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f033_18 | f033 | 18 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "He'll Always Have Paris",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08hell_always_have_paris/0.html"
} | The swinging doors slammed open. Cedric looked over from where he was sitting on a lab stool, chewed thumbnail between his teeth. His shoulder length blond hair was coated with the shine of someone who has only wet their hair down and not washed. His red streaked eyes were a sure sign of his having been recently woken up. He watched Dorian backing his way through the doors pulling a gurney behind him. "Dorian," Cedric said, then immediately fell silent as Dorian turned around. There was panic in Dorian's eyes and a waxy pallor beneath the stubble on his face that betrayed a lack of sleep. "Dorian," Cedric said again, that one word betraying multiple emotions: a layer of fear spread over top concern for his friend, concern for his own wellbeing, and simple anger at letting himself become involved in this. "Hook her up," Dorian said before moving to a lab stool of his own and sliding a keyboard across the table to rest in front of him, his fingers impatiently tapping the spacebar while he waited for the monitor to respond. With a hiccup of light the screen became active making Dorian's face even more hollow with its sickly glow. He was normally a handsome man with short brown hair that was always perfectly combed. Tonight, though, it was full of unruly licks and his white lab coat, which usually added to his presence as the overall leader of their research team, was cast by the computer's light into awkward shades of green and blue. A large coffee stain down the front appeared to still be wet. Cedric didn't respond. "I said hook her up," Dorian said. "Dorian," Cedric said for the third time. "I said hook her up!" Dorian screamed and Cedric jumped forward to the gurney. Coffee stain or no coffee stain, Dorian was a commanding presence. | Who was the person on the gurney? | Unanswerable | [
"Luke",
"not enough information",
"Dorian",
"Cedric"
] | 1 | 7 |
f033_19 | f033 | 19 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "He'll Always Have Paris",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08hell_always_have_paris/0.html"
} | The swinging doors slammed open. Cedric looked over from where he was sitting on a lab stool, chewed thumbnail between his teeth. His shoulder length blond hair was coated with the shine of someone who has only wet their hair down and not washed. His red streaked eyes were a sure sign of his having been recently woken up. He watched Dorian backing his way through the doors pulling a gurney behind him. "Dorian," Cedric said, then immediately fell silent as Dorian turned around. There was panic in Dorian's eyes and a waxy pallor beneath the stubble on his face that betrayed a lack of sleep. "Dorian," Cedric said again, that one word betraying multiple emotions: a layer of fear spread over top concern for his friend, concern for his own wellbeing, and simple anger at letting himself become involved in this. "Hook her up," Dorian said before moving to a lab stool of his own and sliding a keyboard across the table to rest in front of him, his fingers impatiently tapping the spacebar while he waited for the monitor to respond. With a hiccup of light the screen became active making Dorian's face even more hollow with its sickly glow. He was normally a handsome man with short brown hair that was always perfectly combed. Tonight, though, it was full of unruly licks and his white lab coat, which usually added to his presence as the overall leader of their research team, was cast by the computer's light into awkward shades of green and blue. A large coffee stain down the front appeared to still be wet. Cedric didn't respond. "I said hook her up," Dorian said. "Dorian," Cedric said for the third time. "I said hook her up!" Dorian screamed and Cedric jumped forward to the gurney. Coffee stain or no coffee stain, Dorian was a commanding presence. | Who usually wore a white lab coat? | Character_identity | [
"Cedric",
"not enough information",
"Dorian",
"a friend"
] | 0 | 6 |
f033_20 | f033 | 20 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "He'll Always Have Paris",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08hell_always_have_paris/0.html"
} | The swinging doors slammed open. Cedric looked over from where he was sitting on a lab stool, chewed thumbnail between his teeth. His shoulder length blond hair was coated with the shine of someone who has only wet their hair down and not washed. His red streaked eyes were a sure sign of his having been recently woken up. He watched Dorian backing his way through the doors pulling a gurney behind him. "Dorian," Cedric said, then immediately fell silent as Dorian turned around. There was panic in Dorian's eyes and a waxy pallor beneath the stubble on his face that betrayed a lack of sleep. "Dorian," Cedric said again, that one word betraying multiple emotions: a layer of fear spread over top concern for his friend, concern for his own wellbeing, and simple anger at letting himself become involved in this. "Hook her up," Dorian said before moving to a lab stool of his own and sliding a keyboard across the table to rest in front of him, his fingers impatiently tapping the spacebar while he waited for the monitor to respond. With a hiccup of light the screen became active making Dorian's face even more hollow with its sickly glow. He was normally a handsome man with short brown hair that was always perfectly combed. Tonight, though, it was full of unruly licks and his white lab coat, which usually added to his presence as the overall leader of their research team, was cast by the computer's light into awkward shades of green and blue. A large coffee stain down the front appeared to still be wet. Cedric didn't respond. "I said hook her up," Dorian said. "Dorian," Cedric said for the third time. "I said hook her up!" Dorian screamed and Cedric jumped forward to the gurney. Coffee stain or no coffee stain, Dorian was a commanding presence. | Who is the leader of the research team? | Unanswerable | [
"edric",
"Dorian",
"a doctor",
"not enough information"
] | 3 | 8 |
f033_21 | f033 | 21 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "He'll Always Have Paris",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08hell_always_have_paris/0.html"
} | The swinging doors slammed open. Cedric looked over from where he was sitting on a lab stool, chewed thumbnail between his teeth. His shoulder length blond hair was coated with the shine of someone who has only wet their hair down and not washed. His red streaked eyes were a sure sign of his having been recently woken up. He watched Dorian backing his way through the doors pulling a gurney behind him. "Dorian," Cedric said, then immediately fell silent as Dorian turned around. There was panic in Dorian's eyes and a waxy pallor beneath the stubble on his face that betrayed a lack of sleep. "Dorian," Cedric said again, that one word betraying multiple emotions: a layer of fear spread over top concern for his friend, concern for his own wellbeing, and simple anger at letting himself become involved in this. "Hook her up," Dorian said before moving to a lab stool of his own and sliding a keyboard across the table to rest in front of him, his fingers impatiently tapping the spacebar while he waited for the monitor to respond. With a hiccup of light the screen became active making Dorian's face even more hollow with its sickly glow. He was normally a handsome man with short brown hair that was always perfectly combed. Tonight, though, it was full of unruly licks and his white lab coat, which usually added to his presence as the overall leader of their research team, was cast by the computer's light into awkward shades of green and blue. A large coffee stain down the front appeared to still be wet. Cedric didn't respond. "I said hook her up," Dorian said. "Dorian," Cedric said for the third time. "I said hook her up!" Dorian screamed and Cedric jumped forward to the gurney. Coffee stain or no coffee stain, Dorian was a commanding presence. | What Cedric first thougth when Dorian told him to "hook her up?"? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"sat there, unresponsive",
"asked what Dorian was trying to do",
"jumped up and did what was asked"
] | 1 | 13 |
f033_22 | f033 | 22 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "He'll Always Have Paris",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08hell_always_have_paris/0.html"
} | The swinging doors slammed open. Cedric looked over from where he was sitting on a lab stool, chewed thumbnail between his teeth. His shoulder length blond hair was coated with the shine of someone who has only wet their hair down and not washed. His red streaked eyes were a sure sign of his having been recently woken up. He watched Dorian backing his way through the doors pulling a gurney behind him. "Dorian," Cedric said, then immediately fell silent as Dorian turned around. There was panic in Dorian's eyes and a waxy pallor beneath the stubble on his face that betrayed a lack of sleep. "Dorian," Cedric said again, that one word betraying multiple emotions: a layer of fear spread over top concern for his friend, concern for his own wellbeing, and simple anger at letting himself become involved in this. "Hook her up," Dorian said before moving to a lab stool of his own and sliding a keyboard across the table to rest in front of him, his fingers impatiently tapping the spacebar while he waited for the monitor to respond. With a hiccup of light the screen became active making Dorian's face even more hollow with its sickly glow. He was normally a handsome man with short brown hair that was always perfectly combed. Tonight, though, it was full of unruly licks and his white lab coat, which usually added to his presence as the overall leader of their research team, was cast by the computer's light into awkward shades of green and blue. A large coffee stain down the front appeared to still be wet. Cedric didn't respond. "I said hook her up," Dorian said. "Dorian," Cedric said for the third time. "I said hook her up!" Dorian screamed and Cedric jumped forward to the gurney. Coffee stain or no coffee stain, Dorian was a commanding presence. | The computer monitor came on: | Temporal_order | [
"before Dorian entered the room",
"not enough information",
"after Dorian said \"hook her up\"",
"while Cedric was playing with the space bar"
] | 2 | 5 |
f033_23 | f033 | 23 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "He'll Always Have Paris",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08hell_always_have_paris/0.html"
} | The swinging doors slammed open. Cedric looked over from where he was sitting on a lab stool, chewed thumbnail between his teeth. His shoulder length blond hair was coated with the shine of someone who has only wet their hair down and not washed. His red streaked eyes were a sure sign of his having been recently woken up. He watched Dorian backing his way through the doors pulling a gurney behind him. "Dorian," Cedric said, then immediately fell silent as Dorian turned around. There was panic in Dorian's eyes and a waxy pallor beneath the stubble on his face that betrayed a lack of sleep. "Dorian," Cedric said again, that one word betraying multiple emotions: a layer of fear spread over top concern for his friend, concern for his own wellbeing, and simple anger at letting himself become involved in this. "Hook her up," Dorian said before moving to a lab stool of his own and sliding a keyboard across the table to rest in front of him, his fingers impatiently tapping the spacebar while he waited for the monitor to respond. With a hiccup of light the screen became active making Dorian's face even more hollow with its sickly glow. He was normally a handsome man with short brown hair that was always perfectly combed. Tonight, though, it was full of unruly licks and his white lab coat, which usually added to his presence as the overall leader of their research team, was cast by the computer's light into awkward shades of green and blue. A large coffee stain down the front appeared to still be wet. Cedric didn't respond. "I said hook her up," Dorian said. "Dorian," Cedric said for the third time. "I said hook her up!" Dorian screamed and Cedric jumped forward to the gurney. Coffee stain or no coffee stain, Dorian was a commanding presence. | Cedric looked tired because: | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"Dorian wouldn't stop yelling at him",
"he just ran into the room",
"he had been up for 24 hours straight"
] | 3 | 5 |
f033_24 | f033 | 24 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "He'll Always Have Paris",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08hell_always_have_paris/0.html"
} | The swinging doors slammed open. Cedric looked over from where he was sitting on a lab stool, chewed thumbnail between his teeth. His shoulder length blond hair was coated with the shine of someone who has only wet their hair down and not washed. His red streaked eyes were a sure sign of his having been recently woken up. He watched Dorian backing his way through the doors pulling a gurney behind him. "Dorian," Cedric said, then immediately fell silent as Dorian turned around. There was panic in Dorian's eyes and a waxy pallor beneath the stubble on his face that betrayed a lack of sleep. "Dorian," Cedric said again, that one word betraying multiple emotions: a layer of fear spread over top concern for his friend, concern for his own wellbeing, and simple anger at letting himself become involved in this. "Hook her up," Dorian said before moving to a lab stool of his own and sliding a keyboard across the table to rest in front of him, his fingers impatiently tapping the spacebar while he waited for the monitor to respond. With a hiccup of light the screen became active making Dorian's face even more hollow with its sickly glow. He was normally a handsome man with short brown hair that was always perfectly combed. Tonight, though, it was full of unruly licks and his white lab coat, which usually added to his presence as the overall leader of their research team, was cast by the computer's light into awkward shades of green and blue. A large coffee stain down the front appeared to still be wet. Cedric didn't respond. "I said hook her up," Dorian said. "Dorian," Cedric said for the third time. "I said hook her up!" Dorian screamed and Cedric jumped forward to the gurney. Coffee stain or no coffee stain, Dorian was a commanding presence. | Cedric looked over from where he was sitting: | Temporal_order | [
"after the swinging doors slammed closed",
"after the swinging doors slammed open",
"before Cedric fell over",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 9 |
f033_25 | f033 | 25 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "He'll Always Have Paris",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08hell_always_have_paris/0.html"
} | The swinging doors slammed open. Cedric looked over from where he was sitting on a lab stool, chewed thumbnail between his teeth. His shoulder length blond hair was coated with the shine of someone who has only wet their hair down and not washed. His red streaked eyes were a sure sign of his having been recently woken up. He watched Dorian backing his way through the doors pulling a gurney behind him. "Dorian," Cedric said, then immediately fell silent as Dorian turned around. There was panic in Dorian's eyes and a waxy pallor beneath the stubble on his face that betrayed a lack of sleep. "Dorian," Cedric said again, that one word betraying multiple emotions: a layer of fear spread over top concern for his friend, concern for his own wellbeing, and simple anger at letting himself become involved in this. "Hook her up," Dorian said before moving to a lab stool of his own and sliding a keyboard across the table to rest in front of him, his fingers impatiently tapping the spacebar while he waited for the monitor to respond. With a hiccup of light the screen became active making Dorian's face even more hollow with its sickly glow. He was normally a handsome man with short brown hair that was always perfectly combed. Tonight, though, it was full of unruly licks and his white lab coat, which usually added to his presence as the overall leader of their research team, was cast by the computer's light into awkward shades of green and blue. A large coffee stain down the front appeared to still be wet. Cedric didn't respond. "I said hook her up," Dorian said. "Dorian," Cedric said for the third time. "I said hook her up!" Dorian screamed and Cedric jumped forward to the gurney. Coffee stain or no coffee stain, Dorian was a commanding presence. | Dorian and Cedric work in: | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"home office",
"lab/hospital environment",
"24 hour gas station"
] | 2 | 5 |
f033_26 | f033 | 26 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "He'll Always Have Paris",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08hell_always_have_paris/0.html"
} | The swinging doors slammed open. Cedric looked over from where he was sitting on a lab stool, chewed thumbnail between his teeth. His shoulder length blond hair was coated with the shine of someone who has only wet their hair down and not washed. His red streaked eyes were a sure sign of his having been recently woken up. He watched Dorian backing his way through the doors pulling a gurney behind him. "Dorian," Cedric said, then immediately fell silent as Dorian turned around. There was panic in Dorian's eyes and a waxy pallor beneath the stubble on his face that betrayed a lack of sleep. "Dorian," Cedric said again, that one word betraying multiple emotions: a layer of fear spread over top concern for his friend, concern for his own wellbeing, and simple anger at letting himself become involved in this. "Hook her up," Dorian said before moving to a lab stool of his own and sliding a keyboard across the table to rest in front of him, his fingers impatiently tapping the spacebar while he waited for the monitor to respond. With a hiccup of light the screen became active making Dorian's face even more hollow with its sickly glow. He was normally a handsome man with short brown hair that was always perfectly combed. Tonight, though, it was full of unruly licks and his white lab coat, which usually added to his presence as the overall leader of their research team, was cast by the computer's light into awkward shades of green and blue. A large coffee stain down the front appeared to still be wet. Cedric didn't respond. "I said hook her up," Dorian said. "Dorian," Cedric said for the third time. "I said hook her up!" Dorian screamed and Cedric jumped forward to the gurney. Coffee stain or no coffee stain, Dorian was a commanding presence. | Dorian's labcoat was covered in: | Factual | [
"blood",
"not enough information",
"bleach",
"coffee stains"
] | 3 | 6 |
f033_27 | f033 | 27 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "He'll Always Have Paris",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08hell_always_have_paris/0.html"
} | The swinging doors slammed open. Cedric looked over from where he was sitting on a lab stool, chewed thumbnail between his teeth. His shoulder length blond hair was coated with the shine of someone who has only wet their hair down and not washed. His red streaked eyes were a sure sign of his having been recently woken up. He watched Dorian backing his way through the doors pulling a gurney behind him. "Dorian," Cedric said, then immediately fell silent as Dorian turned around. There was panic in Dorian's eyes and a waxy pallor beneath the stubble on his face that betrayed a lack of sleep. "Dorian," Cedric said again, that one word betraying multiple emotions: a layer of fear spread over top concern for his friend, concern for his own wellbeing, and simple anger at letting himself become involved in this. "Hook her up," Dorian said before moving to a lab stool of his own and sliding a keyboard across the table to rest in front of him, his fingers impatiently tapping the spacebar while he waited for the monitor to respond. With a hiccup of light the screen became active making Dorian's face even more hollow with its sickly glow. He was normally a handsome man with short brown hair that was always perfectly combed. Tonight, though, it was full of unruly licks and his white lab coat, which usually added to his presence as the overall leader of their research team, was cast by the computer's light into awkward shades of green and blue. A large coffee stain down the front appeared to still be wet. Cedric didn't respond. "I said hook her up," Dorian said. "Dorian," Cedric said for the third time. "I said hook her up!" Dorian screamed and Cedric jumped forward to the gurney. Coffee stain or no coffee stain, Dorian was a commanding presence. | Who has unwashed blonde hair? | Character_identity | [
"Dorian",
"Cedric",
"not enough information",
"Kim"
] | 1 | 6 |
f034_0 | f034 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | Celenda's party probably lasted: | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"A few hours",
"ALL NIGHT",
"a few days"
] | 2 | 5 |
f034_1 | f034 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | who is celenda? | Unanswerable | [
"an heiress",
"a brothel owner",
"not enough information",
"a widower"
] | 2 | 6 |
f034_2 | f034 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | who thinks she cannot afford to kill a slave boy? | Belief_states | [
"some couples",
"Celenda",
"her manservant",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 13 |
f034_3 | f034 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | Who hosted the feast? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"Celenda",
"The manservant",
"The slave boy"
] | 1 | 6 |
f034_4 | f034 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | Celenda inhaled the crushed red leaves probably because: | Entity_properties | [
"Celenda was under the influence",
"Celenda was tired",
"Celenda was sleepy",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 5 |
f034_5 | f034 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | Immediately after the end of this text, happens to Celenda? | Subsequent_state | [
"She lives happily ever after.",
"not enough information",
"She becomes a kind character.",
"She is overthrown."
] | 3 | 7 |
f034_6 | f034 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | What was being celebrated? | Unanswerable | [
"A saint's day.",
"A holiday.",
"not enough information",
"A birthday."
] | 2 | 7 |
f034_7 | f034 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | What is in the bowl? | Factual | [
"Soup",
"Purple leaves.",
"Red petals.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 6 |
f034_8 | f034 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | What Celenda grabbed from the bowl? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"four petals",
"five petals",
"ten petals"
] | 1 | 7 |
f034_9 | f034 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | Why was the thin boy summoned? | Causality | [
"Because she was hungry.",
"Because they were having a party.",
"not enough information",
"Because Celenda needed the red lotus."
] | 3 | 5 |
f034_10 | f034 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | When did the manservant purchase the oxen? | Temporal_order | [
"After the Feast.",
"During the feast.",
"not enough information",
"Before the feast."
] | 3 | 6 |
f034_11 | f034 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | Immediately after the end of this text, Celenda | Subsequent_state | [
"is drunk",
"is sick",
"not enough information",
"is high"
] | 3 | 7 |
f034_12 | f034 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | What probably has magical powers? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"The bowl.",
"The red leaves.",
"The divan."
] | 2 | 6 |
f034_13 | f034 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | Who did Celenda think it was okay to hit? | Belief_states | [
"The slave boy",
"Herself",
"The manservant.",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 11 |
f034_14 | f034 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | How long was the feast probably lasted for? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"The whole night",
"Weeks",
"minutes"
] | 1 | 6 |
f034_15 | f034 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | lWhy ess people were coming to Celenda's parties? | Causality | [
"because her house was crumbling",
"not enough information",
"because they didn't want to",
"because she was less wealthy"
] | 2 | 8 |
f034_16 | f034 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | Cerena shouted at the boy | Temporal_order | [
"after she saw the ball was not full",
"after she pinched petals from the bowl",
"after she slapped him",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 6 |
f034_17 | f034 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Jon and Celenda",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08jon_and_celenda/0.html"
} | It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. | Who raised her arms behind her back: | Character_identity | [
"the slave boy",
"Celenda",
"her manservant",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 7 |
f035_0 | f035 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | Whose horse was killed? | Character_identity | [
"the horses of the desert kings",
"not enough information",
"Kadin's horse",
"the horse of the woman in black"
] | 2 | 6 |
f035_1 | f035 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | Why did Kadin probably ride at night? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"He enjoyed the bloody moon.",
"It was cooler.",
"There was more light."
] | 2 | 7 |
f035_2 | f035 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | Who is the woman? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"A runaway princess being chased by guards",
"A fugitive from the men chasing her.",
"A slave running away from her masters."
] | 0 | 5 |
f035_3 | f035 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | Why did Kadin love the desert? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"He loved it because he was a desert king.",
"He loved it because of lavish luxuries.",
"He loved it because he knew it and he found it beautifil."
] | 3 | 6 |
f035_4 | f035 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | How does Kadin probably feel about the works of the desert kings? | Entity_properties | [
"He admires them greatly.",
"He fears they will overwhelm the desert.",
"not enough information",
"He thinks they are insignificant."
] | 3 | 9 |
f035_5 | f035 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | What did Kadin hear? | Belief_states | [
"The cry of four riders.",
"The neigh of a horse.",
"not enough information",
"The cry of a woman."
] | 3 | 5 |
f035_6 | f035 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | What does Kadin think of the desert? | Belief_states | [
"He thinks it's harsh, but he loves its beauty.",
"He is indifferent.",
"not enough information",
"He hates its cruelty and heat."
] | 0 | 7 |
f035_7 | f035 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | Where did Kadin prefer to be? | Factual | [
"Staying in a castle, out of the heat.",
"not enough information",
"In the company of the Danken, who he admires greatly.",
"Out in the desert."
] | 3 | 8 |
f035_8 | f035 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | Kadin has probably lived in the desert for: | Event_duration | [
"years",
"not enough information",
"days",
"weeks"
] | 0 | 7 |
f035_9 | f035 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | What did Kadin do after waking? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"He pulled on his sandals.",
"He tied on his knife belt.",
"He mounted his stallion."
] | 2 | 8 |
f035_10 | f035 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | Who whispers in the night? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"The three highwaymen.",
"Kadin",
"The desert."
] | 3 | 7 |
f035_11 | f035 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | When did Kadin wake up from his bed in the desert? | Temporal_order | [
"Before Kadin started liking deserts.",
"After he heard a cry.",
"After the desert king dined on the finest food.",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 9 |
f035_12 | f035 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | Why did Kadin mount White Ash? | Causality | [
"To exercise the horse.",
"To ride toward the sounds of a woman's distress.",
"To ride to a Danken's castle",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 6 |
f035_13 | f035 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | Kadin heard the woman's cry: | Temporal_order | [
"While he was eating his dinner.",
"While he was preparing to stop for the night",
"not enough information",
"After he went to bed."
] | 3 | 6 |
f035_14 | f035 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | Kadin works with: | Unanswerable | [
"The highwaymen.",
"not enough information",
"The Danken.",
"A desert king."
] | 1 | 5 |
f035_15 | f035 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | Kadin must make a decision about: | Subsequent_state | [
"Whether to build a castle in the desert.",
"Whether or not to sell his horse White Ash.",
"Whether or not to help the woman.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 6 |
f035_16 | f035 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | What is true of Kadin after the end of this excerpt? | Subsequent_state | [
"He is riding a stallion",
"He is mounted",
"not enough information",
"He is wearing sandals"
] | 1 | 9 |
f035_17 | f035 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "Kadin and the Noble's Daughter",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08kadin_and_the_nobles_daughter/0.html"
} | Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself.
Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men.
Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman.
Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound.
Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night.
Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them.
Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. | How long did it probably take for Kadin to tie on his belt? | Event_duration | [
"A few minutes",
"not enough information",
"An hour",
"Half an hour"
] | 0 | 11 |
f036_0 | f036 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | What language does Maria Isabella probably speak? | Entity_properties | [
"She speaks English.",
"She speaks Spanish",
"not enough information",
"She speaks French."
] | 1 | 5 |
f036_1 | f036 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | Who was watching the man? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"Musicians on the street.",
"Maria",
"The dog"
] | 2 | 6 |
f036_2 | f036 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | What Maria thinks of Lorenzo? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"His coat is embroidered with stars.",
"He's reckless",
"He's tall and handsome"
] | 3 | 7 |
f036_3 | f036 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | Where did Maria go? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"Calle du Leones",
"islets near Palao",
"Encantu lu Caminata"
] | 3 | 5 |
f036_4 | f036 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | What happened to Lorenzo near the Plaza Emperyal? | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"He was bitten by a dog.",
"He met Maria Isabella.",
"He was in a very serious accident."
] | 3 | 7 |
f036_5 | f036 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | When did Maria get a purse full of coins? | Temporal_order | [
"After she saw musical conch shells.",
"After she became a star.",
"not enough information",
"after she turned sixteen"
] | 3 | 9 |
f036_6 | f036 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | After everything that happened, Maria | Subsequent_state | [
"saved the man's life.",
"not enough information",
"took her foot off the dog.",
"had lunch with Lorenzo."
] | 0 | 8 |
f036_7 | f036 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | Why did Maria think she would be a star? | Unanswerable | [
"She is an aspiring actress",
"She got elected by her peers for an award.",
"She has a great voice",
"not enough information"
] | 3 | 10 |
f036_8 | f036 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | What kind of family is Maria probably from? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"Poor family",
"African family",
"Rich family"
] | 3 | 6 |
f036_9 | f036 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | What does Maria Isabella know about Lorenzo when she first sees him? | Belief_states | [
"That she loves him.",
"That he's very handsome.",
"not enough information",
"That he's looking at her."
] | 0 | 9 |
f036_10 | f036 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | Why did Lorenzo have his eyes closed? | Causality | [
"He had a coat embroidered with stars.",
"not enough information",
"He was hoping to meet Maria.",
"He was careless."
] | 3 | 7 |
f036_11 | f036 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | What color are the dresses that Maria got for her birthday? | Unanswerable | [
"embroidered with stars",
"not enough information",
"gold",
"silver"
] | 1 | 10 |
f036_12 | f036 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | What did Maria Isabella do with her hands at the beginning of the story? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"She counted coins in a purse.",
"She cut a tether that tied her to the ground.",
"She put them over her eyes."
] | 2 | 9 |
f036_13 | f036 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | How long after the event is the story being probably told by Maria? | Event_duration | [
"One year later.",
"The following day.",
"Many years later.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 9 |
f036_14 | f036 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | How fast did Maria likely realize that she was in love with Lorenzo? | Event_duration | [
"a minute",
"a few short seconds",
"not enough information",
"an hour."
] | 1 | 12 |
f036_15 | f036 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | Why did Maria Isabella go to the Encantu lu Caminata? | Causality | [
"To buy a cat.",
"To buy a floral circlet.",
"To look for little musical conch shells to buy.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 7 |
f036_16 | f036 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | Who gave Maria Isabella a purse filled with coins? | Character_identity | [
"Lorenzo",
"The owners of the Calle du Leones.",
"Each set of her padrinos",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 9 |
f036_17 | f036 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Dean Francis Alfar",
"title": "L'Aquilone du Estrellas (The Kite of Stars)",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/alfardother07kite_of_stars/0.html"
} | The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du'l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she'd first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him.
Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du'l dama -- the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted. And so she'd gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new owners), walked through the Avenida du'l Conquistadores (where the statues of the conquerors of Ciudad Meiora lined the entirety of the broad promenade) and made her way to the Encantu lu Caminata (that maze-like series of interconnected streets, each leading to some wonder or marvel for sale), where little musical conch shells from the islets near Palao'an could be found. Those she liked very much.
In the vicinity of the Plaza Emperyal, she saw a young man dressed in a coat embroidered with stars walk almost surely to his death. In that instant, Maria Isabella knew two things with the conviction reserved only for the very young: first, that she almost certainly loved this reckless man; and second, that if she simply stepped on a dog's tail -- the very dog watching the same scene unfold right next to her -- she could avert the man's seemingly senseless death. | How old was Maria Isabella when she first saw Lorenzo? | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"Young woman",
"Sixteen",
"Very young"
] | 2 | 8 |
f037_0 | f037 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | What is most likely true about Morzeny? | Entity_properties | [
"He does not have a car",
"not enough information",
"He will never retire",
"He likes the snow"
] | 0 | 8 |
f037_1 | f037 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | The weather bothers Morzeny's | Factual | [
"Arthritis",
"Hypertension",
"Diabetes",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 5 |
f037_2 | f037 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | When did he take up his current job? | Temporal_order | [
"After he first came to the city",
"After he got arthritis",
"After he became a broker",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 6 |
f037_3 | f037 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | Why did Morzeny become involved in real estate? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"For his sanity",
"He needed the job",
"He was fired from his job"
] | 1 | 8 |
f037_4 | f037 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | At the end of the story, Morzeny: | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"Eats dinner",
"Walks into his building",
"Board an airplane"
] | 2 | 7 |
f037_5 | f037 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | After the story, Morzeny most likely: | Subsequent_state | [
"Shows the apartment to prospective buyers",
"not enough information",
"Quits his job",
"Goes blind"
] | 0 | 5 |
f037_6 | f037 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | Morzeny is taken care of financially because: | Unanswerable | [
"He embezzled money",
"He sold his home",
"His father left a trust fund",
"not enough information"
] | 3 | 7 |
f037_7 | f037 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | Morzeny's walk most likely lasted: | Event_duration | [
"2 hours",
"2 minutes",
"20 minutes",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 5 |
f037_8 | f037 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | Who is walking down the street? | Character_identity | [
"Grandpa",
"not enough information",
"Moore",
"Morzeny"
] | 3 | 8 |
f037_9 | f037 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | Morzeny believes that: | Belief_states | [
"Working right now is the price he has to pay",
"Owning restaurants is a good idea",
"He shouldn't have to work",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 5 |
f037_10 | f037 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | Where was Morzeny walking? | Factual | [
"Near the river",
"not enough information",
"In the country",
"Along the city street"
] | 3 | 5 |
f037_11 | f037 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | What is probably true about Morzeny? | Entity_properties | [
"He is a successful stock broker",
"not enough information",
"He likes selling real estate",
"He owns a department store"
] | 2 | 8 |
f037_12 | f037 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | How long did Morzeny's walk probably take? | Event_duration | [
"15 minutes",
"All day",
"2 hours",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 6 |
f037_13 | f037 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | What avenue was Morzeny walking down? | Factual | [
"Brownstone Avenue",
"not enough information",
"Broke Avenue",
"Columbus Avenue"
] | 3 | 6 |
f037_14 | f037 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | Why did the New York winters bother Morzeny? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"He is from the south",
"He is 67 years old",
"He doesn't have a good coat"
] | 2 | 6 |
f037_15 | f037 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | Morzeny believed that the cold: | Belief_states | [
"Made him sell more apartments",
"Made him insane",
"Made his beginning stage arthritis worse",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 6 |
f037_16 | f037 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | Who took care of Morzeny financially? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"His trust fund",
"His providers",
"His children"
] | 2 | 7 |
f037_17 | f037 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | What was the name of the building? | Unanswerable | [
"City View",
"The Park",
"not enough information",
"100th Street Place"
] | 2 | 8 |
f037_18 | f037 | 18 | fiction | {
"author": "Joseph Devon",
"title": "Liquid Calling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08liquid_calling/0.html"
} | Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso.
With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold.
At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible.
When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work.
He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. | Morzeny arrived at the brownstone building: | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"After his cold walk",
"Before sunrise",
"After he did two steps at a time on stairs"
] | 1 | 6 |
f038_0 | f038 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | Who would use the special software | Subsequent_state | [
"Czesiek",
"Slawek",
"The customer",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 7 |
f038_1 | f038 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | who designed an application, which created slogans for street protests? | Character_identity | [
"Slawek Przekosniak",
"not enough information",
"Czesiek Ciag",
"John"
] | 2 | 12 |
f038_2 | f038 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | who is Czesiek Ciag? | Unanswerable | [
"Slawek Przekosniak coworker",
"Slawek Przekosniak boss",
"Slawek Przekosniak's brother",
"not enough information"
] | 3 | 6 |
f038_3 | f038 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | Who did Slawek send sms messages through John of the Disk? | Unanswerable | [
"utopian fanatics of extreme phobias",
"Czesiek",
"his mother",
"not enough information"
] | 3 | 9 |
f038_4 | f038 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | Who would provide the random worlds for the software? | Character_identity | [
"Czesiek",
"not enough information",
"Caesiek's friend",
"A customer"
] | 3 | 7 |
f038_5 | f038 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | When did Slawek Przekosniak get kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias? | Temporal_order | [
"After Christmas Eve",
"on Christmas Eve",
"before Christmas Eve",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 12 |
f038_6 | f038 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | How did Slawek probably become successful? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"his online business",
"he was given money by his father",
"he is Christian"
] | 1 | 6 |
f038_7 | f038 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | Who accompanied Slawek in setting up an online service? | Factual | [
"another computer expert",
"a psychiatrist",
"not enough information",
"Czesiek Ciag"
] | 3 | 9 |
f038_8 | f038 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | Slawek Przekosniak believes that his idea is: | Belief_states | [
"completely illogical and nonsensical",
"the best idea of his life.",
"truly unique",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 7 |
f038_9 | f038 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | Why did Slawek Przekosniak recieve an enigmatic message on Christmas eve? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"he doesn't know to this day",
"It was Christmas Eve",
"He is number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles."
] | 1 | 7 |
f038_10 | f038 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | Who made the phrase "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"? | Belief_states | [
"Czesiek Ciag",
"Slawek",
"TV",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 10 |
f038_11 | f038 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | What day did Slawek Przekosniak get the message 'Wishing yo good ping super new'? | Factual | [
"Christmas Day",
"not enough information",
"Christmas Eve",
"New Years Eve"
] | 2 | 8 |
f038_12 | f038 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | What is probably true about Slawek Przekosniak | Entity_properties | [
"He Celebrates Christmas",
"not enough information",
"He is polish",
"He uses a smartphone"
] | 0 | 8 |
f038_13 | f038 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | When did John of the Disk go live? | Temporal_order | [
"After Easter",
"before Easter",
"not enough information",
"on Easter"
] | 1 | 7 |
f038_14 | f038 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | What kind of messages did the software produce? | Factual | [
"Completely illogical and non sensical",
"Logical",
"not enough information",
"Stereotypical"
] | 0 | 6 |
f038_15 | f038 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | Immediately after the end of this text, Czesiek Ciag is: | Subsequent_state | [
"rich",
"not enough information",
"illogical and nonsensical",
"popular"
] | 0 | 7 |
f038_16 | f038 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Nick Name",
"title": "Password Incorrect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/titles/namenother09password_incorrect.html"
} | On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles.
Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea.
It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life.
Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible.
Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!"
Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. | How long the development of the software probably lasted? | Event_duration | [
"Few months",
"Few weeks",
"not enough information",
"Few days"
] | 0 | 7 |