In Chartres.

question: What nationality did Charles Lorin hold?

answer: French.

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: This article is about Charles Lorin, a French glass painter and manufacturer from the 19th century.


text:
HOUSEBUILDER Mactaggart & Mickel has agreed a new 10-year lease on its head office at 1 Atlantic Quay in Glasgow – a deal it said had a total value of more than £4 million over the period.

The fourth-generation family business also highlighted its plans to invest £400,000 in refitting the office space.

It declared that the agreement of the new lease was a “clear sign” of its commitment to its home city, and highlighted its confidence in the long-term future of the UK residential property market.

Property group Moorfield and joint venture partner Resonance Capital acquired the Grade A office building in September last year, along with the neighbouring 2 and 3 Atlantic Quay on the Broomielaw.

Andrew Mickel, director of Mactaggart & Mickel Group, said: “Glasgow is very much home for Mactaggart & Mickel Group, so we were pleased to conclude the renewal of the lease. The 10-year agreement does not include a break clause, marking a clear sign of our commitment to continue to operate in the city.”

He added: “The sector has undergone a period of political uncertainty but, as we move into our tenth decade in business, we are confident in the long-term performance of the UK property market and continue to plan for business growth.”

Mark Holmes, asset manager at Moorfield, said: “Mactaggart & Mickel Group’s commitment to remain in Atlantic Quay 1 is an endorsement of the quality of the complex and its location in the city’s business district.

“Alongside our joint venture partner Resonance Capital, we are investing in a multi-million-pound refurbishment and improvement programme that will upgrade buildings 1, 2 and 3 into a unique Grade A office complex that fronts the River Clyde.”

question: When was the article written?

answer: That information can't be found

question: Where is Mactaggart & Michel's head office?

answer: 1 Atlantic Quay, Glasgow, UK

question: How long is the lease?

answer: 10 years

question: How much does the company plan on spending on renovations?

answer: Four hundred thousand pounds

question: Write a ~1 sentence summary.

answer: Mactaggart & Michel, a house-building company, has signed a 10 year lease to keep its head office in Glasgow, UK, indicating their faith in the UK property market.


text:
The writing is a bit choppy due to the vocab I had to incorporate, but here it is. Sort for the lack of paragraphs.

       I slowly strolled into the restaurant, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible. I kept my head down, as if some sort of wandering eye might notice my appearance. And there the man was, sitting in the corner booth. He had a nebulous feel about him, as if I wasn't even sure if he was really even sitting there in front of me. But it was all real, almost, just almost too real. All of his emotions just seemed to barren, as if any sort of expression was some elusive happening. His face was desolate, so void of any uniqueness an overwhelming neutrality washed over me. His posture, formidable, his manners laudable, his movements so conscientious and exact, yet his face so bland. It was almost disturbing. It was like staring into an infinite loop of television static, a bland mesmerization permeating every ounce of my body. Even though his stark aura would have seemed to hypnotize every living entity in a mile range, his presence was hardly noticeable. I sat down in front of him, ever so gingerly, as if I had made a wrong move he would viciously pounce or I would elicit a din and alert everyone of my being there.  To my surprise he gave me a cordial welcome "Good afternoon, how are you today?" He said in a cool, subtle, and ceaseless tone. "Fine, fine." I replied. He could sense my nervousness and lapse of repose. I suppose I had never encountered such a enigma before. He was rather empathetic, and did his best to keep me calm. I placed the envelope from my jacket in his hands, and he carefully tucked it away into his pocket. After which, he placed his hands on the table, palms to the ceiling, in a very deft and exact manner. He spoke in innuendo, as if he was trying to avoid confessin. He preferred implication rather than a cold matter-of-factness. I suppose that's what I needed at the time, any statement which held a lick of reality would have sent me into panic. The gravity of the matter was just too much to handle. I quickly tried to calm myself, seeming serene yet not apathetic. I didn't want him to think any less of me, even though it would be the last time we meet. He then opened his mouth, speaking slow and cool, making sure I understood the message he was trying to convey. "I am willing to help you, in fact I am glad to help. And I don't mean to impose or offend you, however you have peaked my curiosity and I can't help to ask why? Don't feel obliged to answer, I just raise the question because I have never done such a job before." He didn't seem very vehement about knowing, but I supposed I owed it to him. I opened my pursed lips to speak, and my chest fluctuated due to my massive amounts of bottled emotions. "It's not really one thing I suppose. I just want to subdue that routed feeling. I usually happy, even extatic, it's just that I feel a serf to all the things around me. There is no moksha from this endless cycle, just a perturbing repiditiveness. I know it seems ilocgical, probably even erroneous to you, it's just..." "It's alright." He interjected abruptly, yet neccisarily. "I understand, I've felt that way an innumerable amount of times, I just guess you could say I'm an optimist." I was dumbfounded, I would have never expected he was cappaible of such warmth. I gave him the closest thing to a smile I could manage and said "I'm ready" I said in an almost languid tone. He slowly reached under the table and into his coat pocket. He looked me in the eyes, and I reciprocated, and I nodded reassuring him. A loud "BANG" erupted from the booth. My body slumped over,my face hit the booths soft leather padding, and blood slowly trickled forth.  He stood up, and calmly walked away, disappearing into the night. Anon, all of the patrons of the restraunt had quite an incredulous look on their face. They didn't know quite what was going on, nor will they ever.

title: A short story I wrote in my Sophomore year for a vocab assinment.

question: What does the excerpt say about the man in the booth?

answer: The protagonist says he had a nebulous feel about him, as if he wasn't even sure he was really sitting there in front of him. All his emotions were barren, as if every expression was elusive. His face was desolate, void of any uniqueness, and overwhelmingly neutral. His posture formidable, his manners laudable, his movements conscientious and exact, yet his face bland. It was like staring into television static. Even though his aura seemed to hypnotize everything, his presence was hardly noticeable. After conveying his tumultuous emotions about requesting the job from him, the protagonist found him very empathetic. He was understanding, and capable of great warmth. He accepts the job to end the protagonist's life.


text:
  There isn’t much to be said about a rain drop.  Falling from the sky, hurtling towards an inevitable end, oblivious to its own grim eventuality.  It ends much like it began. Silently, swiftly, with no fuss or clamor.  Pitter patter, pitter patter- we hardly notice the death rattle of millions.
It’s raining in the desert.  The ground is so dry that it resists the water,  so dense that it cannot seep down into the earth. Rather it floods over it, running in wild streams, carving gullies across the sand.  It pools and puddles in basins and on the plain, growing larger as it is fed by the runoff and its cousins falling directly to it from the sky.  The falling droplets make ripples across the surface- by this the volume of rainfall may be seen.
The ripples slide smoothly outwards from the point of impact.  The first is largest, the following lessen. Ring after ring glide out, until they turn from faint to finished.  As they expand they roll over ripples from neighboring points of impact. Gently, they roll over each other, skewing their course.  They are quickly lost from sight, buried beneath the waves of later generations.
The desert won’t remember the rain. In a day’s time, it will again be dry, the wind and sand will hide the gorges the water ran through.  The air will be parched, the sky clear.  Innumerable storms have swept across the sandy expanse.  But one would never know, looking out on it.  None of them left a legend.  Every droplet failed to make an impression.  For a time, they stood united in great pools and winding rivulets, snaking across the sand, shaping the landscape.  But as quickly as the rain came did the desert reclaim the sand.
Man is the rain.  Man’s end is also a quiet ripple. His passing is noticed by those closest to him, their lives are changed and their own ripples turned aside slightly by his.  And then his ring expires, written over by new waves, new ripples and new stories.  Those who knew him pass, those who knew them follow; the desert drinks up all memories thirstily and erases any trace of any being there.
So lives are measured.  Not in years or in virtue, but in impact.  The violence of man’s expiration is the ultimate tribute to his existence.  If his substance is to be lost amidst the mass of millions, joining together into one indiscriminate mass of fluid, marked only by a quiet plopping and subtle splash, so be it.  Such an end is chosen every instant by the individual to whom it represents.  They chose timidity over boldness.  They are just part of the storm.
That’s all man is.  A storm of feeling and thought.  There is chaos in every human heart.  From the collective soul echoes such pandemonium that may shake the world to pieces.  Fully expressed, man will be the hurricane.  The typhoon.  Man is a force of nature like no other.
Alone man is no howling wind.  His rage today is not expressed even as a gentle breeze.  Man has allowed himself to become but wisps of warm air- stirring ever so slightly the leaves of trees as he moves along.  Man’s raindrops fall slowly to the ground, fat and tear shaped, splatting gently against some surface infinitely more resolute than he.
But not all men.  Some refuse to be a party to a complacent demise.  Some men’s wind will blow their rain sideways.  They will sting the skin and their heated fury will turn the rain to steam.  No faint drizzle, their droplet will be the herald of a downpour.
The hate that drives them is the hate of the gentle rain. They hate the soft, white clouds that litter the sky, occasionally precipitating some minor rainfall, failing to even mark the day as overcast.  How can a man or woman consign themselves to such a fate?  Are they so filled with apathy that they simply accept the world, allowing gravity to pull them down, directly?  Where is the resistance?
	It’s lost, and they’ve sworn to find it.  Their only drive is to effect this change.  They find the air to be stale, the water stagnant.  In the wake of the hurricane the world will be scrubbed clean.

title: For all the Sheep out there.

question: Summarize the mood that this text depicts.

answer: This text depicts many different moods, such as loneliness, resilience, strength, and peace. The text emphasizes the importance of water and how water holds so many different personalities and moods, which can be expanded over to a human. The rain and its droplets can be as peaceful as a body of water or as strong as a storm or a flood.


text:
The mouse of crescent time allotted, he crept oh how he crept throughout the world stretching his devilish paws, clawing his way through unity in hopes to find the measly remains of rubbish left a broad for the taking.  Oh how he crept about a creature so calm, so unknownst to his diseased life, his calloused paws, the elongated tail nude to the flesh and some to the bone, he knows nothing more but the meal he wishes to endeavor ever more.

The moon shone brightly on his being, while the clouds formed about his space, a grip tightening ever so fast, ever so fast it did tighten.  The mouse hungry and alone, he knows his only hope to survive is the scrumpet of food abroad his view.  The land so shriveled and chilled, as if the world was in for a storm.  The moon no longer in sight, but the feast continued on, entangled in the night’s light enhanced by the ever close dawn of bolts from the heavens, the racing of the rain, and the heartbeat of the mouse, his paws trenched on.

Onward onward, his paws made the continued pull, the body coursing along whiles the nude, so very nude, tail continued on.  The rain overwhelming, the fur on the mouse drenched and his squeaks so timid in contrast, the rain drowning all hope; his paws scratching against the concrete, pawing through wake after wake.  His paws, he thought were in the oceans of his forefathers’ who boldly accommodated themselves on ships set sail.

The feast nearing now, he but has to extend his cold wet paw, so very cold, yet still a very very fine paw for a mouse; the feast within reach.  At the exact moment his paw would reach out, a bolt of lightning would approach his radius, shocking the world as if it were but a nerve sending out a command; the paw entrenched in the rainwater, now circumventing the lightning’s girth straight through his soul, within his eyes, the brain over charged, his paws engulfing in flame.  The mouse dead, his paws burned to a crisp, the brain and eyes exploded outward, the feast begotten and the mouse bid adieu to the world around him and fluctuated between this world and the outward reaches of the universe.

title: The Mouse (written last year after watching 'The Raven' My first time posting here

question: What is the mouse planning to feast on?

answer: Garbage

question: What would have happened if there wasn't a storm?

answer: The mouse would have survived and would have feasted on the rubbish.

question: What is implied by the line "and the mouse bid adieu to the world around him and fluctuated between this world and the outward reaches of the universe"?

answer: The implication is that the mouse is ascending to some sort of afterlife.

question: How might this story have been different if the author hadn't watched The Raven?

answer: The story wouldn't exist.


text:
The Million Mile Road

I have walked this path for as long as I can remember. The days and nights blend together, into slurry of marching feet. There are others who walk on this endless journey. Ahead of me, and behind me, the millions fade into the distance. Occasionally, one will fall. Some are picked up by the ones who walk with them. Some, they pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and continue on their journey. But some don't get back up. They lie in the dirt, motionless. The others walk around them, either oblivious to their plight, or simply numb to their existence. We walk on, and they disappear from sight. I have looked to both horizons, for days at a time, but they are never there. Those that fall and do not get up simply disappear. We walk this path, the sound of thousands of feet meshing into a cacophony of sound.

I grow tired of this journey. Every day I feel myself grow a little weaker, a little slower. The constant sound of feet hitting the ground, this marching drumbeat, lulls me. I just wish to sleep, to rest my head. So I lie down, on the side of the road. I will not be long, for all I wish to do is rest. Just for a little while. The others continue on, marching on the same path that is the only thing they have known. But I must rest. I lay my head to the ground, and close my eyes. I must rest, if only to regain enough strength to continue on.

Suddenly, there is a shift. The sound is not the same as it was before. I open my eyes, and look up. Someone has stopped. Why? She is staring at me with piercing blue eyes. Why is she staring at me? Why can’t I simply rest? A voice. She is speaking.

“Why are you laying there?”

Isn’t it obvious? I am tired. I wish to sleep. And you are bothering me. Let me rest.

“No one who lies down does so simply because they are tired.”

Well, I have. I want to rest. I want to be left alone to my sleep. The others have left me here, and now I just want to close my eyes and see no longer.

She looks at me puzzlingly, as if I were some piece in a museum that hadn’t been there before. She won’t just go away and let me sleep, but I don’t want to get up to shoo her away. I’m just tired, and all I want to do is be left alone so that I can finally rest. This road goes on, never-ending, and I am sick of the constant walking. I’m sick of the unwavering pace. All I want to do is rest. Is that such a crime? She is speaking again.

“You know, I tried to lay down once. All I wanted to do was rest. But then someone stopped, and made me get up. They wouldn’t let me sleep.”

What is she talking about? Is she one of those who fell? Is she one of the ones who were pulled back up? I have never seen her before, but I am certain that I saw all of those who fell. My mind is buzzing with questions. Distracting, confusing questions that only keep me from sleep. And still she is talking. And still she is explaining.

“… and so they told me, 'if you stay here, the wolves will find you.' But I did not care. But he did. And he did not let me stay. He told me, 'if you are too weak to walk, I will help you. If you are too tired to walk, I will carry you. But I will not leave you to the wolves.'”

The wolves? I have never seen a wolf. I have seen nothing on this trail but the vast expanse of nothingness that rings it on both sides. But she is persistent. I have never had another on this trail interact with me in this way before. I do not know how to respond. So I tell her,
“I am tired. Just let me sleep.”

She cocks her head to the side. Her mouth forms the shape of a small ‘o’. As she stands there, I notice that the people on the trail have become a blur. All of them are slowly disappearing into a mist. All of them but her.

“If you are weak, then I will help you walk. If you are tired, then I will carry you. But I will not leave you to the wolves.”

How? How could this person show such care to one which they have never met? Slowly, shakily, she helps me to my feet. A mix of emotions flow through me. This girl has decided that I am worth helping. This girl has decided that I should be alive. I feel a wave of emotion wash over me. I have never felt like this before. I have never felt this warm feeling. The aches in my bones, the sleep in my eyes, the haze in my brain, all of it starts to disappear.

I continue to walk this path, day after day, night after night. When I grow tired, the others help keep me on the path. I am grateful for the help of strangers. Of people who had every right to ignore my existence. I walk along this path, but I no longer feel tired. My steps are no longer weak, no longer slow. They have given me a purpose that I previously lacked.

I walk along the path. A man falls to the ground, just off the side. Others walk around him, either oblivious to his plight, or numb to his existence. I stop in my tracks. Looking directly at him, I ask,
“Why are you laying there?”

Isn’t it obvious? He is tired. He wishes to sleep.

“Why are you bothering me?”

I smile to myself.

“Because you cannot sleep. The path may be long, and you may be tired, but you have been walking alone this whole time. I cannot allow you to stop here.”

He looks at me.

“Why?”

My mind goes through the many memories of my time on this path. Of those who I have met, and those whom I have walked with. I know why he must walk the path, but he will need to find out for himself.

“If you are weak, I will help you walk. If you are tired, I will carry you.”

But I will not leave you to the wolves.

title: A short story.

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: It's not definitely stated, but it's implied that the narrator is someone on a tiresome journey.

question: Which wolves are those mentioned, and where are they from?

answer: It can be inferred from the story that the wolves seem to prey on those who fall behind to rest.

question: In what setting does this take place?

answer: It seems to be in a desert; a vast expanse of nothingness.

question: Who is the narrator discussing with?

answer: He discusses with a girl who offers to assist him, and later, he discusses with a man who falls behind.

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: The narrator is on an endless journey, walking a path in a vast expanse of nothingness. The narrator falls behind, tired from exhaustion and wanting to rest, but a girl stops and persistently encourages the narrator to carry on with the journey. The narrator is inspired by her and finds the strength and will to move on and also inspire others.


text:
The bloody sun was nearing its highest point when the man reached the outskirts of the ruined city. It was a breezy day, and the shifting grass seemed to shy away from him as he made his slow voyage across the plain. He was a tall man, well tanned from being in the sun for long hours, and his face had crinkled into an expression of age and rugged wisdom. His body was strapped in torn leather, and his facial hair suggested a few days of no shaving. In his right hand he bore a walking stick, sharpened at the end to a point, like a spear. A holster hung about his waste, and in it, a 10 millimeter Bren Ten, with a single clip left to use.

Hoping to find some much needed supplies, the man continued his trek, glancing between the skyline of ruined towers, and the great mountains beyond them. A sign, eroded by age, read in large white letters “Welcome to Denver.” He heard of the place before. They used to call it the “mile high city,” but that was long ago. Back when he had friends.

He had been the first male born to his tribe, he recalled, and he was called "blessing" by many. They told him the stories of how the great tribes fell, and the towers became empty. They told him of sky people, who had come down to the earth and snatched its inhabitants. But in defiance, they fought back and were swiftly annihilated. Seeing their potential slaves mostly dead, the sky people fled, and left them to their ruined home.

His tribe were his friends. But his friends had sent him out here, out West. He was to find civilization, and return to save his people. But more and more he feared that there was no civilization to be found.

So now there were no friends. It had been a long time since he had heard the sound of another voice. His own often provided that helpful second opinion. He liked his voice, but he often remembered his friends’.

 Thinking of these things made the trip seem shorter, and he soon found himself amongst the great tombs of skyscrapers, monuments to a greater time. The man saw nothing but rubble and trash, nothing worth collecting. He kept on, his spear held tightly in his hand. Who knew what monster may inhabit these crypts? The place was deathly quiet; the only sound was the slight rustle of the wind upon the grass. But his ears perked up as a piece of rubble fell out of place.

Stopping, the man looked around, until he saw a figure reveal itself in the shadow. A friend…finally? No. A bullet whizzed past his head. He dropped the spear, and quickly whipped out his pistol. Taking aim as the figure approached, he discharged a bullet. But in the mere sliver of time before he pulled the trigger, he saw the figure’s face. It was a woman, a beautiful woman, not scarred by the brutal reality of this hostile wasteland. He could not cut down such beauty; his heart would not allow him, even for survival. His hand moved the slightest inch out of line as he fired, and the bullet sailed off, striking nothing.

She fired back, this time not missing. He felt the hot lead hit his chest, and the pain seared him. Dropping his gun, the man slowly bent down on one knee, and then another. He grasped at his chest, and began to breathe raggedly. He could feel his heart hurting. As he fell backwards to the ground, tears began to form in his eyes. As the darkness began to surround him, he felt not fear, but joy. He wished the woman a farewell in his mind, and hoped she lived to escape this harsh place. With his last breath of life, the man looked up at the great towering tombstones, and to the clouds beyond.

“It is fitting,” thought he, “to die in a graveyard.”

title: The Graveyard

question: Why do the Sky people snatch the human inhabitants?

answer: They wanted to make slaves of them.

question: Why was he chosen to find civilization?

answer: Because he was the youngest male in the tribe. The others may not have had the stamina to complete the trip

question: Why did he hesitate to kill the person who was shooting at him?

answer: She was a beautiful woman and he couldn't bring himself to cut down such beauty.

question: Why was she so keen to kill another human in a place left desolate?

answer: She probably fears for her life. In a world where each scavenger fears for their lives there is likely little compassion for each other.

question: Write a ~16 sentence summary.

answer:
The man reaches the outskirts of the ruined city. He bears a sharpened stick and a loaded gun. He glances at the ruined skyline. A sign says “Welcome to Denver”.

He was the first male born to his tribe. His family told him how people came from the sky, ruined the towers and stole the inhabitants. The inhabitants fought back and were wiped out. Then the sky people left.

His tribe sent him out to find civilization and save the tribe but as time passed, he feared that civilization was no more.
He sees a figure. A friend finally? A bullet flies past his head. He grabs his pistol then sees that the shooter is a beautiful woman. He deliberately misfires. She hits him in the chest. He falls amongst the tombstones, once buildings turned graves, and thinks that it is a fitting place to die.


text:
   I remember the first time my eyes fell upon her. She was more than beautiful. The sun shone on her causing the blue in her hair to light up like the ocean and reflected off of her porcelain skin so she looked as though she was glowing. As soon as she flashed her smile at me, I felt my legs fall from under me and my body and mind became a puddle in the grass. Her green eyes lit up when she laughed, and in that moment I knew I was done for. I was in love.
  She approached me and flashed that amazing smile and asked me my name, and I managed to pull myself together and mumble out a "Thomas." I asked her what her name was, and with the voice of an angel she said "Alison." She took my hand from that moment we were never apart. We were up every night laying on her bed staring at the Radiohead poster above her bed, while listening to Portishead and telling each other about all the deep, personal things that we had experienced during our lives. She would tell me sad stories about her childhood and when she would begin to shed tears, I would hold her until the tears turned into laughter.
   She was a beautiful ray of sunshine in a dark world of ugly things. Despite her amazing smile, I saw so much sadness behind her green eyes. The sadness became bigger every day and when she tried to make the sadness stop, I saw the deep dark blues of the ocean that was behind her eyes grow vaster. She started first with weed, and then when that didn't work, she took to painkillers, and eventually she turned to the liquid sunshine she could inject into her veins. Her green eyes turned to a dull grey, and skin became so white she looked like a ghost. She was a ghost, her body was just an empty vessel holding a very lonely soul that was ready to be set free.
  I knew it wasn't long before I would lose her, but nothing prepared me for the day I went to wake her from her slumber and her skin was cold as ice and her lips were as blue as her hair. I held her like I always did, I held her as my tears started flowing and waited for the laughter to start, but the laughter never came. Now I'm lost in a vast ocean, floating in the water and waiting for my Alison.

title: [RF] Alison (Based off of the song Alison by Slowdive)

question: Describe Alison.

answer: She has blue hair, porcelain skin, and green eyes.

question: Who is the narrator?

answer: The narrator is named Thomas and he is in love with Alison.

question: What happened to Alison?

answer: She overdoes on drugs.

question: What music did Alison listen to?

answer: Portishead and Radiohead

question: Write a ~4 sentence summary.

answer: Thomas falls in love with Alison, a girl with blue hair and green eyes. They lie in her bed and listen to music, and she tells him sad stories about her childhood. She turns to drugs in order to escape the sadness, starting with weed and eventually transitioning to harder drugs. One day, she overdoses and dies, and Thomas is left alone.


text:
John MacAndrew bent to the ground, picking up the last piece of wood, he placed it with the others.  John's wife sent him out to the woods to find firewood for the night.

On his way back to the farm, John noticed three men in the woods, traveling down an animal made path.  John was expecting them.  Reivers who where sent out to find John and kill him.  Reivers where raiders along the Scottish/English border consisting of both nationalities.  John had earlier joined forces with the Ross clan who where pursuing a group of reivers who had stolen the cattle of the Ross Clan.  John was one archer of supreme skill and made a name for himself killing reivers with his bow.  At the end of the pursuit, John pulled out his bow and struck the Chief reiver in the eye.

As the men walked down the path they noticed a young man carrying a bundle of wood.  The young man was not a tall one, actually he was rather short in stature, and seemed to have trouble carrying the wood as he stumbled and dropped one piece after another.
"You there boy," the reiver said.  "Do you know a John MacAndrew?"
"I know him," John said.  "I'm the servant."
"I need you to show us where he lives."
"Not sure if I can do that, he doesn't like visitors."
What a surprise, thought the reivers.  John MacAndrew was known for his run-ins with border raiders and was constantly in danger from one seeking a vendetta.
"Tell you what," one of the reivers said.  "I will give you two shillings if you bring us to MacAndrew."
"Two shillings? I guess I could take you to his house."
They followed the boy up the path to a small farm and up to the farm house.  The house was not much to look at, at most it looked like it held two rooms.  Outside the house was an old oak tree, it looked as if it been there for centuries.

Claire MacAndrew placed the last log into the fireplace.  She sat at the large table at the center of the room, the table itself almost took up the entire room, leaving little space to walk.  Where is he?  John should be home by now, thought Claire.  It was a cold night and the fire would not last much longer.  There was a knock on the door.  Claire got up from her seat and opened the small wooden door.  Standing outside was her husband and three large men.  John took off his hat and held it with both hands.
"Excuse me Ms,"  John said.  "Is your husband around?"
"He ran off about an hour ago, but he should be around here somewhere."
Claire and her husband had many encounters with reivers.  She knew all about the dangers that seemed to follow John wherever he went.  Once again she would have to help John escape his troubles.  Where would he be without me?  Dead, perhaps, thought Claire.
"Would you like to come in?"
"Do you have food?" said one of the reivers.
"We always have food for guests, please sit down."
The reivers one by one walk in and sat down at the table.  John also walked it with his hat still in hand as he stood patently by the door.
"Samuel,"  Claire turned to John.  "Go fetch the master,  I think he went to check on the cows."
"Yes Ms."
With a smile John put his hat back on and ran out the door, closing the door behind him.

Once outside, John made his way to the barn located behind the house.  The barn was where the MacAndrew's kept farm equipment and newly slaughtered animals.  Inside there was a newly killed cow.  John placed the cow on his shoulder and carried it back to the house.  Placing the cow against the door, with the flesh side up, made it more of a challenge to open the door from the inside.  John turned around to face the old oak tree.  My favorite tree, thought John as he started to climb.  About six meters up, John reached into a hollow crevice within the tree.  He pulled out a bow and a quiver with a supply of arrows.

Placing three cups on the table, Claire poured water for each of the three men at the table.
"I thought you had food."
"I'm bringing you food, I thought you would want some water first."
At the far end of the house Claire opened the pantry where she stored a small provision of food.  She gathered a arm full of small whole wheel size of cheese.
"I hope you all like cheese."
"Cheese?" said one man.  "She has cheese!"
"A whole wheel of cheese." Claire said.  She made her way over to the men, still seated, eagerly awaiting the first meal in half a day of travel.  While walking to the reivers she slipped and fell onto the newly swept dirt floor.  The balls of cheese bounced and rolled away from her in every direction.  The three men all in a hurry flew from their seats and dived for the cheese, fighting each other for the food.  As if they where rodents, desperate for food, crammed the food into their own mouths as if there was no time to chew.  Suddenly the room was filled with the cry of the young man.
"MacAndrew is coming!"  the boy yelled.  "John MacAndrew is on his way!"
The men struggled to get to their feet.  One choked as he tried to spit a large piece of cheese from his mouth.  They rushed for the door, but there was something pressing against the small wooden door, slowing their escape.

John watched as if someone was struggling to open the door.  The fresh cow carcass was doing what he wished.  John pulled out an arrow from his quiver.  Pulled back on his bow, aimed at the door and waited.  The door slowly by little budged open more and more.  A large jut finally flew the door open as the carcass fell in front of the door with the skinned side facing upwards.  The first of the reivers rushed out.  He slipped on the skinned carcass and landed on his back.  John released his first arrow.  The arrow struck the man in the neck entering from the lower part of the neck and traveled upwards towards the skull.  Reiver number two emerged from the farm house, sword in hand.  He looked around, as if he was scanning his surroundings.  John released his second arrow.  The reiver looked upwards towards the oak tree.  The arrow struck the man in the head, killing him instantly.  The third and final reiver staggered out, still choking on his piece of cheese roll, sword in hand.  The third arrow left John MacAndrew's bow.  Striking the man in the spleen.  The man fell as he screamed in agony.  John released a fourth arrow.  Hitting the man in the stomach, followed by a fifth arrow to the chest.

John placed his quiver of arrows and bow back into the crevice of the old oak tree.  As the climbed back down his wife came out to see what had happened.
"You know they will send more men to find you."
"Let them come,"  John said.  "They are not the first, and they will not be the last raiders I kill."
"Don't you think it would be wise to move north?"  Claire said.  "I mean--away from the border, away from the cattle raiders?"
"Why?  John asked.  "This is our home.  If they want to steal my cattle and my way of living they will have to get past me first.  I'm not going to be chased away from my home."
"I'm just not sure how many times I can get you out of trouble John."
"Don't worry, I'm the best archer this place has ever seen.  I'm not going anywhere soon."

title: John MacAndrew & the Reivers

question: How does John trick the three Reivers when they come upon him collecting wood?

answer: John tells the Reivers that he works for the MacAndrews. The reivers ask him to show them the MacAndrew house. John acts reluctant and he even manages to get them to pay him for the task. He then takes the men home and introduces them to his wife, acting as though he is the servant.

question: Where did John learn his archery skills