{'fraction_non_alphanumeric': 0.02122186495176849, 'fraction_numerical': 0.0, 'mean_word_length': 4.003215434083601, 'pattern_counts': {'":': 0, '<': 0, '<?xml version=': 0, '>': 0, 'https://': 0, 'lorem ipsum': 0, 'www.': 0, 'xml': 0}, 'pii_count': 0, 'substrings_counts': 0, 'word_list_counts': {'cursed_substrings.json': 0, 'profanity_word_list.json': 0, 'sexual_word_list.json': 0, 'zh_pornsignals.json': 0}}
The Burning Chair

The brown bungalow in the rainy woods looks as though it might be buried soon in leaves. The air is filled with great leaves floating down, and the trail through the trees is covered. Even the windows have yellow and brown leaves stuck like hands to the glass. Every time a gust hits the trees a new shower pounds the drifts and roof, and another flock of yellow foliage shivers down. There is no smoke coming from the chimney, though there is smoke in the living room where the right arm of an easy chair is on fire. The fire has burned a circle in the cloth of the armchair. The cotton stuffing of the cushion has caught and is smoldering also. The flames are no more than four or five inches high, but they burn steadily, almost like a lamp. They are the only light in the room except for the cigarette in the hand nearby. As the flames advance, sputtering and sending up smoke, the hand pulls back a little. But the man sleeps on, his head slumped on the back of the chair. The phone on the nightstand by the chair rings. Its electric hum fills the smoky room, but the man does not stir. The telephone makes the air throb and shudder, again, five times, and then stops. The cigarette drops out of the sleeping man's hand and falls to the linoleum still smoking. Ash and bits of tobacco are scattered around it, and the tiny button of fire eats into the paint of the linoleum, and then into the tar underneath. A chemical smoke rises from the tiny burn, but after a few minutes the cigarette goes out, and a pock is left in the floor