id
stringlengths 6
7
| context_id
stringclasses 560
values | question_id
stringclasses 29
values | domain
stringclasses 4
values | metadata
dict | context
stringclasses 560
values | question
stringlengths 3
185
| question_type
stringclasses 9
values | answers
sequencelengths 4
4
| correct_answer_id
int32 0
3
|
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
f009_12 | f009 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | Who had one of the most attractive shadows the author had ever seen? | Character_identity | [
"himself",
"not enough information",
"another kid at the playground",
"Barend,"
] | 3 |
f009_13 | f009 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | Why did Barend's shadow caught the narrator's eye? | Causality | [
"Because he was a boring kid",
"Because he wore faded jeans",
"He had the most incredible shadow",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f009_14 | f009 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | What is probably true about Barend? | Entity_properties | [
"He grew up to be a philanthropist,",
"He grew up to become a murderer,",
"He became very wealthy.",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f009_15 | f009 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | Where did the author and Barend meet? | Factual | [
"library",
"not enough information",
"woods",
"playground"
] | 3 |
f009_16 | f009 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | Immediately after the end of this text, author: | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"will continue playing on the playground",
"will tell how Barend killed people",
"will tell about his lunch"
] | 2 |
f009_17 | f009 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | Immediately after the end of this text, Barend is: | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"dead",
"sick",
"a murderer"
] | 3 |
f009_18 | f009 | 18 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | Barend is infamous for? | Factual | [
"Being friends with the narrator",
"Inventing the foldable map",
"not enough information",
"Burying bodies in his backyard"
] | 3 |
f009_19 | f009 | 19 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | Barend and the author became friends: | Temporal_order | [
"while he was famous",
"not enough information",
"before he became famous",
"after he buried bodies"
] | 2 |
f009_20 | f009 | 20 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | How long ago was the author probably friends with Barend? | Event_duration | [
"They very recently became co-workers and friends",
"Very long ago, during childhood,",
"Not too long ago- they were college buddies,",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f009_21 | f009 | 21 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | Barend was: | Factual | [
"handsom kid",
"boring looking kid",
"not enough information",
"smart kid"
] | 1 |
f009_22 | f009 | 22 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | Whose shadow was attractive? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"the teacher's",
"Barend's",
"the writer's"
] | 2 |
f009_23 | f009 | 23 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | What did Barend invented? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"The map that folds",
"Faded clothing",
"An art piece"
] | 1 |
f009_24 | f009 | 24 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | When the author first met Barend he thought Barend was: | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"one of those mostly invisible characters",
"sad",
"a very noticeable person"
] | 1 |
f009_25 | f009 | 25 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | How long did the narrator gazed at the sun? | Unanswerable | [
"For 11 minutes",
"not enough information",
"For 12 minutes",
"For days"
] | 1 |
f009_26 | f009 | 26 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | Immediately after the end of this text,Barend and the author are probably: | Subsequent_state | [
"still children",
"teens now",
"not enough information",
"adults now"
] | 3 |
f009_27 | f009 | 27 | fiction | {
"author": "Graham Parke",
"title": "Clash of the Sissies",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/parkegother09clash_of_the_sissies/0.html"
} | It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. | Why did the author befriend Barend? | Causality | [
"because he lived nearby",
"because he had an attractive shadow",
"because he was friendly",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f010_0 | f010 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | It is probably true that | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"girls newer wag school before",
"Dara has wagged the school before",
"Jody has wagged the school before"
] | 2 |
f010_1 | f010 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | What is probably true about Jody? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"She is rebellious",
"She hates green apples",
"She does not own white-out"
] | 1 |
f010_2 | f010 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | the girls decided to get on the bus | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"to go to Los Angeles",
"to go to New York",
"to run away to Chicago"
] | 0 |
f010_3 | f010 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | Dara thought it was so cool: | Belief_states | [
"When Jody borrowed white-out",
"When Jody gagged",
"When Jody threw something without wanting attention",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f010_4 | f010 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | Right after they got on the bus | Subsequent_state | [
"they did not go to school",
"they dissapeared",
"they went to school",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f010_5 | f010 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | Why were Dara an Jody breathless? | Causality | [
"They were unable to stop laughing",
"not enough information",
"They were running along the footpath",
"They fell over"
] | 0 |
f010_6 | f010 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | How long did Dara and Jody probably ride the bus? | Event_duration | [
"a few minutes",
"30 minutes",
"not enough information",
"a few hours"
] | 0 |
f010_7 | f010 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | What were girls eating? | Factual | [
"a peach",
"not enough information",
"a piece of pie",
"an apple"
] | 3 |
f010_8 | f010 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | Why were the girls at the bus stop? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"they left school early",
"they were having a sad day",
"they skipped school"
] | 3 |
f010_9 | f010 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | Why did Jody vomit? | Factual | [
"Because of an apple seed",
"not enough information",
"Because of an apple peel",
"Because she had too much apples"
] | 2 |
f010_10 | f010 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | Dara and Jody became friends during a math lesson: | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"After they were in grade 12",
"Before they were in grade eleven",
"During the middle school"
] | 2 |
f010_11 | f010 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | Dara thinks of Jody | Belief_states | [
"that Jody is cool",
"that she is not fun",
"not enough information",
"that she is pretty"
] | 0 |
f010_12 | f010 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | Dara and Jody probably laughed for: | Event_duration | [
"several hours",
"several seconds",
"not enough information",
"several minutes"
] | 3 |
f010_13 | f010 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | Who choked on the apple? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"old Italian lady",
"Jody",
"Dara"
] | 2 |
f010_14 | f010 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | who ate the apple? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"a dog",
"Dara and Jody",
"the old lady"
] | 2 |
f010_15 | f010 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | Why are Jody and Dara from different scenes at school? | Unanswerable | [
"Jody was held back a year.",
"Dara is a straight-A student.",
"They take different classes",
"not enough information"
] | 3 |
f010_16 | f010 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | After the end of the story | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"girls will eat an apple",
"girls will enjoy the day together",
"girls will go back to school"
] | 2 |
f010_17 | f010 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Damian McDonald",
"title": "Dara's Firebird Lovesong",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/mcdonalddother08damians_firebird_lovesong/0.html"
} | Dara and Jody sat on the sun-scorched concrete with their backs against the bus shelter. They were sharing an apple, one of those tart green ones, and as Dara took her turn gnashing into it, Jody gagged and vomited up some peel. 'Shit, are you okay?' Dara asked, rubbing Jody's back. 'Um, yeah,' Jody croaked, and started to laugh. 'Just dying of apple peel.' Dara began to laugh too. Looking at the little pile of fruit skin and foam brought on more laughter, and they were both suddenly breathless but unable to cease the spasms of laughter hiccupping up from their stomachs. They had to lean on each other to save falling over, and even the tut-tut tongue-clicking of the old Italian lady having to divert around them on the footpath could barely stop the infinite but elusive humour. The bus droning into the stop enabled them some composure, but once on board just looking at each other was enough to start it up again. This was the coolest day Dara had had in forever. Jody and her had decided to wag school just that morning before rollcall, and despite her anxiety -- this was actually the first time Dara had ever wagged -- she was so, so glad she did. They were both in Year 11, and had only become friends three months earlier. They were from totally different scenes at school, but one maths lesson had changed all that. Jody had borrowed someone's correction fluid -- in fact it was Mr Dickinson, the teacher's correction fluid -- but it was borrowed from someone who'd borrowed it from him. At the end of the lesson Jody was packing her stuff up and didn't know what to do with the bottle of white-out, so she tossed it out the window of the classroom. Dara had seen her do it, and thought it was just so cool. Jody had done it not in the hope of getting attention, because no one was paying attention, they were all packing up their own crap as fast as possible; she'd just done it. | The girls ate the apple | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"Before they decided to wg school",
"after they decided to wag school",
"after Jody vomited"
] | 2 |
f011_0 | f011 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | Why did Grandma Bette say that the family had black hair and black eyes? | Causality | [
"Because they were from India.",
"Because they were Black Dutch from a part of Holland.",
"not enough information",
"Because they were from Africa"
] | 1 |
f011_1 | f011 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | How many brothers Pa had? | Unanswerable | [
"three",
"not enough information",
"one",
"two"
] | 1 |
f011_2 | f011 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | What is "it" that the author says was a dream, a place and a memory? | Character_identity | [
"Dogland",
"Florida",
"Holland",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f011_3 | f011 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | Why did the narrator warned the reader? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"The narrator is unsure about facts of the story and will portray what he knows is true and invent what he believes is true",
"He saw shapes moving up and down the river",
"Fog was rolling up the river"
] | 1 |
f011_4 | f011 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | Where is the Suwannee River? | Unanswerable | [
"In Holland",
"In England",
"not enough information",
"In Florida"
] | 2 |
f011_5 | f011 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | The author thinks that Dogland is in: | Belief_states | [
"unknown lands",
"not enough information",
"Europe",
"the heart of Florida"
] | 3 |
f011_6 | f011 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | Immediately after the end of this text, the author knows: | Subsequent_state | [
"why the grass is green",
"why the sky is blue",
"the Nix family history",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f011_7 | f011 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | What prompted Grandma Bette to discuss the Black Dutch? | Factual | [
"When Pa said the Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood.",
"not enough information",
"When Pa said that the family was indentured servants",
"When Dogland was mentioned."
] | 0 |
f011_8 | f011 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | Why did Grandma Bette make a face and later not say a word for half an hour or more? | Causality | [
"Because she was happy.",
"Because Pa's stories were not perfectly true.",
"not enough information",
"Because she felt sick."
] | 1 |
f011_9 | f011 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | Her father built the place: | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"When they were living in Holland",
"After the Nixes moved to North America",
"While they were indentured servants"
] | 2 |
f011_10 | f011 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | What happens after the author looks down the river? | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"the author isnt near a river",
"the author falls into the river",
"the brightness of the approaching day blinded the author"
] | 3 |
f011_11 | f011 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | Why did the Nixes migrate to North America? | Causality | [
"To obtain the American dream",
"To escape from religious prosecution",
"not enough information",
"To escape imprisonment in Holland"
] | 3 |
f011_12 | f011 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | What was always a mystery to the writer of the story? | Unanswerable | [
"Pa",
"not enough information",
"The Susanne River",
"Black Dutch"
] | 1 |
f011_13 | f011 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | What is probably true about the author? | Entity_properties | [
"the author doesn't like their family",
"the author hates Grandma Bette",
"the author does not know the river in Dogland well",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f011_14 | f011 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | How long did it take for the author's father to build Dogland? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"Generation",
"Decade or less",
"Multiple generations"
] | 2 |
f011_15 | f011 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | Whose stories were not always true? | Character_identity | [
"Pa",
"SDogland",
"Nixes",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f011_16 | f011 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | What is probably true about Pa? | Entity_properties | [
"he never lies",
"not enough information",
"he doesn't always tell the truth",
"he is always sad"
] | 2 |
f011_17 | f011 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | What were the Nixes when they came to North America? | Factual | [
"Servants",
"Aristocrats",
"Slaves",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f011_18 | f011 | 18 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | Grandma Bette made a face because? | Causality | [
"Because the Nixed were Black Dutch",
"The Nixes were indentured servants",
"The narrator's father could not possibly know their ancestral history",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f011_19 | f011 | 19 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | Immediately after the end of this text: | Subsequent_state | [
"Pa would continue his story",
"Grandma Bette would get extremely angry",
"not enough information",
"The narrator will continue tellinf a story of his family"
] | 3 |
f011_20 | f011 | 20 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | What were the 2 things that Pa told the author about the Nix family that Grandma Bette doubted were true? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"That they were wealthy immigrants and from Africa.",
"That they came to North America as indentured servants from debtor's prison and that they had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in their veins.",
"That they were poor and from Germany."
] | 2 |
f011_21 | f011 | 21 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | How long have the Nixes probbaly lived in North America? | Event_duration | [
"For several generation",
"Only for a few years",
"not enough information",
"For only one generation"
] | 0 |
f011_22 | f011 | 22 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | What was considered to be a dream, a place, then a memory? | Factual | [
"Pa's stories",
"not enough information",
"Dogland",
"The incidents that shaped the Boxes"
] | 2 |
f011_23 | f011 | 23 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | What is true about the narrator? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"He/she has Lakota Blood",
"He/she does not have Lakota Blood",
"He/she is an indentured servant"
] | 1 |
f011_24 | f011 | 24 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | What created the black Dutch? | Unanswerable | [
"Invasion from Rome in the past",
"not enough information",
"The sun",
"Mongol hordes pillaging Europe"
] | 1 |
f011_25 | f011 | 25 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | Why did Grandma Bette believe that Pa couldn't know certain facts in his stories? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"He wasn't alive at that time",
"The Nixes didn't pass on stories",
"He was clinically insane"
] | 1 |
f011_26 | f011 | 26 | fiction | {
"author": "Will Shetterly",
"title": "Dogland",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shetterlywother07Dogland/0.html"
} | It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. | What place Pa built? | Factual | [
"Florida",
"not enough information",
"Dogland",
"Black Dutch"
] | 2 |
f012_0 | f012 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | The discussion about the reunion took place: | Temporal_order | [
"while the two men shook hands",
"after the two men shook hands",
"not enough information",
"before the two men shook hands"
] | 1 |
f012_1 | f012 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | What was the scene on Dennis's calendar? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"beach scene",
"ski scene",
"river scene"
] | 2 |
f012_2 | f012 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | How did Dennis try making him feel better? | Factual | [
"giving him books",
"not enough information",
"saying he looked fit",
"telling him he missed him"
] | 2 |
f012_3 | f012 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | Immediately after the end of this text, the author is: | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"fat",
"fit",
"skinny"
] | 2 |
f012_4 | f012 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | What color was Dennis's suit? | Factual | [
"black",
"blue",
"not enough information",
"gray"
] | 3 |
f012_5 | f012 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | How did the narrator probably stayed in shape? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"He goes for runs around the park.",
"He worked out in his garage.",
"He is a football coach."
] | 2 |
f012_6 | f012 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | Where is the ski scene in the office? | Factual | [
"On the calendar",
"On a cover of a book",
"On a picture on the wall",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f012_7 | f012 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | Who says that the author looks fit and in shape? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"Dennis",
"Charlene",
"the author"
] | 1 |
f012_8 | f012 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | The narrator missed what event? | Factual | [
"The meeting",
"not enough information",
"A reunion",
"Dennis's wedding"
] | 2 |
f012_9 | f012 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | What is Dennis's profession? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"corporate attorney",
"prosecuting attorney",
"defense attorney"
] | 0 |
f012_10 | f012 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | Why did the narrator missed the reunion? | Causality | [
"His mother passed away",
"not enough information",
"He was embarrassed that he was not as successful as his classmates",
"His wife didn't want him to go"
] | 2 |
f012_11 | f012 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | Dennis and the author's meeting probably lasted: | Event_duration | [
"one hour",
"few days",
"not enough information",
"few hours"
] | 0 |
f012_12 | f012 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | How long was probably the reunion meeting? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"a few hours",
"25 minutes",
"5 years"
] | 1 |
f012_13 | f012 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | Who has red hair? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"secretary",
"Dennis",
"the narrator"
] | 1 |
f012_14 | f012 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | Who thinks that Dennis does not look the same as he did in high school | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"Dennis",
"Charlene",
"the author"
] | 3 |
f012_15 | f012 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | Immediately after the end of this text, Dennis is: | Subsequent_state | [
"shameful",
"successful",
"not enough information",
"homeless"
] | 1 |
f012_16 | f012 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | Why did he not go to the reunion? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"lack of success",
"he had to work out",
"his wife didn't want him to"
] | 1 |
f012_17 | f012 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | How long does it take Dennis to run laps at Jefferson High School? | Unanswerable | [
"Several days",
"Several minutes",
"not enough information",
"Several hours"
] | 2 |
f012_18 | f012 | 18 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | When did Dennis shake the narrator's hand? | Temporal_order | [
"Before he sat down on the chair",
"not enough information",
"After he sat down on the chair",
"At the end of their meeting"
] | 0 |
f012_19 | f012 | 19 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | Charlene is : | Factual | [
"Dennis's wife",
"Dennis's secretary",
"the main character's wife",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f012_20 | f012 | 20 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | Why did the narrator not attend the reunion? | Causality | [
"he felt weird about it",
"he was in the hospital",
"he wasn't in town",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f012_21 | f012 | 21 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | The narrator is currently | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"nervous",
"fit",
"ashamed"
] | 2 |
f012_22 | f012 | 22 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | What event did the character miss out on? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"work out in the garage",
"legal apt.",
"high school reunion"
] | 3 |
f012_23 | f012 | 23 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | What made him ashamed of his shirt? | Entity_properties | [
"Dennis laughing at it",
"comments by his wife",
"seeing his friends success",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f012_24 | f012 | 24 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | Who had a gray suit on? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"The narrator",
"Dennis",
"The secretary"
] | 2 |
f012_25 | f012 | 25 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | Where did the two man probably meet? | Entity_properties | [
"gym",
"law school",
"school",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f012_26 | f012 | 26 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | What color is the secretary's hair? | Factual | [
"red",
"blond",
"brown",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f012_27 | f012 | 27 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | What is Dennis's job? | Unanswerable | [
"He is a stockbroker",
"not enough information",
"He owes a car dealership",
"He is a lawyer"
] | 1 |
f012_28 | f012 | 28 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Dirty Work",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Dirty_Work/0.html"
} | The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. | What is probably true about the narrator? | Entity_properties | [
"he's undernourished",
"he stays in shape",
"he's morbidly obese",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f013_0 | f013 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Tobias S. Buckell",
"title": "Four Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/buckelltother05foureyes/0.html"
} | Manny had Bob Marley cranking on the stereo, his van was full of passengers, and the air conditioning was working after a long week of giving him trouble. The sun beat down on the wet-looking asphalt road that ran along the harbor, next to the concrete waterfront. It curved along in front of the brightly colored Dutch Colonial warehouses of Charlotte Amalie, which were now converted restaurants and jewel shops. Tourists in day-glo shirts and daubs of sunscreen rubbed over peeling skin crowded both sides of the waterfront road. Manny slowed somewhat, keeping an eye on them. On the sidewalk by the shops a tall black man stood by a food cart. The hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the cart's side had faded letters. The man wore a grand suit with tails, like an orchestra conductor, and a top hat perched on his shaved head. A cigar burned in his mouth. For a brief second he held Manny's attention. Then the food cart's owner stepped forward and the strangely dressed man disappeared. Manny looked at the other side of the road. A white girl with oval shaped sunglasses and pink leather pants stepped off the sidewalk into the road in front of his van. He slammed on the brakes, trying to dodge her, but the van couldn't respond that fast. Her ponytail flew up towards the windshield and her head struck the star-shaped hood ornament. She bounced along the asphalt. Manny weaved the van to a stop, with swearing from the passengers in the back. He opened the door and stepped out into the heat. Get up, stand up, the radio cried out, and that was what Manny hoped would happen. He hoped that she would at least just stir and be okay. But she just lay there. | What is Manny's job? | Unanswerable | [
"Taxi driver",
"Bus driver",
"Ambulance driver",
"not enough information"
] | 3 |
f013_1 | f013 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Tobias S. Buckell",
"title": "Four Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/buckelltother05foureyes/0.html"
} | Manny had Bob Marley cranking on the stereo, his van was full of passengers, and the air conditioning was working after a long week of giving him trouble. The sun beat down on the wet-looking asphalt road that ran along the harbor, next to the concrete waterfront. It curved along in front of the brightly colored Dutch Colonial warehouses of Charlotte Amalie, which were now converted restaurants and jewel shops. Tourists in day-glo shirts and daubs of sunscreen rubbed over peeling skin crowded both sides of the waterfront road. Manny slowed somewhat, keeping an eye on them. On the sidewalk by the shops a tall black man stood by a food cart. The hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the cart's side had faded letters. The man wore a grand suit with tails, like an orchestra conductor, and a top hat perched on his shaved head. A cigar burned in his mouth. For a brief second he held Manny's attention. Then the food cart's owner stepped forward and the strangely dressed man disappeared. Manny looked at the other side of the road. A white girl with oval shaped sunglasses and pink leather pants stepped off the sidewalk into the road in front of his van. He slammed on the brakes, trying to dodge her, but the van couldn't respond that fast. Her ponytail flew up towards the windshield and her head struck the star-shaped hood ornament. She bounced along the asphalt. Manny weaved the van to a stop, with swearing from the passengers in the back. He opened the door and stepped out into the heat. Get up, stand up, the radio cried out, and that was what Manny hoped would happen. He hoped that she would at least just stir and be okay. But she just lay there. | How long did Manny probably drive with a van full of passengers before he had an accident? | Event_duration | [
"several minutes",
"a month",
"not enough information",
"24 hours"
] | 0 |
f013_2 | f013 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Tobias S. Buckell",
"title": "Four Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/buckelltother05foureyes/0.html"
} | Manny had Bob Marley cranking on the stereo, his van was full of passengers, and the air conditioning was working after a long week of giving him trouble. The sun beat down on the wet-looking asphalt road that ran along the harbor, next to the concrete waterfront. It curved along in front of the brightly colored Dutch Colonial warehouses of Charlotte Amalie, which were now converted restaurants and jewel shops. Tourists in day-glo shirts and daubs of sunscreen rubbed over peeling skin crowded both sides of the waterfront road. Manny slowed somewhat, keeping an eye on them. On the sidewalk by the shops a tall black man stood by a food cart. The hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the cart's side had faded letters. The man wore a grand suit with tails, like an orchestra conductor, and a top hat perched on his shaved head. A cigar burned in his mouth. For a brief second he held Manny's attention. Then the food cart's owner stepped forward and the strangely dressed man disappeared. Manny looked at the other side of the road. A white girl with oval shaped sunglasses and pink leather pants stepped off the sidewalk into the road in front of his van. He slammed on the brakes, trying to dodge her, but the van couldn't respond that fast. Her ponytail flew up towards the windshield and her head struck the star-shaped hood ornament. She bounced along the asphalt. Manny weaved the van to a stop, with swearing from the passengers in the back. He opened the door and stepped out into the heat. Get up, stand up, the radio cried out, and that was what Manny hoped would happen. He hoped that she would at least just stir and be okay. But she just lay there. | Who was smoking a cigar? | Character_identity | [
"Manny",
"The food card owner",
"The strangely dressed man",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f013_3 | f013 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Tobias S. Buckell",
"title": "Four Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/buckelltother05foureyes/0.html"
} | Manny had Bob Marley cranking on the stereo, his van was full of passengers, and the air conditioning was working after a long week of giving him trouble. The sun beat down on the wet-looking asphalt road that ran along the harbor, next to the concrete waterfront. It curved along in front of the brightly colored Dutch Colonial warehouses of Charlotte Amalie, which were now converted restaurants and jewel shops. Tourists in day-glo shirts and daubs of sunscreen rubbed over peeling skin crowded both sides of the waterfront road. Manny slowed somewhat, keeping an eye on them. On the sidewalk by the shops a tall black man stood by a food cart. The hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the cart's side had faded letters. The man wore a grand suit with tails, like an orchestra conductor, and a top hat perched on his shaved head. A cigar burned in his mouth. For a brief second he held Manny's attention. Then the food cart's owner stepped forward and the strangely dressed man disappeared. Manny looked at the other side of the road. A white girl with oval shaped sunglasses and pink leather pants stepped off the sidewalk into the road in front of his van. He slammed on the brakes, trying to dodge her, but the van couldn't respond that fast. Her ponytail flew up towards the windshield and her head struck the star-shaped hood ornament. She bounced along the asphalt. Manny weaved the van to a stop, with swearing from the passengers in the back. He opened the door and stepped out into the heat. Get up, stand up, the radio cried out, and that was what Manny hoped would happen. He hoped that she would at least just stir and be okay. But she just lay there. | Why did Manny slow down? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"the food cart owner stepped forward",
"the boy stepped off the sidewalk",
"tourists were on the road"
] | 3 |
f013_4 | f013 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Tobias S. Buckell",
"title": "Four Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/buckelltother05foureyes/0.html"
} | Manny had Bob Marley cranking on the stereo, his van was full of passengers, and the air conditioning was working after a long week of giving him trouble. The sun beat down on the wet-looking asphalt road that ran along the harbor, next to the concrete waterfront. It curved along in front of the brightly colored Dutch Colonial warehouses of Charlotte Amalie, which were now converted restaurants and jewel shops. Tourists in day-glo shirts and daubs of sunscreen rubbed over peeling skin crowded both sides of the waterfront road. Manny slowed somewhat, keeping an eye on them. On the sidewalk by the shops a tall black man stood by a food cart. The hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the cart's side had faded letters. The man wore a grand suit with tails, like an orchestra conductor, and a top hat perched on his shaved head. A cigar burned in his mouth. For a brief second he held Manny's attention. Then the food cart's owner stepped forward and the strangely dressed man disappeared. Manny looked at the other side of the road. A white girl with oval shaped sunglasses and pink leather pants stepped off the sidewalk into the road in front of his van. He slammed on the brakes, trying to dodge her, but the van couldn't respond that fast. Her ponytail flew up towards the windshield and her head struck the star-shaped hood ornament. She bounced along the asphalt. Manny weaved the van to a stop, with swearing from the passengers in the back. He opened the door and stepped out into the heat. Get up, stand up, the radio cried out, and that was what Manny hoped would happen. He hoped that she would at least just stir and be okay. But she just lay there. | Where are the tourists standing? | Factual | [
"Around the girl on the asphalt",
"Along the side of the road",
"In front of the food cart",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f013_5 | f013 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Tobias S. Buckell",
"title": "Four Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/buckelltother05foureyes/0.html"
} | Manny had Bob Marley cranking on the stereo, his van was full of passengers, and the air conditioning was working after a long week of giving him trouble. The sun beat down on the wet-looking asphalt road that ran along the harbor, next to the concrete waterfront. It curved along in front of the brightly colored Dutch Colonial warehouses of Charlotte Amalie, which were now converted restaurants and jewel shops. Tourists in day-glo shirts and daubs of sunscreen rubbed over peeling skin crowded both sides of the waterfront road. Manny slowed somewhat, keeping an eye on them. On the sidewalk by the shops a tall black man stood by a food cart. The hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the cart's side had faded letters. The man wore a grand suit with tails, like an orchestra conductor, and a top hat perched on his shaved head. A cigar burned in his mouth. For a brief second he held Manny's attention. Then the food cart's owner stepped forward and the strangely dressed man disappeared. Manny looked at the other side of the road. A white girl with oval shaped sunglasses and pink leather pants stepped off the sidewalk into the road in front of his van. He slammed on the brakes, trying to dodge her, but the van couldn't respond that fast. Her ponytail flew up towards the windshield and her head struck the star-shaped hood ornament. She bounced along the asphalt. Manny weaved the van to a stop, with swearing from the passengers in the back. He opened the door and stepped out into the heat. Get up, stand up, the radio cried out, and that was what Manny hoped would happen. He hoped that she would at least just stir and be okay. But she just lay there. | Manny probably? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"liked wearing day-glo shirts",
"liked music",
"did not like music"
] | 2 |
f013_6 | f013 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Tobias S. Buckell",
"title": "Four Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/buckelltother05foureyes/0.html"
} | Manny had Bob Marley cranking on the stereo, his van was full of passengers, and the air conditioning was working after a long week of giving him trouble. The sun beat down on the wet-looking asphalt road that ran along the harbor, next to the concrete waterfront. It curved along in front of the brightly colored Dutch Colonial warehouses of Charlotte Amalie, which were now converted restaurants and jewel shops. Tourists in day-glo shirts and daubs of sunscreen rubbed over peeling skin crowded both sides of the waterfront road. Manny slowed somewhat, keeping an eye on them. On the sidewalk by the shops a tall black man stood by a food cart. The hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the cart's side had faded letters. The man wore a grand suit with tails, like an orchestra conductor, and a top hat perched on his shaved head. A cigar burned in his mouth. For a brief second he held Manny's attention. Then the food cart's owner stepped forward and the strangely dressed man disappeared. Manny looked at the other side of the road. A white girl with oval shaped sunglasses and pink leather pants stepped off the sidewalk into the road in front of his van. He slammed on the brakes, trying to dodge her, but the van couldn't respond that fast. Her ponytail flew up towards the windshield and her head struck the star-shaped hood ornament. She bounced along the asphalt. Manny weaved the van to a stop, with swearing from the passengers in the back. He opened the door and stepped out into the heat. Get up, stand up, the radio cried out, and that was what Manny hoped would happen. He hoped that she would at least just stir and be okay. But she just lay there. | Who smoked a cigar? | Character_identity | [
"the tall black man",
"not enough information",
"the girl",
"Manny"
] | 0 |
f013_7 | f013 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Tobias S. Buckell",
"title": "Four Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/buckelltother05foureyes/0.html"
} | Manny had Bob Marley cranking on the stereo, his van was full of passengers, and the air conditioning was working after a long week of giving him trouble. The sun beat down on the wet-looking asphalt road that ran along the harbor, next to the concrete waterfront. It curved along in front of the brightly colored Dutch Colonial warehouses of Charlotte Amalie, which were now converted restaurants and jewel shops. Tourists in day-glo shirts and daubs of sunscreen rubbed over peeling skin crowded both sides of the waterfront road. Manny slowed somewhat, keeping an eye on them. On the sidewalk by the shops a tall black man stood by a food cart. The hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the cart's side had faded letters. The man wore a grand suit with tails, like an orchestra conductor, and a top hat perched on his shaved head. A cigar burned in his mouth. For a brief second he held Manny's attention. Then the food cart's owner stepped forward and the strangely dressed man disappeared. Manny looked at the other side of the road. A white girl with oval shaped sunglasses and pink leather pants stepped off the sidewalk into the road in front of his van. He slammed on the brakes, trying to dodge her, but the van couldn't respond that fast. Her ponytail flew up towards the windshield and her head struck the star-shaped hood ornament. She bounced along the asphalt. Manny weaved the van to a stop, with swearing from the passengers in the back. He opened the door and stepped out into the heat. Get up, stand up, the radio cried out, and that was what Manny hoped would happen. He hoped that she would at least just stir and be okay. But she just lay there. | Immediately after the end of this text, the girl is: | Subsequent_state | [
"walking",
"not enough information",
"lying down",
"dancing"
] | 2 |
f013_8 | f013 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Tobias S. Buckell",
"title": "Four Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/buckelltother05foureyes/0.html"
} | Manny had Bob Marley cranking on the stereo, his van was full of passengers, and the air conditioning was working after a long week of giving him trouble. The sun beat down on the wet-looking asphalt road that ran along the harbor, next to the concrete waterfront. It curved along in front of the brightly colored Dutch Colonial warehouses of Charlotte Amalie, which were now converted restaurants and jewel shops. Tourists in day-glo shirts and daubs of sunscreen rubbed over peeling skin crowded both sides of the waterfront road. Manny slowed somewhat, keeping an eye on them. On the sidewalk by the shops a tall black man stood by a food cart. The hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the cart's side had faded letters. The man wore a grand suit with tails, like an orchestra conductor, and a top hat perched on his shaved head. A cigar burned in his mouth. For a brief second he held Manny's attention. Then the food cart's owner stepped forward and the strangely dressed man disappeared. Manny looked at the other side of the road. A white girl with oval shaped sunglasses and pink leather pants stepped off the sidewalk into the road in front of his van. He slammed on the brakes, trying to dodge her, but the van couldn't respond that fast. Her ponytail flew up towards the windshield and her head struck the star-shaped hood ornament. She bounced along the asphalt. Manny weaved the van to a stop, with swearing from the passengers in the back. He opened the door and stepped out into the heat. Get up, stand up, the radio cried out, and that was what Manny hoped would happen. He hoped that she would at least just stir and be okay. But she just lay there. | Manny was probably driving: | Unanswerable | [
"too slow",
"the speed limit",
"not enough information",
"too fast"
] | 2 |
f013_9 | f013 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Tobias S. Buckell",
"title": "Four Eyes",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/buckelltother05foureyes/0.html"
} | Manny had Bob Marley cranking on the stereo, his van was full of passengers, and the air conditioning was working after a long week of giving him trouble. The sun beat down on the wet-looking asphalt road that ran along the harbor, next to the concrete waterfront. It curved along in front of the brightly colored Dutch Colonial warehouses of Charlotte Amalie, which were now converted restaurants and jewel shops. Tourists in day-glo shirts and daubs of sunscreen rubbed over peeling skin crowded both sides of the waterfront road. Manny slowed somewhat, keeping an eye on them. On the sidewalk by the shops a tall black man stood by a food cart. The hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the cart's side had faded letters. The man wore a grand suit with tails, like an orchestra conductor, and a top hat perched on his shaved head. A cigar burned in his mouth. For a brief second he held Manny's attention. Then the food cart's owner stepped forward and the strangely dressed man disappeared. Manny looked at the other side of the road. A white girl with oval shaped sunglasses and pink leather pants stepped off the sidewalk into the road in front of his van. He slammed on the brakes, trying to dodge her, but the van couldn't respond that fast. Her ponytail flew up towards the windshield and her head struck the star-shaped hood ornament. She bounced along the asphalt. Manny weaved the van to a stop, with swearing from the passengers in the back. He opened the door and stepped out into the heat. Get up, stand up, the radio cried out, and that was what Manny hoped would happen. He hoped that she would at least just stir and be okay. But she just lay there. | Manny wants to belive that: | Belief_states | [
"the girl wasnt actually there",
"the girl is dead",
"the girl is okay",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |