text:
Just below my bedroom window was a bush. In that bush lived a bird I called Jerry. When I would spend time in my yard cleaning things up and trimming things, Jerry would sit atop the bush monitoring my duties. When I would sit on the deck with my friends, Jerry would sit atop his bush watching our every movement.

One Saturday afternoon, I was trimming hedges and when I got to Jerry’s bush, he flew up into a nearby tree and watched intently, making sure I properly remodeled his home. After I was done, he returned to his home and sang a wonderful song of happiness. I put out some high quality seed for him to munch on and a fresh bowl of water for him to bathe in. Jerry was the most cared for wild bird on the planet, at least in my mind. He was like a beloved pet to me, even if I never got to hold him or touch him. I showed him my affection the only way I could, by giving him a nice home and the essentials for life. He showed his appreciation by singing me songs while perched atop his home that was the bush under my bedroom window.

Sunday morning, Jerry woke me up with a beautiful bird song. I greeted him from my window, to which he paused, let out a soft chirp, and continued on with his song. I went on with my daily activities after briefly checking on Jerry’s food and water supplies. I returned home from some errands and invited over a couple friends. As we were sitting on the deck discussing worldly affairs and enjoying some drinks, Jerry popped out of his bush and took perch atop his home. Karen noticed him immediately. “That’s a pretty bird. I wonder what kind it is.” I explained that I had spent hours trying to figure out what kind of bird Jerry was…”Jerry?”

Yes. Jerry. I had grown quite fond of him as he seemed to also be fond of me. So, I named him Jerry. One day, when I was in my yard taking care of my garden, I didn’t see Jerry in his usual spot. I called out for him, by name, and within seconds, he was perched atop his home. He had grown so used to my voice saying his name that he came on command. “That’s kind of silly.” Karen didn’t seem to understand the bond that Jerry and I had. I gave him a home and he gave me beauty. “That’s cute.”

My other friend, Carl, wasn’t as perceptive to all this as Karen. He said things like, “That’s gay,” and, “Fucking weird.” I told him if he didn’t like it, then he didn’t have to listen or talk about it. Jerry wasn’t like my other friends. He didn’t express feelings of prejudice, and didn’t say things that were hurtful. He only showed magnificent beauty and appreciation for my affections.

I truly believe Jerry could sense the emotions that were being radiated from the deck that night. Carl’s uncaring bigotry. My disappointment. Karen’s mild sarcasm. All of those things lent to the events that followed.

Carl stood up and started walking towards Jerry. I strongly suggested that he sit back down, but he continued. “Carl, just leave the bird alone and let Shawn have his little fantasy.” Carl, unwavering in his decision, stepped up to the bush, tried to snatch Jerry from the top of his home, and sent Jerry flying in a maniacal fashion. I jumped up and ran over, just as Jerry made a shoddy landing in the nearby tree. I snapped at Carl, telling him to leave my house. His merciless presence was no longer appreciated in my vicinity. Carl mumbled some things under his breath as he walked around the side of my house to get into his car.

“That was…interesting.” Karen exhibited compassion towards the situation, but still didn’t seem to be entirely sincere. “Poor little thing looked pretty flustered.” I tried calling Jerry back down to his home, but he remained firm in his position, perched on a high branch of the neighboring tree. I presumed he needed some time to compose himself and evaluate the situation before regaining his trust and returning to his perch atop the bush.

It wasn’t until after Karen left and it was clear I was the only soul left in the yard that Jerry timidly made his way back to his perch atop his home that was the bush below my bedroom window. I graciously welcomed Jerry home with some fresh seed and a clean bowl of water. I greeted him and he respectfully chirped in reply. Jerry was always polite and well mannered, not like the people whom I thought were my friends.

Jerry was a true friend, which made it all the more difficult when I found him lying under the bush the next morning. I had awakened to silence, which was puzzling, as Jerry had been my alarm clock for months prior. Fearing that Jerry had become disillusioned by the previous day’s commotions and decided to find a new friend, I went to his home that was the bush below my bedroom window. Seeing him lying there motionless, I said his name in a voice that was dreadfully quavering, only to find my call unrequited.

I slowly reached in and cautiously scooped Jerry into my warm hands. He let out a painstakingly soft chirp, which I knew was probably his final word. I told him it was okay; that he didn’t need to say anything. As a single tear ran down my cheek, I told him that I truly appreciated all the beauty and warmth he brought into my life, and that I would never forget him. As he lay, cradled in my hands, I watched, sitting on the dewy grass next to his home that was the bush below my bedroom window. I watched as he let out one breath…two breaths…three breaths…and then he was at rest.

I placed Jerry’s delicate body into the hole I dug for him under his favorite perch and gently covered him with the soft soil that had long ago sprouted his home that was the bush below my bedroom window. I whispered, “Farewell, my friend,” as I smoothed over his new home and made sure it was packed down tightly.

Monday morning I was awakened by a beautiful bird song, one not unlike the one Jerry would sing to me. I excitedly jumped out of bed and ran to the window, hoping to see Jerry sitting atop his home that was the bush below my bedroom window. As I peered out the window, only to find that there was no bird in sight, I realized that the song could not have come from Jerry, as I myself had watched him breathe his final breath. I myself had placed him into the ground and covered him. Where was the singing coming from?

I turned to walk to my bed and as I was sitting down to ponder the mysteriously celestial bird song, I know I saw Jerry fly from his perch and off into the sunrise. Jerry made an appearance one last time, if only for my own comfort, to sing me a song, and to bid farewell to his home that was the bush below my bedroom window.

title: The Bird and the Bush

question: What does the bush signify in this story?

answer: It's implied that the bush has a significant value to Jerry and the narrator. The fact that they both care for each other and know of each other's, but can't interact with each other is a strong metaphor. It's almost as if the bush was both a relic and gift that kept Jerry close to home.

critique: It's not implied that the bush has a significant value to Jerry and the narrator.

critique: The bush isn't significant to the narrator.

critique: The bush is Jerry's home, and a place where he feels safe.

critique: "It's implied that the bush has a significant value to Jerry and the narrator. The fact that they both care for each other and know of each other's, but can't interact with each other is a strong metaphor. It's almost as if the bush was both a relic and gift that kept Jerry close to home." - the bush is only significant to Jerry, he's the one who cares for it, the narrator just happens to live next to it.

critique: The bush doesn't have an "almost as if" significance. It allows the narrator love Jerry as he is.

critique: The bush is not a gift from the narrator to Jerry.

critique: "The fact that they both care for each other and know of each other's, but can't interact with each other is a strong metaphor. It's almost as if the bush was both a relic and gift that kept Jerry close to home." - does not explain the bush's significance in the story. Needs a rewrite.

critique: This doesn't support the fact that the bush was Jerry's home.

question: Describe the narrator and Jerry's relationship.

answer: The narrator builds Jerry a home, feeds, and cleans him. Jerry sings beautifully and the narrator appreciates him. The narrator comes to realize that it was probably the final time he would look through the window. Jerry gave him one last song before returning to wherever birds go after death.

critique: The narrator's realization is not relevant to the question.

critique: "Jerry gave him one last song before returning to wherever birds go after death." - this is inaccurate. Jerry didn't give the narrator a song after his death. The narrator had seen Jerry one last time before his death.

critique: The narrator and the bird never knew each other's names, which means Jerry's name was only for the reader/narrator and not for the bird.

critique: The response contains inaccurate and unnecessary information.

critique: The model describes Jerry's relationships with the narrator and the narrator's friends. This is incorrect.

critique: The narrator doesn't realize that it was probably the final time he would look through the window.

critique: The bird doesn't "return" to wherever birds go after death. It's specifically stated in the text that Jerry appeared to the narrator for one final time.

critique: It's omitted that the narrator feels that Jerry was a true friend.

critique: Collapse the last sentence into the next instead of separating it with a comma

critique: The narrator's relationship with Jerry is more than just building him a home and feeding him.

critique: "and the narrator appreciates him" - add "and named him"

critique: "that was probably the final time he would look through the window" is not in the text.

critique: The narrator is a human being, not a bird.

question: Will the narrator become friends with another bird that chooses to perch on the bush in which Jerry once resided?

answer: No, he will not.

critique: The narrator is not mentioned in the story.

critique: The narrator will not, but the bird might.

critique: The narrator is shown to have befriended Jerry, a bird that chooses to perch on the bush in which Jerry once resided.

critique: The narrator specifies at the end that he believes that Jerry has flown off. He is not gone forever and lives on in the narrator's heart.

critique: The question is not clearly answered, but it is implied that he will.

critique: The narrator can befriend another bird, but it will never replace Jerry.

critique: The narrator doesn't say that he won't befriend another bird.

critique: Omit "no" from the sentence as it doesn't add any value to it.


split: train

text:
Hi, my name is Emmy. I'm the author of one book currently, Silver Follows, which is fantasy/adventure. This is a realistic fiction short story that I'm trying out as a first post just to see what people think and to get the ball rolling, as I haven't written in a long time. I'm very open to feedback and criticism and would love to know how people feel about my writing! (Note: I added more to this story but didn't go far with it.) Enjoy:)

2-7-15

	She was sitting on the park bench with a wet bum, holding a black umbrella, watching the snowflakes fall past her azalea-pink fingers. Her leather gloves had been discarded onto her lap where they sat helplessly on the hem of her peacoat, the warmth seeping from the stiff fingers, while the warmth of her own fingers had long been chased away. Thirty-one degrees and a ten-minus wind would do that.
	The sound of footfalls on the damper of snow caused her to look up, just as her nose was turning pink. Her scarf was thrown back, the ends hanging down past her short auburn hair, leaving her collarbone and throat exposed. Snowflakes fell on her cheeks and a man with a gray beard smiled down at her.
	He was not a happy man, though.
	“You should be in the ward,” he said to her. “You should be where it’s warm.”
	His thin lips pressed together tightly. His forehead was wrinkled, but the cold dissolved his frown lines. It made his skin look more alive, less ashy and serious. She liked him better outside, where the trees hung long hands over pathways that could be taken anywhere in the world, and the place he suggested was the only place she did not want to be.
	She crossed her legs at the ankles, locked her knees, stuck them far out so that many snowflakes could settle on her jeans. She smiled at him, a real smile, genuine and sweet. Her eyes were dark brown, Indian brown, dark chocolate, brown of the bark of a cedar tree.
	He regarded her without interest, but nonetheless, asked a question that was slipping from everyone else’s lips, and never in front of the girl.
	“What makes you so happy?”
	She knew this question. She knew its intrigue. So many patients at the ward came for depression, for conflicts of anger, for a chemical imbalance inside their bodies that led them to some extreme.
	“I have no chemical imbalance,” she told him, which was one thing he knew, one reason why there was so much reverie. “But I do have decisions, options, choices, and places to be. There is so much life around us, and I may be the only one who can see. I know how precious it is. I don’t have time to waste on things that don’t make me happy; therefore, everything makes me happy, and still, no one agrees.”
	“Does the ward make you happy?” he asked. “Does the cold? The snow? Does being a patient make you happy?”
	“The universe cares about me,” she said carefully. “I’m not fond of the ward, not particularly, but it doesn't make me unhappy.”
	He pondered that for a long while, staring at her without getting too close, as if she could be contagious with some imaginary disease. He was a doctor, and could put his face next to any patient at the ward; but not her. He couldn't look at her for long without being reminded that he was unhappy. Life, love, his career, his wife, it didn't matter if it was a big thing or if it was the taste of the coffee he had every morning; he was unhappy, and people always seemed to be reminded of their unhappiness when they were around her. He was no exception.
	“But how did you escape?” he asked. “How did you get away?”
	She laughed; it was a soft sound, a humorous response, the kind of laugh that Clark Kent would make if someone asked how he survived a burning building, how he got off the seventeenth floor; as if she had a great secret she would laugh to reveal.
	“I put on my coat,” she said. “I take out my gloves. I wrap a scarf around my neck, and I leave my room, my floor, down to the lobby. I smile at the nurses. Sometimes they even talk to me, tell me goodbye or good luck. I don’t do anything, really, but smile and walk to the door, and they let me go. They always let me go. Why would they stop me?”
	He stared at her, his large eyes wide, intelligent and calculative, and he understood exactly. She was a patient who checked herself out nearly every day, a plain girl with unremarkable features but a remarkably happy smile, the sort of smile expected to be seen on a patient who was granted permission to leave. The nurses didn’t question it. No one questioned her, and she was plain enough that her face could never be remembered. The only wonder was her true happiness, but then, looking at her, he couldn’t doubt that she was happy. She was smiling at everything - no, she was beaming, radiating like the sun, grinning, laughing silently, with only a disturbance of breath.
	He wanted her to tell him this secret, this reason she was so happy. Did someone love her? Was it religious? But of course she would always say, “I just decided to be.”

title: [RF] Short Story: Of Harper-Lee

question: What was so intriguing about the woman sitting on the park bench?

answer: She was a patient who checked herself out nearly every day. She had no chemical imbalance that would make her happy, but she seemed to be. She had a remarkable smile, one that made people happy to see.

critique: The answer could be more specific about the woman's condition.

critique: The answer seems to be representative of a scene with the man in the hospital. The narrator's being a happy, smiling, enigmatic and mysterious woman.

critique: The answer could be more specific about her condition.

critique: The answer should mention that she was able to escape the ward.

critique: The answer should mention that the woman was happy despite her unhappiness.

critique: The answer should mention that the woman was happy despite her circumstances.


text:
[Plein Air Painting on Campobello Island and Lubec, Maine, with Michael Chesley Johnson]

_"SMALL WORKSHOPS FOR THE SERIOUS STUDENT"_

Schedule/Signup | Important Information | Customized Workshops | Video | About Michael Chesley Johnson

**Our 16th Season Teaching Plein Air Painting Workshops in Downeast Maine and the Canadian Maritimes!**

Join plein air landscape painter Michael Chesley Johnson for small-size outdoor painting workshops and painting retreats in Lubec, Maine, July-August 2021.

_LOOKING FOR A SMALL WORKSHOP?_ Plein Air Painting Maine plein air painting workshops are limited typically to only 4-6 students. You'll get much more feedback and personal help in these small workshops.

Only 90 miles from Bar Harbor, Maine! Lubec (Maine) and Campobello Island (New Brunswick) are quiet, beautiful retreats for the plein air painter. Think romantic lighthouses, cobblestone beaches, cliff overlooks, broad meadows, working harbours - and lobster! Lubec, Maine, is a historic working waterfront with many opportunities for the painter. Adjacent Campobello Island is home to both the Roosevelt-Campobello International Park and the Herring Cove Provincial Park. Both locations provide lodging and dining to make sure your workshop week is an enjoyable one!

Workshops run Tuesday-Friday, 8-12 Eastern, 9-1 Atlantic. This leaves you plenty of time in the afternoons to explore the area -- or, you can paint more on your own! Lubec, Maine, and nearby Campobello Island offer hiking, biking, kayaking, whale watch tours and more!

_PRICE OF EACH WORKSHOP - ONLY USD $300, NOT INCLUDING LODGING._ **PASSPORT, PASSPORT CARD OR ENHANCED DRIVER'S LICENSE HIGHLY SUGGESTED SO YOU CAN VISIT MICHAEL'S STUDIO ON CAMPOBELLO ISLAND.**

_CLASS SIZE IS LIMITED, SO RESERVE SOON!
Click Here for Schedules and Sign Up_

GROUP WORKSHOPS. If you are part of a painting group, any of the weeks in may be used as a "private" workshop for your group! Contact me to make arrangements.

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

COVID-AWARE WORKSHOPS

To keep students safe, and for everyone's peace of mind, Michael's plein painting workshops will be kept small in size. The studio will allow for plenty of room for students to spread out. Once in the field, everyone must practice "social distancing." Until further notice, face coverings will be required. This will help everyone to enjoy a comfortable and low-risk experience. Thank you!

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

Also Offering Plein Air Painting Workshops in Arizona, New Mexico and Elsewhere in the Southwest at www.PaintTheSouthwest.com.

_ONE OF THE COUNTRY'S TOP PLEIN AIR PAINTERS,_ Michael works in oil and pastel in the American Southwest, coastal Maine and the Canadian Maritimes. He has been an invited artist to many national plein air painting events over the years and has competed in challenging locations such as the Grand Canyon.

Elected a Master Pastellist by Pastel Artists Canada in 2008, he is a Signature Member of the American Impressionist Society and the Pastel Society of America and a juried member of Oil Painters of America. He is the author of _Backpacker Painting: Outdoors with Oil & Pastel_ and _Through a Painter's Brush: A Year on Campobello Island_. A long-time contributor to _The Pastel Journal_ and Contributing Editor for _The Artist's Magazine_, he lives and paints on Campobello Island, New Brunswick, and in northern New Mexico. (Michael also teaches workshops in the winter in the American Southwest. Michael also specializes in teaching small-size plein air workshops in oil and pastel for the intermediate and advanced level painter and for painters desiring mentoring. Visit www.PaintTheSouthwest.com for details. He also travels to teach. Visit the workshop schedule page of his website for details.)

Michael also has a large archive of tips and techniques for the plein air painter on his blog.

_DON'T MISS THIS OPPORTUNITY TO STUDY WITH A MASTER!_

question: What makes Michael Chelsey Johnson a master?

answer: He is an elected Master Pastellist by Pastel Artists Canada in 2008, a Signature Member of the American Impressionist Society and the Pastel Society of America, and a juried member of Oil Painters of America. He is the author of Backpacker Painting: Outdoors with Oil & Pastel and Through a Painter's Brush: A Year on Campobello Island. He is a long-time contributor to The Pastel Journal and Contributing Editor for The Artist's Magazine.

critique: a complete list of where he has been invited as an artist

question: What is plein air art?

answer: It is the art of the landscape done outdoors.

critique: There is no mention of the kind of art being described as a "landscape" and as "outdoors". Both could be added to the answer based on context.

critique: "It is the art of the landscape done outdoors." - is too general and needs more details.


text:
I uncloaked and stared at them. Asleep on a rich red couch.
"There are no more women you simpleton. They... they're gone boy" The deep sense of tragedy shone through my commanders voice even over the cranial RF link. Even though it had been two years, five months and thirteen days since the plague had swept through no man would forget the exact second they saw their spouse, lover, friend...or their child's chest swell with the telltale signs of the plaque only to have their heart detonate before his eyes. Nothing could be done to stop it. No female on Earth had been saved from it to anyone's knowledge. Until now.

As they continued to lay there my mind wandered down the corridors of my past. Remembering the exact second I saw her face, contorted with pain, finally give way to the peace that came at the end. "WAKE UP BOY."

My head swiveled full 180 and noticed at first count 6 enemy heat signatures moving rapidly right at me. Anger gripped my heart - as sickness had gripped hers. Instead of driving me to death - it drove me to action.

Cloak. Vision. Sight. My mantra rang through my mind. Cloak. Vision. Sight. As an afterthought I noticed that my squad was engaged with a force double our own outside the door. 'Grenade. Pull the pin. Throw at the fucking enemy.' My drill sergeant's voice boomed from my memory and I complied. Noticing with satisfaction that three of the bio's in the house with me had piles of heat signature pooling around their thrashing forms.

Then came the part that I enjoyed. A smile lit on my face as I sprinted forward. Core support system dumping oxygen. Rifle on my back, there would be no need for it. No room. I met the first bio before he could realize that the glitter rushing at him was a cloaked human. Jumping up to his shoulders I laid my palm to his forehead and as I sailed past fired the Gauss rifle implanted in my right forearm splattering his human looking brains on his comrades.

Their reaction was too late. I moved like the wind. Since I had first developed the Assassin Aid System and been the first to 'test drive' it there was nothing alive that could match my reaction speed or maneuverability. Before the first corpse hit the floor I was on the second bio. I stood straight up into his jaw causing him to bite off his tongue. I knew from the cameras implanted in my temples that he was dazed. So I relieved him of his confusion and severed his spinal cord with another Gauss round. 40% cell life now.

I let the cloak lift and sprinted to the last visible bio who was still dazed from the grenade I had loosed on him and his own. I ran and jumped into him, letting me knee ram into his chest. As I sailed upwards an ungodly roar filled my throat as I released the pressure driven blade up through, what had been a kneecap, into his beating heart. No, not his. It's heart. These were things to be destroyed.

I forced the retraction mechanism ,squirming a little, as it slid down the hollow tube that had been a bone not but two years ago. I checked on my comrades. My ocular overlay confirmed that no one was KIA and there was only one minor injury. I glanced at my cell charge - 38%.

I turned back to the woman and the girl child. My rage and desire for destruction passed with the lives of the enemy. For now. Erwin came up beside me and looked both of them, very much awake now after all the commotion, over and said under his breath, "Well fuck me. There really are two little ladies here." Then directed at the both of them, "How about coming back to civilization with us?" He let his infamous winning smile flood his broad bald head as both of them sat huddled on the couch - still completely shell shocked. "Well at the very least - Do you fine ladies have any thing some military boys could have for a midnight snack?"

~Plot is getting warmed up now. I don't know how long I'm going to make this story. I can wrap it up quickly or flesh it out some. Let me know what you think :)

title: [Sci-Fi] Rebirth of a Race [Part 3]

question: How does the story reflect its genre?

answer: It is a science fiction genre, in which the protagonist acquires the 'Assassin Aid System' and is cloaked. It is set in a futuristic world with technological advancements, including bio enhancements with implanted cameras.

critique: The narrator has the Assassin Aid System, not the protagonist.

critique: The title is not important to this question.

question: What does the text say about the cloaking device?

answer: The narrator has a cloaking device implanted in his forearm. He can activate it to become invisible and can deactivate it to become visible again. The cloak is activated by a mantra, which is repeated in the narrator's mind. The narrator can use the Gauss rifle implanted in his forearm while cloaked.

critique: The narrator can also use the Gauss rifle while uncloaked.

critique: The narrator is not the only one who has a cloaking device.

critique: The narrator's mantra is not relevant to the question.

critique: The details about the Gauss Rifle are made up.

text: The description of the Gauss rifle is irrelevant.

category: coverage

question: Summaries everything related to the enemies.

answer: The main character and his squad are fighting an enemy squad. Three out of six enemy soldiers blow up with his grenade. The main character utilizes his Assassin Aid System, easily eliminating the remaining enemy squad members.

critique: The enemy squad is not the same as the one the main character is fighting.

critique: The response misses to mention that the main character eliminates the enemy squad by himself.

critique: The story does not describe the enemies as a squad.

critique: The response misses to mention that the main character is fighting the enemy squad.

critique: The answer should mention the gender of the enemies.

critique: The response misses to mention that the main character is a soldier.

question: What does the story say about the identity of the woman and the girl child?

answer: No answer

critique: The response misses to answer the question.

critique: It is omitted that the woman and girl child are the last two females on Earth.


text:
[Actress Torrey DeVitto portrayed the lead role of Sierra Young] _HEBER HOLIDAY_ (2007), also known as _SHOOTING STAR_, is a comedy film starring Torrey DeVitto as Los Angeles actress Sierra Young. Other cast included K.C. Clyde, Erin Chambers, Jimmy Chunga, Michael Birkeland and Thurl Bailey. The film was directed by McKay Daines. The film won six awards in total.[1] The DVD was released on May 5, 2009 under the name _Shooting Star_.[2]

Plot

Sierra Young is a rising ingénue, making $10 million per picture. She's also a spoiled celebrity, who is partying all night, complaining on movie sets and unable to perform well. After a tantrum, in which she gets two black eyes, the director has her sent to a rehab clinic in a remote Utah town. Within a day, she's run away and is taken in by Nettie, who runs a bed and breakfast. Sierra also meets Nettie's grandson, Tyler, head of the local community theater. Sierra invents a name, tells Nettie a wild story, and reads for a part in Tyler's production of “Taming of the Shrew.” Meanwhile, her entourage hires a private eye to find her.

Cast

-   Torrey DeVitto as Sierra Young
-   Erin Chambers as Jodi
-   Thurl Bailey as Mutumbo
-   Scott S. Anderson as Felix
-   K.C. Clyde as Tyler
-   Jimmy Chunga as Hound
-   Matthew Bellows as Jeff
-   Michael Flynn as Mac
-   Hailey Evans as Felicia
-   Sid Clawson as Tye
-   Michael Birkeland as Scott
-   Aaron De Jesus as Chauffeur
-   Reb Fleming as Doctor

Awards

  Award                                         Category              Nominee        Result
  --------------------------------------------- --------------------- -------------- --------
  Foursite Film Festival                        Best Narrative Film   McKay Daines
  Park City Film Music Festival[3]              Best Feature
  Best Feature Film
  Temecula Valley International Film Festival   Best Feature
  Best Feature Film

[1] Heber Holiday awards April 25, 2008.

[2] Heber Holiday aka Shooting Star DVD release Retrieved June 5, 2009.

[3]

title: Heber Holiday

question: Summarize the plot of Heber Holiday.

answer: Heber Holiday is a comedy film starring Torrey DeVitto as Los Angeles actress Sierra Young. She is a spoiled celebrity who is sent to rehab in a remote Utah town. She runs away and is taken in by Nettie.

critique: This does not answer the question and does not describe the plot.

critique: The answer should mention the private eye looking for her.

critique: The film was about Sierra being sent to rehab and running away.

critique: The answer should mention that Sierra meets Tyler, Nettie's grandson.

question: Summarize everything involving Nettie.

answer: Sierra is sent to rehab in a remote Utah town. She runs away from there and is taken in by Nettie, who runs a bed and breakfast. She tells Nettie a wild story about herself. While she is there, her entourage hires a private eye to find her.

critique: The answer omits that Nettie's grandson Tyler is the head of the local community theater.

text: The private eye hired to look for Sierra is irrelevant.

category: coherence

question: What does the text say about the film's inspiration?

answer: No answer

critique: The answer should mention that the text does not mention the film's inspiration.

critique: The text does not say anything about the film's inspiration.

critique: The text doesn't explicitly say, but it can be inferred that the film was inspired by the spoiled celebrity lifestyle.

critique: The answer should mention that the film is a comedy.

critique: The answer should mention that the text doesn't say anything about the film's inspiration.


text:
You have an idea you want to turn into a business. You're excited. You're driven. You have a dream.

But ideas, excitement, drive and your dream will only take you so far. Here are six questions you MUST ask yourself before you start your business.

Watch on YouTube here: HTTPS://YOUTU.BE/Q3SAVRH2LYC

Most of the time, when people think about being a business owner, they think about flashy cars, money, yachts, money, freedom, money… you get the idea.

What most people don't think about is everything that goes into starting a business. The long hours, the lack of money, the sacrifices, and the hard work.

Ideas are meaningless without hard work. Everyone has ideas, thousands a day, and 99.99% of people do nothing with them.

But…!

If you're one of those people who takes action… if you're willing to put in the work… if you're prepared to do whatever it takes…

Then here are…

6 Questions You MUST Ask Yourself Before Starting a Business

_1: What Problem Will I Solve?_

One of the most important questions you need to ask is

  “What problem will I solve?”

If you cannot answer that question, you will struggle.

The problem can be small or large. The problem could be as simple as people want to buy hand made, custom greeting cards, but they can't find any. That's the problem my mother-in-law solves.

Solve one problem, and be the best at solving it, and you'll be able to start your business.

_2: Who Has This Problem? Who Needs My Business?_

After you know what problem your business will solve, you need to know who has that problem. You'll want to know how many people have it, who they are, and where you can find them.

My recommended tool for answering those questions is THE IDEAL CLIENT AVATAR WORKSHEET FOUND HERE.

If you follow the worksheet and answer all of the questions, you'll know who has your problem, what they buy, why they have the problem and all sorts of other information that you can use to market your solution to them.

_3: Why Do I Care?_

If you don’t care about your business, no one else will either. If you're going to start a business, you must care about the problem, the people who have it, and your solution.

I started my business coaching business because I couldn't stand the idea of people being miserable every morning before they went to a job they hated or that they didn't like. Though the memory is fading, I still remember the anxiety and nausea I felt as I stood over my work computer and logged in.

I never want people to feel like I did. And, I want to show people there's a better way to live life.

_4: How will the lives of my customers be better after doing business with me?_

If you're in business just to make money, you'll fail. There has to be something deeper, something more meaningful if you want to succeed. And, that often centers around making the lives of your customers and clients better.

Obviously, unless you're a sociopath, you don't want to make the lives of your clients worse. But making people happy might not be what you think of when you think about starting a business.

If you start a restaurant, you might make their life better by filling your clients' stomachs with healthy and delicious food. If you're an accountant, you might not just want to help people file their taxes, but to save money or get a larger return too.

_How will your clients be better after they buy from you? How can you go above and beyond what's expected and deliver an experience that brings joy?_

_5: What Am I Willing to Sacrifice to Make My Dream a Reality?_

The other day, one of my mastermind clients told me that he never really understood what sacrifice meant. He said that he “got the concept,” but hadn't really experienced it until he started his business.

Before starting a business, make a list of everything you do in a week. Don't just list your activities for a day, but try to log everything you do in a typical seven day period.

After you've done that, make a second list of things that you're willing to give up, stop doing, or could live without while you build your business. Starting a business will cost more time, money, energy, friendships, and resources than you think it will, and you WILL have to make sacrifices.

To be honest, not all of my clients leave my coaching and mastermind program with a business. The people who don't leave the program with a clear path forward often see the things they'll have to sacrifice and grab onto them instead of letting them go.

They decide their dream of starting a business is not worth the hard work and sacrifices it will take to make that dream a reality.

And, also honestly, that's 100% okay.

For me to become a really great golfer, I'd have to spend money on lessons, practice several times a week, and say no to other fun things that I'd like to do. So I just play bad golf. Starting a business is the same way; some people would just rather do other things.

_6: Why Haven't I Started Yet?_

Ok, finally, if you've answered all of the other questions, there's only one left.

If you know the problem you're going to solve, and you know who has the problem you're solving and where you can find them…

If you're clear on what motivates you to fix this problem and you know how you're going to make the world a better place with your product…

And you understand the amount of effort, energy and sacrifice that it will take to get started and to keep going…

The only question that's left is: _Why haven't you started yet!?_

question: What does the text say about ideas?

answer: Before starting anything, ask yourself a vital question: "What problem will I solve?" The problem can be small or large, it could be as simple as people want to buy hand-made, custom greeting cards, but they can't find any.

critique: The answer does not mention the question about ideas being meaningless without work.

critique: The answer should mention that ideas are meaningless without hard work.

text: Everyone has ideas, but they're meaningless without hard work. 99.99% of people do nothing with them.

question: What does the text say about problems?

answer: According to the text, one of the most important questions to ask before starting a business is "what problem will I solve?" The problem can be large or small and can be as simple as people want to buy hand-made, custom greeting cards but can't find any. One of the best ways to answer the question of what problem is solved is by knowing who has the problem, who needs your business.

critique: The response includes extraneous information not useful for the task.

critique: The answer should mention that the author believes that solving a problem is the key to starting a business.

critique: The answer should mention that the problem can be solved by being the best at solving it.

critique: The text does not say one of the best ways to answer the question of what problem is solved is by knowing who has the problem, who needs your business.

question: Summarize how a business owner can make the lives of their clients better?

answer: The author of the article suggests that a business owner can make their clients' lives better by filling their stomachs with healthy and delicious food. They can also save their clients money or get a larger return.

critique: The answer should mention that the author is talking about a hypothetical business.

question: What does the text say about business loans?

answer: No answer

critique: The answer should mention that the text does not mention business loans.


text:
Sometimes when I can’t sleep I find myself turning on the light, to burn through every shadow in every crevice. However, tonight I decided I should stay under my covers for protection.

Something just knocked on my door—it’s not uncommon though. I’m always convinced it’s real, but nobody ever ends up knocking again.

My least favorite time of the year is the middle of October. When the rain starts, the leaves fall, the shadows thrive, and haunted decorations are abundant. Have you ever seen the silhouette of a claw fenced by dim moonlight at the other end of your room? Only to find that when you trace it back to the source, it’s just a shredded leaf chained to the window by hydrogen bonds. October is dreadful, mainly because October is when my insomnia returns. It becomes difficult determining what time it is, and even worse, reality from nightmare. Sometimes I am startled awake in a nightmare, convinced it’s reality. Then I find myself again startled awake by the clash of wind-blown leaves on my window.

A few minutes later I hear it again, the most terrifying three knocks I’ve ever heard—knock, knock, knock. It has to be real. I should just wait for it to go—KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK—away. Between me and the shadows that surround me, the shimmer of moonlight coming through the dampened window, the chaotic air—CRASH—and the famished anxiety.

The anxiety slices through my blanket, through my skull, and releases a flurry of images in my head; IT’S A MAN, a man that will kill for the sake of pleasure, for the feeling of a knife puncturing the skin, for the sweet crack of a skull, for the cascade of hot blood pouring from every wound.

My imagination shifts, perhaps a werewolf? The weight of each footstep might as well be one, each one gets louder—thump, creak, **thump, creak, THUMP, CREAK**. I hear the abrasion of its claws dragging along the stucko layered walls in my hallway. But when it gets to my door, all sounds halt.

An echoing silence fell about my room. After a short while the anxiety has left and I can finally get some fresh air. I ease off the cover and discover everything to be normal. The claw still sits, the rain pitter patters, and the shadows are still dragging themselves through the light.

A wave of relief briefly falls over me, only I don’t recall leaving a crack in my door. I didn’t leave a crack in my door. I open my pupils and grasp every photon from every shadow that resides in my room.

I feel a faint tug of my quilts and instantly slip back into my imagination, the Boogie

Man? The Grim Reaper? A Werewolf? I try to heave my sheets back over me, but there’s resistance on the other end—my eyelids stapled shut. The blanket gets heavier and harder to keep hold. It’s stronger than me. My hands slip and I can hear a tear echoing from the other ends of the sheets. The weight of something presses on my bed by my feet, the mattress begins to sink towards them. It’s starting to crawl up my bed, crawl over me. Every crawl closer creates a new valley next to me, starting from down at my feet, to my knees, to my hips, torso, face.

It hovers over my body. My senses heighten and I can feel the warmth of it engulfing me. The breath of it is heavy and offbeat, maniacal. A drop of saliva drags down my face. I force myself to open my eyes, there’s no other way to stay sane.

I expose my eyes and everything is still black—the image is still being focused. Eyes start to creep into the picture, but everything else is still being pieced together. Still trying to gather as much light as it can. I start to see the outline of its head; then its teeth, the creeping benevolent shining smile—the teeth of a man.

His face edges closer to mine, until he’s less than an inch from mine. He pauses and stares through me—as if to avoid a sense of pain. In the split seconds that I tried to piece his face together, I didn’t notice him scuttle his hands closer. They are on my neck with pressure.

The squeeze comes quickly and suddenly as a boa constrictor would strangle its prey. It’s impossible to escape, no matter how much I struggle. The smile just gets brighter. His face lights up, but the picture of his face reverses. Shadows smother his smile, then his skin, then
the outline of his skull, leaving only his eyes.

I wake up, only to find myself still intact. In a cold sweat I analyze my body; nothing but unscathed flesh. My body feels like there have been no wounds, cuts, stabs, burns, tears, rips, or punctures of any sort on it. It’s all the same; everything in my rooms back to normal, serene. I look at the clock and it see that little time has passed—although it’s difficult to tell on these rainy days. It’s only 1:42 A.M. I must’ve fallen asleep about an hour ago. I sit up on the side of my bed, listen to the crackle of rain calming down outside, and see the shadows still dancing about; there is no leaf greeting me anymore, I am home. I stand up to go turn the light on, rub my eyes, stretch, and start walking towards the switch.

I freeze, staring to the corner of the room. My heart starts racing again, almost as if I were in another dream. Next to the light switch something is out of place. Right next to my door stands a sliver of light peaking its head through the opened crack. I don’t recall leaving my door open.

title: [TH] Light Standing in the Doorway

question: Summarize the main conflict.

answer: The main conflict is the narrator's insomnia. The narrator has a hard time telling reality from nightmare. The narrator has a fear of being killed by a man, a werewolf, or the Grim Reaper. The narrator has a hard time distinguishing between reality and nightmare.

critique: The answer is too clumsy and repetitive, omit line breaks to make it less wordy/detailed.

text: It's omitted that the narrator wakes up during the night and is assaulted by a scary man in his bed.

question: Summarize the interaction between the narrator and the man?

answer: The man outstretches his arm and puts his device around the narrator's neck, squeezing them before scuttling away to leave their body.

critique: The answer is incorrect. The man does not outstretch his arm and put a device around the narrator's neck. The man also does not scuttle away to leave the narrator's body.

text: Most of this answer is incorrect and needs to be rewritten. There is no device in the story, the man uses his hands.

category: accuracy

question: What does the story say about anxiety?

answer: The anxiety caused by the author's struggle to sleep can be life-threatening. It causes them to see images like someone with a knife, a werewolf, the Grim Reaper, and the boogie man. It can be caused by a seemingly harmless or normal thing like a knock on the door or the sound of leaves that come out of the darkness. Anxiety is a severe problem and the author is concerned that the sounds of nature could mask fatal attacks from these monsters. Anxiety forces the author to sleep badly and their body still feels the effects of anxiety when they wake up not long after having been attacked by a monster.

critique: The last sentence is inaccurate. The author was attacked by a monster, not an attack from the boogie man.

critique: It is not stated that the anxiety causes the author to see images like someone with a knife, a werewolf, the Grim Reaper, and the boogie man.

text: It's unnecessary to say that the anxiety is life threatening. This isn't mentioned in the story and should be omitted.

question: What does the story say about nature?

answer: The story describes the protagonist's least favorite time of the year as the middle of October when the rain starts, the leaves fall, the shadows thrive, and haunted decorations are abundant. The protagonist is afraid of the silhouette of a claw fenced by dim moonlight at the other end of the room. The protagonist is also scared of the clash of wind-blown leaves on their window. The protagonist's anxiety is caused by a man, a werewolf, a boogie man, and the Grim Reaper.

critique: The protagonist's anxiety is caused by the man

critique: The highlighted text is irrelevant to the question.

critique: The response is missing the part where the protagonist is being attacked by the man.

critique: The response includes extraneous information not useful for the task.

critique: It is not relevant that the protagonist's anxiety is caused by a man, a werewolf, a boogie man, and the Grim Reaper.

text: It's omitted that the claw is actually a leaf against the window.

question: What does the text say about the benefits of facing your fears?

answer: No answer

critique: The answer should mention that the story does not mention any benefits of facing one's fears.


text:
[White House Medical Unit door placard inside the Eisenhower Executive Office Building.] The WHITE HOUSE MEDICAL UNIT (WHMU) is a unit of the White House Military Office and is responsible for the medical needs of White House staff and visitors. The unit also provides medical care to the President, the Vice President, their families, and international dignitaries visiting the White House.

Role

The WHMU is led by a director, who typically also serves as the Physician to the President. The Physician to the President is chosen personally by the President, while the Director is formally chosen by the Director of the White House Military Office. Since March 2018, the Physician to the President has been Navy Commander Sean Conley.[1]

The medical unit includes active-duty military physicians as well as several physician assistants, registered nurses, and medics, and support staff including an administrator and a medical information technology manager.[2] Under implementing guidelines for the Twenty-fifth Amendment to the United States Constitution, the WHMU Director is the primary official responsible for advising the President's Cabinet on the ability of the President of the United States to discharge the powers and duties of the office.[3][4][5] The final decision, however, rests with the Cabinet as a political, not a medical, decision. The WHMU provides free healthcare to the President, Vice President, and their immediate families, who are eligible for medical care at American military hospitals anywhere in the world.[6] Inpatient medical care at American military hospitals is usually covered by the President or Vice President's personal health insurance.[7]

In addition to direct care duties as outlined above, the WHMU is responsible for all medical contingency planning for the White House and its key personnel. This includes preparing for every presidential or vice presidential trip by developing medical contingency plans, including the identification of hospitals and other facilities at which medical care could be provided. The goal is to ensure that the President is never more than 20 minutes away from a hospital with Level 1 Trauma Center. If this is not possible, the WHMU ensures that a military helicopter is nearby, kept in instant readiness to evacuate the President to an appropriate hospital.[8]

Staff

The total number of staff on duty at the White House Medical Unit varies over time. In 2001, there were 22 total staff,[9] although by 2010 this had risen to 24 total staff.[10] Although the number of physician assistants is not clear, as of 2012 there were five physicians and three medics assigned to the unit.[11] As of 2001, there were six registered nurses assigned to the WHMU, each of whom served a two-year term and was trained and certified in providing emergency care, resuscitation, and trauma care.[12]

[President Barack Obama receives a vaccination from a registered nurse in the White House Medical Unit in 2009.|left] WHMU staff are board-certified in the fields of emergency medicine, family medicine, or internal medicine. All staff also have certification in trauma care and the provision of cardiac life support.[13] According to a 2009 news report, doctors accepted for assignment to the WHMU undergo a full year of trauma care training before joining the staff.[14]

At least one physician is on duty in the Executive Residence at all times.[15]

Staff almost always wear civilian street and medical clothing, since military uniforms would draw sniper fire and prevent the WHMU staff from performing their jobs in an emergency.[16]

Facilities

The White House Medical Unit includes emergency medical and trauma capability at both the White House and the residence of the Vice President of the United States at the United States Naval Observatory.[17] One former Physician to the President described the White House unit as an urgent care center with a crash cart.[18] A medical examination room is also maintained at the Eisenhower Executive Office Building.[19]

Between 1993 and 2001, Rear Admiral Eleanor Mariano reoriented the WHMU more toward the provision of emergency medical services. The unit also began to provide 24-hour care at the White House, and added a medical suite to the vice presidential residence to provide the Vice President with the same level of care provided to the President. A physician now staffs the Vice Presidential medical suite at all times.[20] Because jet lag and extremely long hours are common among WHMU staff, a rule limiting staff to 24-hour duty periods was also implemented, and shift rotations created to allow advance medical team staff to take over from traveling staff to limit fatigue.[21]

Between 2002 and 2009, the WHMU implemented a program to provide medical training specific to the international locales which the President or Vice President might travel. This training helps prepare the medical staff for specific or unusual medical situations needed in each place the President or Vice President visits.[22]

The WHMU also oversees the mobile medical suite aboard Air Force One and Air Force Two. Air Force One contains a full surgical suite with operating table, two beds, resuscitation equipment, various medical monitors, and a full pharmacy.[23][24] Air Force Two contains a first aid unit as well as an automated external defibrillator, oxygen tanks, and limited pharmaceuticals. The WHMU also establishes temporary emergency medical facilities as needed to support presidential or vice presidential trips. These usually consist of an eight-member intensive care and surgical team, and a temporary operating room at each stop. WHMU staff may also carry operating room equipment in backpacks to provide emergency medical care as needed on-site when the temporary operating room is too distant.[25] When the President travels overseas, an advance medical team travel ahead of Air Force One to set up its medical facilities days in advance. This way, a fully rested medical team is available to assist the President upon arrival and take over from the team which traveled aboard the presidential aircraft.[26]

A physician and nurse also travel with presidential motorcades. They are strategically positioned so as to be close enough to respond to an emergency but far enough away to minimize the likelihood of being caught in the event.[27][28]

A WHMU physician and nurse also usually accompany the First Lady of the United States when she travels, but a full medical staff and mobile operating suite are not assigned to her.[29]

Coronavirus participation

The White House Medical Unit handled temperature checks for journalists and others as White House moved limited seating to all briefings.[30]

Footnotes

Notes

Citations

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

[12]

[13]

[14]

[15]

[16]

[17]

[18]

[19]

[20]

[21]

[22]

[23]

[24]

[25]

[26]

[27]

[28]

[29]

[30]

title: White House Medical Unit

question: Summarize the types of positions that make up the WHMU.

answer: The WHMU is led by a director, who typically also serves as the Physician to the President. The Physician to the President is chosen personally by the President, while the Director is formally chosen by the Director of the White House Military Office. The medical unit includes active-duty military physicians as well as several physician assistants, registered nurses, and medics, and support staff including an administrator and a medical information technology manager.

critique: The WHMU also includes medics and support staff.

critique: The answer should mention the role of the WHMU.

critique: The second sentence serves as an introduction to the first and does not answer the question.

critique: The answer should mention the other staff members.

critique: The answer should mention the other positions.

critique: The answer should mention the other positions that make up the WHMU.

question: Summaries the primary responsibilities of the WHMU.

answer: It is responsible for the medical needs of White House staff, visitors, and the President. It is also responsible for medical contingency planning for the White House.

critique: The answer does not mention the role of the director.

critique: It is omitted that WHMU is also responsible for the medical needs of the Vice President and their families.

critique: "It is also responsible for medical contingency planning for the White House." - Add that it primarily looks after the President, Vice President, and their families.

critique: The answer omits the WHMU's responsibility for the medical needs of the Vice President and their families.

critique: The answer omits the WHMU's responsibility for the medical care of the Vice President and their families.

critique: The answer should mention the President's family.

critique: The answer should mention the President's family and international dignitaries.

question: Summarize the medical care available on the Air Force One and Air Force Two.

answer: The Air Force One contains a full surgical suite with a lot of equipment. The Air Force Two contains a first aid unit and a defibrillator. The WHMU also establishes temporary emergency medical facilities as needed to support presidential or vice presidential trips.

critique: The WHMU has nothing to do with the Air Force One and Air Force Two.

critique: The answer should mention the mobile medical suite.

critique: "The WHMU also establishes temporary emergency medical facilities as needed to support presidential or vice presidential trips." - the WHMU already supports presidential and vice presidential trips. This sentence is redundant and can be deleted.

critique: The response includes extraneous information not useful for the task.

critique: This response does not answer the question. The question asks about the medical care available on the Air Force One and Air Force Two.

critique: The answer should mention the medical staff.

question: Summarize the potential for security breaches on the Air Force One and Two, and the preventative measures in place.

answer: The Air Force One and Two both contain a first aid unit as well as an automated external defibrillator. While they do contain a full surgical suite, the equipment is limited. However, the White House Medical Unit is responsible for establishing temporary emergency facilities as needed. They also carry operating room equipment in backpacks to provide emergency medical care as needed on-site.

critique: The answer is irrelevant and should be rewritten.

critique: The response is missing the part about the WHMU being responsible for establishing temporary emergency facilities as needed.

critique: The answer does not address the question.

critique: The answer doesn't address the question.

critique: This answer is not relevant to the task.

critique: Remove the last two sentences, since they are not necessary for answering the question.


text:
I was sixteen when I first saw him sitting in my deceased Grandfather’s rocking chair. It had been a long summer’s day spent playing football over the local playing field, so I went to sleep rather early, while all of my friends were down the beach beginning their long and lustrous love affairs with drugs and alcohol. Some of them never quite recovered from the addictions they picked up during that scorching summer of 1994. Funnily enough, I brushed shoulders with a couple of them at various AA meetings that I attended later in my life.
While the rush of drugs and alcohol never appealed to me in my teen years – I’d lived a sheltered life under the wing of a controlling Mother and paid particular attention to the horror stories she told – there became a drastic need as life went on for me to use to fight myself to sleep.

Anyway, I remember dreaming of fucking Lucy Barker, the girl I’d always fancied but never felt. I was a teenager and a virgin, so sex was a prominent theme of all of my dreams. Things were escalating rather quickly when I was ripped from the fantasy by the peculiar instinct of being watched.
I shot up like a spring and instantly stared into the corner where my Grandfather’s rocking chair was. I turned pale and felt my stomach perform several somersaults that would take the Olympic gold for gymnastics. In the chair sat a very ordinary looking man, no sharp teeth or claws. He sat there with his lips firmly closed and all of a sudden I heard his voice inside of my head: ‘Beware the subtle loss of life.’

By the time I’d made it to the bedroom light he was gone. Questions arose in my frantic mind, questions that would be answered in the future – was I still asleep? Did I imagine the whole ordeal?
Weeks passed and eventually so did the months without any further incident. Just to be safe I had my Father store my Grandfather’s rocking chair in the attic, chalking up some shitty excuse about how it reminded me of him and brought nothing but sadness.

Despite the lack of visits from the ordinary man, as I’d come to call him, I found myself waking earlier and earlier each morning. Once I was awake there was no chance of me returning to slumber. I was fortunate enough to be mollycoddled by my wealthy parents and therefore I had no school, or work to get up for. So each time I woke I stuck on my PlayStation and bashed the buttons until the sun came up.

Eventually I forgot all about the ordinary man and was concerned only by the non-existent hours of shut eye. I was in my early twenties now and that was when I first turned to alcohol and behold for some wildly unknown reason I began to sleep again.
I slept like a baby each night and by the time I learned to deal with the hangovers I felt better than I ever had. Sure, I was quite a bitter drunk and it got me thinking about my childhood and how I’d abused the good nature of my Mother and Father, but these thoughts had disappeared by the time the morning came.

I would drink alone mostly and would rarely leave my parents’ house, despite my Mother’s pleas for me to find a job and someone I could eventually call a wife. I’d developed a particular liking to whisky and was drinking at least three quarters of a litre a day.

One night I passed out on my bed still fully clothed and drifted into a deep darkness. That’s when the ordinary man returned. Once more I shot up like that night in my teenage years to see him, no sharp teeth or claws, sat in my Grandfather’s rocking chair, the chair I had not seen for years.

He smiled. He smiled and began to open his mouth, as this time he spoke the words: ‘Beware the subtle loss of life.’

What did he mean? I racked my brains for an answer, plucking at every space imaginable, but still I drew a blank and still he sat there rocking and grinning, that fucking chair creaking. It was a smile that would look pleasant on anyone other than him. On him it looked like the smug crease of the lips of the devil. He waved his hand at me and disappeared along with the blasted rocking chair.

When the sun returned to the sky I was surprised how easily I’d fallen back to sleep. I had almost forgotten about the visit from the ordinary man when I felt a sudden chill which reminded me somewhat harshly of the previous evening’s brief calling.

What was the significance of my Grandfather’s rocking chair? More importantly, what was the ordinary man trying to say to me? I was no longer afraid; it was more of an inconvenience. After all, who was this man to disturb my sleep?

I did get a hold of my alcoholism, but it was too late. Both of my parents had passed on, leaving me with a healthy amount of money and two properties to enjoy, but it was too late. The jaundice had kicked in and after several trips to the doctor it became clear that I had liver cancer.

As I write this I only have a few weeks left to live, but last night I received my final visit from the ordinary man.

There I was lying fast asleep with tubes coming out of me like the tentacles of an octopus, when as clear as day there he sat in my Grandfather’s rocking chair, but he no longer had a smile on his face.
‘I tried to warn you, my child. I did my best, but you would not listen – even when I was alive you were such a spoilt child, such a taking child.’
Startled I replied asking him what he meant by this.
‘I am no ordinary man as you have come to call me, but I am your Grandfather. You do not recognise me because you never took the time to notice, or even ask what I looked like in my early years. You were so self-absorbed that life was only what it meant to you.’
He gave me no chance to reply and vanished, but he spoke the truth. A truth I had never bothered to investigate myself, as I was too busy taking from others – wearing my parents down into sickness and eventually death. And what do I have to show for such a wasted life of which I applied no effort? I will die alone here in this cancer ward with no-one to leave me flowers, with no-one to visit my grave.

title: The Ordinary Man

question: What does the story say about why the ordinary man visited the narrator repeatedly?

answer: The ordinary man visited the narrator when he was a teenager and again when he was in his early twenties. The first time he visited, he warned the narrator about the subtle loss of life. The second time he visited, he revealed himself to be the narrator's grandfather and said that he tried to warn him about wasting his life. It's later revealed that the narrator wasted his life by not investigating his Grandfather's life properly, and he was dying of liver cancer.

critique: The story does not say that the ordinary man is the narrator's grandfather. It says he is his grandfather.

critique: The response includes details out of sequential order.

critique: The narrator's grandfather visited him when he was in his early twenties, not in his early twenties.

critique: The narrator's grandfather visited him when he was sixteen.

critique: The narrator's grandfather is not the ordinary man.

critique: The narrator's grandfather visited him when he was in his early twenties.

text: The ordinary man does reveal to that he is the narrator's grandfather on the second visit.

question: What does the story say about why the narrator referred to the old man's ghost as the ordinary man?

answer: The narrator first saw the ordinary man when he was sixteen years old. The first time the narrator saw the ordinary man, he sat on a rocking chair in the corner of a room. The ordinary man told the narrator, "Beware the subtle loss of life." The ordinary man, who the narrator thought was in his 20s, had the features of a very old man. The ordinary man returned when the narrator was 21 or 22 years old, but he didn't always look like the ordinary man. He usually looked like a much older man. The ordinary man said he's the narrator's Grandfather, not an ordinary man. The ordinary man came to the narrator's house when no one was there.

critique: The response contains a lot of irrelevant information.

critique: The response is a summary of the story and not an answer to the question.

critique: This is more of an external narrative than the core narrative of the text.

critique: The response contains inaccurate information.

critique: The response includes extraneous information not useful for the task.

critique: The narrator's Grandfather is the ordinary man, not the ordinary man.

critique: The response includes several inaccuracies.


text:
1

It had only been a few days since we had left the mainland, and only a week since the infection had been first reported. Corpses scattered across war zones, covered with the settled remnants of radioactive dust from chemical weapons had begun reacting... twitching... moving. It was only a day later that the first scientists and reporters became the first victims and the first living humans turned. From there, the destruction and rate of infection had exploded.

Within 24 hours of the firsts, reports came in of massive hordes of reanimated corpses occupying major cities... turning all that stood in their way. Several countries tried sending their armies to quell the situation, but that only worsened it. Guns only did so much to zombie armies, hundreds of thousands deep, and with large explosions from tanks and bombs, came even wider contamination due to the chemicals in the corpses being disturbed and pushed higher into the atmosphere. It had become airborne...

The only escape was to rural areas, or to the sea. I chose the latter... it was only a matter of time before even the rural areas would not be as safe as people had hoped.

"LAAAAAAND!"

An island... Those in charge had said that there we would be safe from any sort of infection. We were students and teachers. Soldiers and doctors. Men, women, and children. We were, quite possibly, one of the few hopes for maintaining the species.

"Where the hell are we?" Sgt. Reynolds barked at one of the older gentlemen who had been appointed captain of the vessel. The original captain was... well, he didn't make it. Reynolds was a former Drill Instructor and has taken to appointing himself the leader of our group. At least we had someone to tell us what to do... Most of us were so disillusioned with the situation that we could barely talk.

There were only a few dozen of us who had made it onto the ship from the harbor. It was a miracle any of us had made it off the mainland alive, and even more so considering the only food we had we were lucky enough to have recovered from the bowels of the ship. It seemed as if the original captain had been preparing to live at sea until he could come up with a plan as to how the hell he could survive in a world full of flesh devouring corpses... But food for one man only goes so far between a group.
Zombies. They were fucking zombies. All of the films and stories had done nothing more than make us lower our guard as to how real a possibility the walking dead were.

"I have no idea, but we don't have the resources to care right now."
Most everyone was on deck, now, staring at the monolithic island before us. Whether we liked it or not, it was our new home, for now anyways. I, for one, was eager to get off the ship. I had always been afraid of the emptiness of the ocean. Funny how little your fear of the unknown matters when you’re faced with fear of something much greater and much more terrifying. Still, it felt great to know I would be able to step off of that heap I considered to be my floating coffin.
Staring at the coastline, all I could see was sand, and a thick tree line leading into a lush forest. I was looking at trees I had never seen before that looked like they had been there for far longer than I could imagine. Vines and thick brush started to come into view the closer we got. And then something in the trees... Fruit! Or at least something that resembled the fruit I was familiar with! We were going to be able to survive for at least some time longer. Relief flooded my body. Relief that we were going to be ok. That I wasn't going to die at sea with no hope of survival. Relief that...

My eyes locked onto something in the underbrush as we closed in further on the island. Something reflective... but what? The relief turned to panic as I realized what I was staring at. We were being watched. Those were eyes.

I glanced around for Reynolds. We needed to be prepared that we might have company when we landed. The undead? Impossible. Not this far out, there was no way. By the time I had looked back, the eyes were no longer visible to me. Maybe I was seeing things...
"Start unloading some supplies for a reconnaissance team to check out the island and we'll see if we can find any food, shelter, or signs of intelligence on this rock." Reynolds booming voice effortlessly carried itself.

I had convinced myself that I just needed to get off of the boat when a shriek erupted from the forest. A sound like nothing I had ever heard. The sound of a screaming jet engine combined with the emotional tones of something living... something communicating. Birds flew from the canopy of the forest as we all stared silently into the mysterious interior of the island.

"It doesn't matter, we can't stay on board," Reynolds projected over the deck, already knowing what we were all silently wondering.
"Besides, nothing can really be as bad or as frightening as what we've all already seen and been through..."

None of us could have possibly known how wrong he was.

title: I'm writing a short story... well, it's turning into a long story, about zombies and dinosaurs.  I would love some feedback.

question: What does the story say about the species of dinosaur that was on the island?

answer: No answer

critique: The question is asking for information that is not in the text.

critique: The passage says that the dinosaur is "somewhere in the trees."

question: What does the text say about the setting of the story?

answer: The story takes place after a zombie pandemic has swept the world. The main character and his group of survivors take refuge on a ship. They eventually make it to an island that seems to have fruit trees and a lush forest, which indicates it is a tropical paradise. The island seems to have a reptile species that is not dinosaur.

critique: The island has fruit trees and a lush forest, which indicates it is not a tropical paradise.

critique: There is no indication in the text that the island has a reptile species.

critique: The island has dinosaur-like creatures, not reptiles.

critique: The abundance of fruit trees, a hiding dinosaur, etc. on the island seem pretty implausible.

question: What does the story say about humanity's last hope of maintaining the species?

answer: The narrator and the rest of the group of survivors were students and teachers, soldiers and doctors. They were one of the few hopes for maintaining the species. They were going to be ok and that they would survive for some time longer.

critique: The group of survivors were not the last hope for maintaining the species.

critique: The answer omits the fact that the narrator and the rest of the group were students and teachers, soldiers and doctors. They were one of the few hopes for maintaining the species.

critique: The last sentence is not relevant to the question.

critique: The answer does not mention their destination.

critique: This is false. They were not going to be ok because they were going to land on the island and probably face the walking dead.

critique: This entire response does not make sense and does not follow the question. It should be omitted.

question: What does the story say about the island the group was heading for?

answer: The group was heading for an island because it was the last escape route for them. The island looked beautiful with trees and a thick forest. The trees looked like they had been there for far longer than the narrator could imagine. There were fruits on the trees, which meant that the group could survive for a while longer. The narrator was relieved and excited.

critique: The group was not heading for an island because it was the last escape route for them. The narrator was relieved and excited at the prospect of finding food and shelter.

critique: The group was not heading for an island because it was the last escape route for them. It was the last escape route because the mainland was overrun by zombies.

critique: The answer omits the terrifying shriek that the group hears as they approach the island.

critique: The answer should mention the shriek that the group heard.

critique: The answer should mention the shriek from the forest.

critique: The group was not heading for the island because it was the last escape route for them. It was the last escape route because the mainland was overrun with zombies.

critique: Specify that the trees were unknown to the narrator and that they were strange with vines and thick brush.

critique: The answer omits the terrifying shriek that the group heard when they were approaching the island.


text:
The director’s face was the first I saw upon returning. I had hoped it would be my mothers. His bifocals were constantly sliding down that pointy nose, and I could tell he was nervous from the constant smoothing of the stringy hair around his ears. Several emotions flickered across his face at once: fear, joy, excitement, jealousy. The last made me uncomfortable, and I shifted under the large man’s eager stare.

“Well… what did you see?” he asked, rubbing his forehead with a handkerchief. His voice was higher than normal; normal being already slightly feminine. The others in the room stared expectantly, pen and paper ready in each pair of hands. Reporters, news camera crews, journalists, and anyone else who wanted exclusive information was jammed into the already cramped room. If I had more of an ego, I may have enjoyed the attention. Perhaps even more so if I had anything to tell them.

They thought I was the perfect candidate, considering my experience. Every trip to the past had included me, either on my own or accompanying a person or group. They thought that I was good luck. I knew better, knew that I was the opposite. The first time, I had caught cholera, and had nearly died in Nottingham. The second, a stray Mongol arrow had all but pierced my heart. The rest are a jumble of disease, famine, natural disasters, and war casualties. Each time, as I was about to die, I was brought back to the present and the ailment cured. They told me it was worth it, for science and history. None of them ever volunteered to join me.

If it hadn't been news of the meteor, I may have continued my disastrous missions into history. It had been kept quiet at first, but news leaked out, as it always does. People began to panic, rioters hit the streets, and religious extremists gained billions of followers. Of course, nobody knew if the meteor would actually hit; it all depended on the timing. Either a direct collision, pulled by our gravity, or else it will pass extremely close and shoot towards the sun. Impossible to tell.
Then the director had his brilliant plan; if we could see the past, why not the future?  In the state of panic, everybody jumped on board. The director became a sort of celebrity, and funding was raised quickly. And who better, he asked, to lead this mission, but the one who had been a part of all previous missions. I tried to oppose, of course, but they wouldn't hear it. I was going.

I knew all along there was nothing to be seen. Even as they were inputting the coordinates, I was trying to decide what to say. You cannot predict the future; you cannot know it, because it does not yet exist. There are many possibilities, many different ways it could run. Astrologists and prophets appear successful, because they predict the most likely outcome, and brag intelligence or giftedness when it comes about. But there was no likely outcome, no easily discernible pattern to follow. It was one or the other, left or right, death or life. Heads or tails.

I glanced down, as the face of George Washington stared mockingly up at me. With a practiced smile and show of relief, I proclaimed that we would survive; the meteor will pass close enough that offshoots will create much damage, but Earth will remain intact.

Celebratory whoops and hollers filled the room, and the director did something of a dance. I smiled, shaking hands and giving hugs as everyone came to congratulate me. There was no happiness, no excitement, as I wait until the day the meteor would arrive. If I were to be honest with myself, I hope it hits us.

Nobody will judge you when you are dead.

title: Our Future, or Lack-Thereof

question: Identify the loophole in the story.

answer: The narrator travels back in time and reports to the director that they will survive the meteor. The director is less than thrilled that the meteor was no longer a threat, but exuberant over the prospect of further trips. The story ends with the narrator hating the fact that the meteor is no longer a threat, since it means he can no longer travel back to the time of when the meteor is supposed to strike the Earth. The narrator is not happy traveling back in time anymore because there is no point, the meteor goes into space, and people are happy that there seems to be nothing to fear.

critique: The narrator is not happy traveling back in time anymore because there is no point, the meteor goes into space, and people are happy that there seems to be nothing to fear. is not stated.

critique: The story does not end with the narrator hating the fact that the meteor is no longer a threat.

critique: The story does not say that the director is less than thrilled that the meteor was no longer a threat.

critique: The narrator is not happy traveling back in time, period.

critique: The narrator is not happy traveling back in time anymore because there is no point, the meteor goes into space, and people are happy that there seems to be nothing to fear. is not correct.

critique: Forecasting the future is not a loophole in the story.


text:
In my hands I held a dandelion, one of those little yellow flowers that accompany ball of fluff that I was fond of blowing at and watching the little white parachutes fly off in to the sky. I twirled the flower between my fingers, having already used up the ball of fluff that had grown from the same set of leaves in the ground. My eyes scanned the ground for another ball of fluff, but none were in sight. When I looked back at the stem in my hands I saw that all the yellow pedals had turned black and were beginning to flake off of the stem, floating to the ground.

I studied the remains that were in my hand, until they were devoid of any structure and fell from my fingers as ashes. I was just a young child at the time, I don’t even recall the age of that memory. But it was the first inkling of what was to be the future.

I only had a couple pets as a child, a hamster, a dog, and a pair of goldfish. The hamster, Zoey, would run on his little wheel all day. Until I reached my hand into his cage and grabbed him from it. I held Zoey in my hand against my chest, while I petted him with my other hand. He was remarkably peaceful and calm. I kept petting him until my mother took him from my hand. She picked his limp body up from me and began screaming when she realized that he was dead.

Our dog, Dante, was my father’s animal. He curled up under my dad’s reclining chair when they watched TV. Dante was never interested in me, and when I would pet him he wouldn’t stand around long, always quickly finding some place to run off to. It was a day that we were taking Dante to the vet, when he was stuck in the back seat of my mom’s car with me. I had my hand laying on his back for the entire ride. When we got to the office Dante didn’t hop out of the car. He never moved again. My dad buried him in the back yard.

The gold fish out lived my mother. She kept them in the living room and would feed them herself before she went to bed. They were her ‘fair fish’ that she had won at the state fair and had nurtured for years. When my mom passed, I fed them for the last day of their lives. They were belly up afterwards.

My mother was chronically ill. She never held a job in my memory, and she finally passed away from illness when I was only twelve. At the funeral my dad held my hand for most of the service, until he began coughing so fitfully that he had to walk from the church and clear his lungs outside.

At twelve I couldn’t figure out why the path I took to school was decorated by dead plants on both sides. Kids in my class got ill often, and I had a lot of substitute teachers.

Years and years passed before anyone connected the dots. I simply thought that death was a common fact of life. But as more people that I knew piled up, as I lost one high school friend after another, people noticed. They decided that I had a disease, that somehow death followed me.

I was sent to quarantine where men in white suits tested me over and over. They said the disease was airborne, that I didn’t need to touch for death to spread. The men in the white suits began to fall ill, then dead. They first thought that their suits needed to be upgraded, that somehow they were breathing in my deadly fumes. After it continued to happen they sent me to London, then to Zaire, where the outcome was still the same, anyone in the same building as me died.

Whatever it was I was infecting others with I was immune to and I was the only carrier of.

I was kept in a vault, deep inside of a mountain. I felt like a piece of gold or some valuable jewel. I heard murmurs that I was to be used as a weapon. I was to be sent to countries to clear them of opposition.

But my potential for disaster was too great for their fail-safes. An animal that wasn’t meant to be caged cannot be. The people controlling the vault died away.

One last attempt was made to secure me onto a plane headed to Chernobyl, to live in isolation, maybe to simply die in isolation. But as the doors to my room were unlocked they released a plague that had been held back by those led lined portals. Everyone within the mountain died instantly.

I walked from the vault, through hallways of lifeless bodies. By the time I found my way out of the maze of quarantine I had passed hundreds of newly extinct people. I could no longer look at their faces, they only made me wish that I would die myself.

Outside of the mountain more lay dead. I crouched beside the body of a young woman, her face was unlined, her eyes were open, even lifeless I found her attractive. I felt tears on my cheeks when I realized that I would never know her name.

II

I think I’m twenty-five now, I could be older or younger, it’s been hard to keep track of days, weeks and years. It feels like a dream or a movie where I’m the only one left alive.

I wonder from place to place. Since I left the mountain I haven’t head a scream or a cry. I am left here alone to wonder why during all of this time I haven’t died. Everywhere the smell of rotting death is in the air. Bugs don’t even crawl on the slowly decomposing bodies.

As I walk through this valley, this valley of death, I haven’t seen a live body in years. I must be the last one left.

My water is running low and I’ve resorted to drinking from puddles that smell of rotting bodily fluids. My body aches with hunger, its growing weak. The pain that I’m going through tells me that this isn’t any dream.

Falling to my knees, I scream at the top of my lungs. I can hear my voice echo back to me, all the way from the sun. Nobody comes. When it is all said and done I fall to the sand, too weak to push myself back up, to dehydrated to shed tears. There I see what has eluded me since I was a child, a small yellow dandelion wiggling in the breeze, a small white ball of puff, beside it. It’s the only thing alive I’ve seen. With my last strength I reach out, and my hand falls on its base. It withers and dies.  I wonder why am I the last one?

title: Sickness (1200 Words)

question: Summarize the narrator's problem.

answer: The narrator has some sort of disease, and it kills everyone around them. No one knows what it is. The narrator is taken to a vault, and then to London, where for some reason the disease spreads. This kills everyone in the building. The narrator is placed in isolation, and it seems the disease spreads again.

critique: The narrator is taken to Zaire, not London.

critique: The answer omits the fact that the narrator is taken to Zaire, where the disease kills everyone there as well.

critique: There is one missing sentence at the end of the answer. This should be added to the response to strengthen it.

critique: The narrator is the carrier of the disease.

critique: The narrator is not placed in isolation.

question: Summarize what happens after the narrator is released from the mountain.

answer: After the narrator leaves the mountain, there is a valley made up of the dead, no insects or anything alive except bodies. There is nobody out of touch with the narrator. The narrator scream's but there's no one to hear. They feel like they are walking through a valley of death and they must be the last one of all the living. They are starving, dehydrated, everything besides the vista is lifeless and all they can do is pluck a small dandelion and put it out.

critique: The valley is full of dead bodies, not people.

critique: The narrator does not scream in the desert.

critique: Correct the subjunctive "must be the last one"

critique: The valley of death is not made up of the dead.

question: Summarize how the narrator became like this.

answer: No answer

critique: The summary should include details about the narrator's situation.

critique: The answer should mention the narrator's disease.


text:
Damn. Now I really didn't see this happening. Of all the things to happen at this bland school and this is the shit that happens. Wow. I guess I'm getting a bit carried, let me start from the beginning.
          My school, Jefferson Middle School, is rather boring, nothing really exciting happens here except the occasional girl drama that usally goes like, "Brian likes me! Not you, skany hoe!" And ends in a matter of three days. I'm usually quiet, if you were to call me "popular girl," you would be wrong but calling me a "nerd" wouldn't be right either. I was just sort of there. I had my friends and that's all I needed. That's where this story starts. With my friend, Daniel. Daniel was a pretty intresting boy. All acceralted classes, loved video games and comics, and wasn't bad looking at all. Over the first year of middle school, Daniel and I became pretty close. Hanging out after school and learning about eachother. It was pretty nice. Daniel loved life and he wasn't afraid to show it. If he had something to say, oh would he say it, but he was never disrespectful about it. He was always being a gentlemen. People always said shit about him.
         "Oh! Did you hear about Daniel? I heard he was sucking cock in the bathroom!"
         "Daniel the fag!"
         "Daniel should go burn in fucking hell with all the other fags that enjoy buttsex!" Get the trend here? They kept on saying he was gay, over and over. Through messages on Facebook, notes, or even writing on bathroom walls, which is very cliche. There have been times where I have asked if he was gay and I would get the same answer every time.
          "Do you think I am?" Over and over, he never changed it. Daniel was really proud and he felt as if he shouldn't state if he were gay or not and I really admire that about him. 8th grade started and I assumed that the gay jokes would have gotten old by now, but they didn't. They actual got worse. More people started calling him a "fag, dick-sucker," and spreading rumors that I don't even wanna remember. I noticed a change in Daniel, he wasn't as outgoing, didn't speak his mind, became less quite, less proud. I tried helping him, I really did but it never worked. He seemed to just become more depressed. Those kids never noticed either, they just attacked him more and more, getting more ruthless with each insult. This drama was lasting way more than three days and I wasn't sure what would happen. Shit even got worsed.
          That's when I heard the intercom come on one day during class.
       "Students, I am sad to announce that our student, Daniel Rigsbee, has died yesterday." They didn't tell us how he died, but we all knew. He killed himself. The voice of the principal announcing his death was so fucking emotionless, it made it seem as if Daniel was some character in a movie that died. Everyone was silent. I was filled with anger. Those ruthless bastards did this. They didn't know when to stop. The minute the bell rang, I sprinted to his house asking if it was true was they said today. His father simply nodded and beckoned me in. He said that there was a note left in his room directed to me and "bitches." I walked to his room, feeling as if I was going to puke. I found the note, all directed in rainbows, colors, and smiley faces. It made me sick. I opened the note with nervoness and read.
        "Dear Juno and the son of bitches at school. Let me make this clear. I am not fucking gay. I am as straight as the pole your mom dances on. I should not have to tell people this, it's my life and you shouldn't be butting in. Pun intended. You caused this and I hope you feel great. You did it! You've killed me! I'm not gonna say that this wasn't your guys' fault because fuck that. It totally was. I hope you live with that burden that you killed me for your whole life. Juno, I hope you live a great life and don't cry over me, you didn't cause this. You are amazing and don't let people do what they did to me to you. I would punch their neck. (:
                                            Bye,
                                                  Daniel-Not fucking gay-Rigsbee
        What the fuck? That wasn't sad at all. This was the Daniel that I knew. He killed himself because he was done of the shit. I don't think he felt sorry or anything. I don't even know. As I turned to leave, I found something else. It was another note reading, "I hope this was exciting enough for you, Juno. I am a coward. I wasn't gonna deal with this anymore. They didn't win, remerber that. I won. They get to deal with my death. -Daniel"
         Fucking. Daniel.

title: Uhhmm...Well I'm 13 and I would like to be a writer when I get older so here's one of my short stories. Reviews? Be honest.

question: What does the story say about bullying?

answer: The author believes bullies didn't care about Daniel and that their bullying tactics might have made Daniel commit suicide. She believes the bullies are the ones who killed her friend. She points out that the bullies were unrelenting, and the only resolution he could find was to kill himself.

critique: The first sentence is a bit confusing. It would be better to say that the author believes bullies didn't care about Daniel and that their bullying tactics might have made him commit suicide.

question: Summarize the narrator's relationship with Daniel.

answer: Juno and Daniel are best friends and have been since 8th grade. She cares deeply for him. However, she didn't notice the student body's cruelty towards him. She was angry when she heard he committed suicide.

critique: The answer should mention that Daniel is the one who committed suicide.

critique: The narrator's anger at Daniel's death is omitted.

text: It is stated that they are friends, not best friends; they have not been friends since 8th grade but longer.

question: Summarize the school's reaction to Daniel's death.

answer: No answer

critique: The answer should mention that the school's reaction was emotionless.

question: What does the story say about the bullies' reaction to Daniel's note?

answer: No answer

critique: The response can include the actual content of the note because it's declared to be public in the story.

critique: The response is incorrect. The story does not say anything about the bullies' reaction to Daniel's note.

critique: The response is not related to the passage.

critique: The answer should mention that the bullies did not react to the note.

critique: The answer should mention that the bullies didn't have a reaction.