I start and I end, yet I’m part of a tale, I follow the story, though sometimes I fail. I’m numbered or named, I turn with each page, I mark a new moment, a scene, or a stage.

I have eyes but I can’t see, the ground is where I be, when I go bad my fumes will kill your whole family

I lick but have no tongue, I breathe but have no mouth, and I dance but have no feet, what am I?

To capture me is a child's game. To play for me is a sportsman's game. To plant me is a politician's game. What am I?

I’m a handy mover, with my long handle and tines you can use me to move many materials. Though, despite my humble facade, pair me with a torch and I’m suddenly a symbol of protest and revolt.