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fiction
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?
What time of day did Walter die?
Unanswerable
[ "early evening", "afternoon time", "early morning", "not enough information" ]
3
f004_15
f004
15
fiction
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?
Where did the author go on April 3?
Factual
[ "not enough information", "to Walter's funeral", "to work", "on vacation" ]
1
f004_16
f004
16
fiction
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?
When did Walter die?
Temporal_order
[ "Today", "Before April 2nd", "After April 3rd", "not enough information" ]
1
f004_17
f004
17
fiction
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?
Immediately after the end of this text, how does the author feel?
Subsequent_state
[ "sad", "not enough information", "happy", "impressed" ]
0
f004_18
f004
18
fiction
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?
Martha is:
Unanswerable
[ "not enough information", "Dancer", "Doctor", "School teacher" ]
0
f004_19
f004
19
fiction
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?
At the funeral, the author thinks that:
Belief_states
[ "it's awkward to see someone in their most vulnerable condition", "the package is evil", "not enough information", "it's funny to see someone dead" ]
0
f004_20
f004
20
fiction
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?
Why did the author think Walter's death might be a joke?
Causality
[ "not enough information", "because Walter was suicidal", "because Walter was a little crazy", "because it occurred on April fools day" ]
3
f004_21
f004
21
fiction
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?
The writer found out about Walter's death:
Temporal_order
[ "before April fools day", "during breakfast", "after eating breakfast", "not enough information" ]
1
f004_22
f004
22
fiction
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?
The author believes that:
Belief_states
[ "not enough information", "women are able to make a kind of spontaneous connection", "pigs can fly", "the package did not exist" ]
1
f004_23
f004
23
fiction
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?
How did Walter die?
Factual
[ "not enough information", "suicide", "he did not really die, it was a joke", "foul play" ]
1
f004_24
f004
24
fiction
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?
How is Martha feeling at the funeral?
Entity_properties
[ "happy", "indifferent", "not enough information", "sad" ]
3
f004_25
f004
25
fiction
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?
Why did the writer assume the package was a painting?
Causality
[ "because the writer liked to paint", "because Walter's neighbor appreciates art", "not enough information", "because Walter liked to paint" ]
3
f004_26
f004
26
fiction
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?
What is probably true about Martha?
Entity_properties
[ "not enough information", "she hates the author", "she hates art", "she likes art" ]
3
f005_0
f005
0
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
Why was the main character upset?
Causality
[ "not enough information", "His father said he was going to sell the general store", "Tommy refused to share his tip", "Ma told him he could not go to the Eiffel Tower" ]
1
f005_1
f005
1
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
After he end of the story, who takes over the general store?
Subsequent_state
[ "Pa", "not enough information", "Tommy Benson", "James H Johnstone" ]
3
f005_2
f005
2
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
When did the children of New Jerusalem gather around Tommy?
Temporal_order
[ "After Tommy returned from Salt Lake City", "not enough information", "After Tommy went to the Eiffel Tower", "After Tommy had received a tip from James Johnstone" ]
3
f005_3
f005
3
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds
Temporal_order
[ "before 1975", "not enough information", "during 1975", "after 1975" ]
2
f005_4
f005
4
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
People in Utah all believed Pa is an Ambassador for
Belief_states
[ "not enough information", "China", "Germany", "France" ]
3
f005_5
f005
5
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
How did the Saints come to run most of the general stores in New Jerusalem?
Unanswerable
[ "Gold they found in San Francisco", "They owned the Zephyr Speedball", "not enough information", "Careful investment strategies with Wells Fargo" ]
2
f005_6
f005
6
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
The main character thought that
Belief_states
[ "James H Johnstone would be a bad owner for the general store", "not enough information", "James H Johnstone would be a great ambassador to 1975", "James H Johnstone would be a great owner for the general store" ]
0
f005_7
f005
7
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
Who dissapeared?
Unanswerable
[ "not enough information", "my mother", "my friend", "James H. Johnstone" ]
0
f005_8
f005
8
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
why my father told me we'd be going away for a while
Causality
[ "not enough information", "because he had a social commitment", "because he had celebration", "because he had new job" ]
3
f005_9
f005
9
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
What is probably true about father?
Entity_properties
[ "not enough information", "he is very angry", "He is very kind", "he is very funny" ]
2
f005_10
f005
10
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
Where does the main character believe James H Johnstone live?
Entity_properties
[ "Beach", "City", "not enough information", "Farm" ]
1
f005_11
f005
11
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
where was I born?
Factual
[ "France", "not enough information", "China", "New jerusalem" ]
3
f005_12
f005
12
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
I was in new Jerusalem for
Event_duration
[ "not enough information", "two years", "ten years", "five years" ]
2
f005_13
f005
13
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
Who rode the weekly Zephyr speedball to the town?
Character_identity
[ "The Saints", "James H Johnstone", "not enough information", "Tommy Benson" ]
1
f005_14
f005
14
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
after the end of this story, the narrator is:
Subsequent_state
[ "sick", "not enough information", "upset", "happy" ]
2
f005_15
f005
15
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
How long was Pa gone for?
Event_duration
[ "not enough information", "a few days", "a few years", "a few months" ]
2
f005_16
f005
16
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
who was the Ambassador
Character_identity
[ "my father", "not enough information", "my sister", "my mother" ]
0
f005_17
f005
17
fiction
{ "author": "Cory Doctorow", "title": "A Place so Foreign", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/doctorow1672116721-8/0.html" }
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old. He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself that I was supposed to have been in France, and 'polly-voo' for my chums, and tell whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten. I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job. 'But what about the store?' I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco. Pa looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Johnstone is buying it.' My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy, all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune in queer, never-seen bills. 'Pa, no!' I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
What did James H Johnstone tip Tommy Benson?
Factual
[ "Two dollars", "Zephyr speedball", "not enough information", "Three huge steamer trunks" ]
0
f006_0
f006
0
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
Who was the hobo?
Unanswerable
[ "not enough information", "an old Vietnamese woman", "a beautiful Mexican girl", "a lonely businessman" ]
0
f006_1
f006
1
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
The businessman fidgeted with the gold band on his finger:
Temporal_order
[ "after staring at the beautiful Mexican girl", "before staring at the beautiful Mexican girl", "not enough information", "while staring at the beautiful Mexican girl" ]
3
f006_2
f006
2
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
The businessman is:
Entity_properties
[ "holding plastic shopping bags", "a hobo", "not enough information", "married" ]
3
f006_3
f006
3
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
Where was the narrator probably in this story?
Entity_properties
[ "on a train", "at a stop light", "at a 7/11", "not enough information" ]
0
f006_4
f006
4
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
Immediately after the end of this text, the Vietnamese woman is:
Subsequent_state
[ "gone", "not enough information", "holding plastic shopping bags", "watching the author" ]
0
f006_5
f006
5
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
The author believes that studying the rest of the passengers:
Belief_states
[ "not enough information", "is not normal", "is perverted", "is fun in a voyeuristic kind of way" ]
3
f006_6
f006
6
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
On the public transportation, the author thinks about:
Belief_states
[ "not enough information", "the old Vietnamese woman's life", "the lonely businesswomen", "himself" ]
1
f006_7
f006
7
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
What is true about the hobo?
Unanswerable
[ "not enough information", "he is homeless", "he is a rich", "he is not paranoid" ]
0
f006_8
f006
8
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
The hobo pointed his finger:
Temporal_order
[ "after the hobo said they were being watched", "after the narrator got off the train", "not enough information", "before the narrator was on the train" ]
3
f006_9
f006
9
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
What is true about the author?
Factual
[ "He/she doesn't look at other passengers while using public transportation", "He/she frequently takes public transportation", "not enough information", "He/she never takes public transportation" ]
1
f006_10
f006
10
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
What did the author watch on public transportation?
Factual
[ "the floor", "not enough information", "ads", "people" ]
3
f006_11
f006
11
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
How long was the narrator probably on the train?
Event_duration
[ "an hour", "two days", "thirteen hours", "not enough information" ]
0
f006_12
f006
12
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
The author's ride on public transportation probably lasted:
Event_duration
[ "two days", "an hour or less", "one day", "not enough information" ]
1
f006_13
f006
13
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
Why did the narrator like taking public transportation?
Causality
[ "they liked to watch other passengers", "they wanted to talk to a girl in tight jeans", "they liked to travel", "not enough information" ]
0
f006_14
f006
14
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
What is probably true about the author
Entity_properties
[ "the author is not observant", "not enough information", "the author is very observant", "the author does not like public transportation" ]
2
f006_15
f006
15
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
Immediately after the end of this text, the author is:
Subsequent_state
[ "continues watching people on public transportation", "getting off the plane", "sleeping", "not enough information" ]
0
f006_16
f006
16
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
Why did the businessman fidget?
Causality
[ "not enough information", "the hobo pointed at the security cameras", "he was staring at the beautiful Mexican girl", "the Vietnamese woman was staring at him" ]
2
f006_17
f006
17
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
Who fidgeted with his wedding ring?
Character_identity
[ "Maxican man", "the businessman", "not enough information", "the hobo" ]
1
f006_18
f006
18
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
Who is the narrator?
Unanswerable
[ "a musician", "a city sanitation employee", "a lawyer", "not enough information" ]
3
f006_19
f006
19
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
The businessman is:
Unanswerable
[ "old", "not enough information", "rich", "Married" ]
1
f006_20
f006
20
fiction
{ "author": "Moxie Mezcal", "title": "Concrete Underground", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mezcalmother10Concrete_Underground/0.html" }
"They've got cameras everywhere, man. Not just in supermarkets and departments stores, they're also on your cell phones and your computers at home. And they never turn off. You think they do, but they don't. "They're always on, always watching you, sending them a continuous feed of your every move over satellite broadband connection. "They watch you fuck, they watch you shit, they watch when you pick your nose at the stop light or when you chew out the clerk at 7-11 over nothing or when you walk past the lady collecting for the women's shelter and you don't put anything in her jar. "They're even watching us right now," the hobo added and extended a grimy, gnarled digit to the small black orbs mounted at either end of the train car. There were some days when I loved taking public transportation, and other days when I didn't. On a good day, I liked to sit back and watch the show, study the rest of the passengers, read into their little ticks and mannerisms and body language, and try to guess at their back stories, giving them names and identities in my head. It was fun in a voyeuristic kind of way. And luckily, today was a good day. I watched the old Vietnamese woman with the cluster of plastic shopping bags gripped tightly in her hand like a cloud of tiny white bubbles. My eyes traced the deep lines grooving her face, and I wondered about the life that led her to this place. I watched the lonely businessman staring longingly across the aisle at the beautiful Mexican girl in the tight jeans standing with her back to him. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, and I couldn't tell if he was using it to remind himself of his commitment or if he was debating whether he should slyly slip it off and talk to her.
Who carried plastic shopping bags?
Character_identity
[ "the beautiful Mexican girl", "the old Vietnamese woman", "not enough information", "the hobo" ]
1
f007_0
f007
0
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
Who brought Mia to the hospital?
Entity_properties
[ "not enough information", "Boyfriend", "Man she just met", "Father" ]
2
f007_1
f007
1
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
When did the man go through Mia's pockets:
Temporal_order
[ "after the nurse asked", "before arriving at the hospital", "not enough information", "before dropping her off at the nurses station" ]
0
f007_2
f007
2
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
Who was dropped off at the hospital?
Character_identity
[ "kids of the couple at the hospital", "Mia", "A couple", "not enough information" ]
1
f007_3
f007
3
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
Why was Mia at the hospital?
Causality
[ "not enough information", "she came with her kids", "She was not feeling well", "Father asked him to bring her in" ]
2
f007_4
f007
4
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
How long was Mia probably in the hospital?
Event_duration
[ "Few minutes", "All Sunday", "not enough information", "Few hours" ]
3
f007_5
f007
5
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
Who belived Mia have been drinking?
Belief_states
[ "Doctor", "not enough information", "Couple", "Nurse" ]
3
f007_6
f007
6
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
What was the main character thinking
Belief_states
[ "not enough information", "The nurse was beautiful", "Mia was bleeding", "He was not sure what happened to Mia" ]
3
f007_7
f007
7
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
When did narrator talk to a doctor?
Temporal_order
[ "After he arived to the emergency room", "Before he met Mia", "not enough information", "After Mia left the room" ]
0
f007_8
f007
8
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
Immediately after the end of this text, Mia feeling
Subsequent_state
[ "sick", "scared", "well", "not enough information" ]
0
f007_9
f007
9
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
Who is the man who brought Mia to the hospital?
Unanswerable
[ "Someone Mia just met with a couple", "Someone Mia just met", "Someone Mia met at the hospital", "not enough information" ]
3
f007_10
f007
10
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
What is probably true about he nurse?
Event_duration
[ "She is rude", "She is supportive", "not enough information", "She is beautiful" ]
0
f007_11
f007
11
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
Who is the narrator?
Unanswerable
[ "The doctor", "A nurse", "not enough information", "A friend" ]
2
f007_12
f007
12
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
What is in Mia's pocket?
Factual
[ "Five Crossing's address", "not enough information", "Her ID", "Nothing" ]
0
f007_13
f007
13
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
Where is Mia
Factual
[ "the emergency room", "not enough information", "she doesn't know", "at home" ]
0
f007_14
f007
14
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
What probably happened to Mia?
Entity_properties
[ "she got into an argument with the doctor", "she had a birthday party", "she passed out", "not enough information" ]
2
f007_15
f007
15
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
After the end of the story, Mia was:
Subsequent_state
[ "Released immediately to the couple at the hospital", "not enough information", "Examined by the doctor", "Prepped for surgery to stop blood loss" ]
2
f007_16
f007
16
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
Why was Mia in the hospital?
Causality
[ "She was found on the street", "She had cold", "She was there with her daugther", "not enough information" ]
0
f007_17
f007
17
fiction
{ "author": "Peter Darbyshire", "title": "Please", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/darbyshirepother08Pleasenovel/0.html" }
THE HOSPITAL'S emergency room smelled like soap. The place was nearly empty when I carried Mia inside, just one couple and their kids sitting in a circle in the corner. The parents glanced up at us, then went back to praying quietly. The kids stared at the floor the whole time. I dropped Mia into a chair at the nurses' station and waited. Behind the glass wall in front of me, three nurses were talking about their various ex-husbands. It sounded like the same guy to me. I was still waiting for them to figure this out when one of them came over and asked, "What's the problem?" "No problem," I said. "I just want to drop her off." We both looked at Mia. A string of drool slowly slipped from her chin to her chest. "Has she been drinking?" the nurse asked. "I'm not really sure," I said. The nurse looked back at me. "You're not really sure? Now what does that mean?" "I don't know," I said. "I found her. I thought maybe I could leave her here." "Sure, we'll just have to fill out the paperwork for that," the nurse said. She smiled at the other nurses when she said it, and I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She had me go through Mia's pockets, but all I could find was a piece of paper with an address written on it. Five Crossings. I couldn't find her ID anywhere. The nurse entered my name and address on a form, then took us down the hall to another room. What seemed like hours later, an old, red-faced doctor finally came in. He glanced at Mia and then washed his hands in the sink. "You the father or the boyfriend?" he asked. "Neither," I said. "I've only just met her." I couldn't take my eyes off the garbage can in the corner. It was full of bloody bandages. I wondered what had gone on in there before we'd arrived.
Who thought that the nurses had the same husband?
Character_identity
[ "Mia", "the narrator", "not enough information", "the doctor" ]
1
f008_0
f008
0
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
what happened to the slaves
Factual
[ "they were raped", "they were made to work", "they were sacrificed", "not enough information" ]
2
f008_1
f008
1
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
who belives girls were raped
Belief_states
[ "The narrator", "civilians", "12 slave men", "not enough information" ]
0
f008_2
f008
2
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
why were civilians and slaves drinking?
Causality
[ "because they got chance", "because they longed for it in dark world", "not enough information", "because they saw beer" ]
1
f008_3
f008
3
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
who sat outside of the arena
Character_identity
[ "not enough information", "slaves", "soldiers", "civilians, merchants, and nobles" ]
3
f008_4
f008
4
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
how long did the ceremony probably last?
Event_duration
[ "a day", "a month", "a week", "not enough information" ]
0
f008_5
f008
5
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
Whose soldiers watched the games in silence?
Character_identity
[ "Danken's", "Gazu's", "not enough information", "Dan Trex's" ]
3
f008_6
f008
6
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
What is probably true about women screaming
Entity_properties
[ "not enough information", "they were dancing", "they were happy", "they were in pain" ]
3
f008_7
f008
7
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
The soldiers watched beautiful girls being raped
Temporal_order
[ "After they made a sound", "not enough information", "before they watched a great battle", "after they heard men and women scream" ]
2
f008_8
f008
8
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
Author believes that
Belief_states
[ "civilians and slaves were greedy", "civilians and slaves made correct decision", "civilians and slaves were good", "not enough information" ]
0
f008_9
f008
9
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
How long did the event probably last?
Event_duration
[ "a few months", "not enough information", "a few hours", "a few days" ]
2
f008_10
f008
10
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
what is an octagonal arena
Factual
[ "a chocolate", "a machine", "not enough information", "a bread" ]
1
f008_11
f008
11
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
why is it so hot?
Causality
[ "not enough information", "its summertime", "the black sand soaks up the heat from the sun", "they are in the desert" ]
3
f008_12
f008
12
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
what happens after the celebration
Subsequent_state
[ "the sacrificed dogs are buried", "It become hot", "everyone goes home", "not enough information" ]
2
f008_13
f008
13
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
When was the arena build?
Temporal_order
[ "not enough information", "during the days of the old empire", "after the 1943", "during the winter" ]
1
f008_14
f008
14
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
who is the author
Unanswerable
[ "not enough information", "a nobleman", "a passerby", "a solder" ]
0
f008_15
f008
15
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
why does this story probably occur?
Entity_properties
[ "to keep order", "to keep the gods happy", "not enough information", "this happens because they were overruled by invaders" ]
3
f008_16
f008
16
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
After the end of this story
Subsequent_state
[ "civilians and slaves died", "not enough information", "slaves killed everyone", "civilians partied" ]
0
f008_17
f008
17
fiction
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "Dan Trex", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08Dan_Trex/0.html" }
It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They watched and they made no sound.
Who is Dan Trex
Unanswerable
[ "not enough information", "Gazu's daughter", "Gazu's grandchild", "Gazu's wife" ]
0
f009_0
f009
0
fiction
{ "author": "Graham Parke", "title": "Clash of the Sissies", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html" }
It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid.
Why did the author notice Barend?
Causality
[ "because he was dirty and snotty,", "not enough information", "because he wore old clothes", "because he liked his shadow," ]
3
f009_1
f009
1
fiction
{ "author": "Graham Parke", "title": "Clash of the Sissies", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html" }
It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid.
What games did they play during kindergarten?
Unanswerable
[ "tag,", "hide-and-seek,", "not enough information", "house" ]
2
f009_2
f009
2
fiction
{ "author": "Graham Parke", "title": "Clash of the Sissies", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html" }
It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid.
The author believes that Barend's shadow:
Belief_states
[ "not enough information", "was the most incredible shadow", "was not an actual shadow", "was horrible" ]
1
f009_3
f009
3
fiction
{ "author": "Graham Parke", "title": "Clash of the Sissies", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html" }
It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid.
What is probably true about the author?
Entity_properties
[ "the author did nothign wrong", "the author is innocent", "the author is evil", "not enough information" ]
2
f009_4
f009
4
fiction
{ "author": "Graham Parke", "title": "Clash of the Sissies", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html" }
It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid.
Who is the most invisible character?
Character_identity
[ "not enough information", "The narrator", "Barend", "The bodies" ]
2
f009_5
f009
5
fiction
{ "author": "Graham Parke", "title": "Clash of the Sissies", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html" }
It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid.
How long the narrator and Berand were probably friends?
Event_duration
[ "For many years", "Only when they were in kindergarten", "For a few months", "not enough information" ]
0
f009_6
f009
6
fiction
{ "author": "Graham Parke", "title": "Clash of the Sissies", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html" }
It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid.
Barend become famous for burying bodies:
Temporal_order
[ "not enough information", "Before he invented the folding map", "After they became friends", "Before they became friends" ]
2
f009_7
f009
7
fiction
{ "author": "Graham Parke", "title": "Clash of the Sissies", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html" }
It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid.
Barend is probably:
Unanswerable
[ "not enough information", "in prison", "hiding", "on the lam" ]
0
f009_8
f009
8
fiction
{ "author": "Graham Parke", "title": "Clash of the Sissies", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html" }
It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid.
Why did the narrator and Berand remain friends?
Causality
[ "They went to the same school", "The narrator was excited about having a friend", "Berand intrigue the narrator", "not enough information" ]
2
f009_9
f009
9
fiction
{ "author": "Graham Parke", "title": "Clash of the Sissies", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html" }
It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid.
Barend and the author are now:
Unanswerable
[ "enemies", "they meet up every now and then", "friends", "not enough information" ]
3
f009_10
f009
10
fiction
{ "author": "Graham Parke", "title": "Clash of the Sissies", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html" }
It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid.
When did the author become friends with Barend?
Temporal_order
[ "after he started burying bodies in his backyard", "not enough information", "after he became famous for an easy foldable map,", "Before he became famous for an easy-foldable map," ]
3
f009_11
f009
11
fiction
{ "author": "Graham Parke", "title": "Clash of the Sissies", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html" }
It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid.
What color was the sky on the day they met?
Factual
[ "not enough information", "black- nighttime", "gray,", "blue-ish green," ]
3