Note: For an English assignment, we had to write a poem in the style of Transendentalism (if you don't know what that means, look it up). I decided to write about the coming of "spring" in the Northeast, and hoping for real spring. But, I didn't want to lose the "shiny happy people" mood of the Transendentalists, and this was the result:
I look out the window,
Gazing at the world gilded in white;
The snow lays thick on the ground.
Swirling in the wind,
Gleaming in the sun,
Silent when first painted thick
On the cold ground.
It can bring delight to those
Who adore the winter.
It can bring dread to those
Who long for the rays of summer.
And yet...
I muse, looking upon this
White playground;
And yet, after a time,
Even the most beloved and welcome guest
Can grow tiresome to its host.
I delight in the snow upon its arrival
In the last throws of November,
Or its peaceful coming in early December;
But when it comes to the middle of March,
And the wintery visitor is still residing
On trees, over gables, blanketing fields,
Or becoming neighbors with dark mud
Tired grass, and the skeletons of crops of harvest past,
I grow tiresome of my once-welcome guest.
I pray for the night of winter to be over,
And the dawn of spring to break over the horizon,
Throwing its beams, driving the snow away.
But then again,
Sweet maiden Spring wouldn’t be able to come
If there was no miser Winter to precede its coming,
Just as there could be no breaking of dawn,
If the shroud of night
Did not come before it.
23 March 2008
12 March 2008
The Truth of the Matter
by la pianista irlandesa Based on "The Great Automatic Grammatizator" by Roald Dahl
I had been known for my writing for many years. A majority of my works were published in several magazines, and several of my novels were best-sellers. I reveled in crafting each of my stories as if I was painting the Mona Lisa, or sculpting David. I shaped them with great care and pride with the knowedge that what I was writing was unique, from my own head, and made with my meek human hands.
This was before the knock on my door.
I was just about to begin my daily marathon of clacking at my typewriter, when I noticed a fine car pull up my gravel driveway. On closer inspection, I noticed it was a 1940 Cadillac. A mixture of surprise, and (for some reason) panic overtook me. No one I knew owned a Cadillac; I hadn't published anything in quite some time; I had paid my taxes on time. I watched with suspicion from my bedroom window as a young man got out of the car and walked up the dirt pathway up to my tiny house.When I heard the rap on my door, my heart seemed to skip a few beats. Get a hold of yourself, Gwenna, I said to myself. Don't get yourself all riled up about some man you've never seen in your entire life. I took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. The young man outside was dressed decently, his hair was a bit messy, but the most noticible thing about him was his persona. He held his head high, a person who knew what he was doing, what he wanted, and exactly how to get it. He seemed harmless enough, but part of me still didn't trust him.
He nodded to me. "Good day, ma'am. I'm Adolph Knipe, from the Literary Agency in town."
"I see," I replied coolly.
Unabashed, he continued. "I have a proposition for you." Hesitantly, I let him in. I led him to my small, sunlit kitchen and offered him tea, which hegraciously accepted.
As I heated the water, I saw him notice a copy of my most recent book on the table. "I read this just the other day," he said fondly.
"I'm sure you did, Mr. Knipe."
"One of your many best-sellers, isn't it?"
"It was published only a month ago, therefore not having the chance to be one yet," I replied frankly.
"Well, I believe that a novel of Victor Hugo's sold out in one day upon publication."
"That was Victor Hugo; besides, it seems that news about these sort of things travels around more slowly nowadays," I responded. "That trend seems to continue as we speak," I added, trying to emphasize that he was procrastinationg about the reason he was here. He still wasn't taking the hint. "Now, the reason you're here, Mr. Knipe?" I asked rather coldly.
"Ah, yes. I have a proposition for you," he repeated.
"It's not going to do me any good if I don't even know what it is," I replied.
Then he began to explain about the Great Automatic Grammatizator. It was a great machine that was almost like a word calculator; it took words from its huge memory, and assembed them into sentences, which were then spun into stories. A relatively new modification, he explained, was that it could create novels using several buttons, switches, stops, and pedals; almost like a cross between a car, a calculator, and a pipe organ. He told me how he had been a struggling writer, but concieved this idea to build a machine that could write in any style you wanted, to suit any publisher or magazine in the country.
"So, what your saying," I began, stupified, when he had finished his story, "is that you 've built a contraption that writes anything from a bitsy story to a giant novel?"
"Precisely," he answered, a small grin playing with the corners of his mouth. "Here would be the deal: we pay you to use your name on our work, and you promise never to write another word again," he continued, slowly pulling out a contract as he spoke.
I couldn't believe my ears. A machine that writes stories, and a contract to never write again, AND allow for your name to be put on something you had no part of? I had to see this for myself; I was suspicious, to say the least. "Would I be able to try it out?"
"Of course," he replied, somewhat convinced that I was interested.
The machine was housed in a huge brick building. He explained the process, and allowed me to run off a few stories and a novel. He was a bit surprised when I asked for other work that had been done on the thing.
"I only want to see what else this puppy can do," I said innocently. Reluctantly, he handed me a folder. "I'll read the manuscripts, and get back to you on the contract," I said finally, and leaving before Knipe could say otherwise.
I took my time reading "my work." I read it critically, as if it was someone else's work, which, technically, it was. It wasn't in my style, it wasn't my wording, it had nothing of mine in it whatsoever, even though it bore my name. How would I be able to live with this garbage bearing my name being sold? I read some of the other works by some other authors, many which I knew personally. But, in the writing, they seemed to be different people. How could they have agreed to do this?
The next week Knipe showed up at my door again. "Well? What did you think?" he asked cheerfully.
I merely shrugged in reply. "They were okay."
"Okay?" He raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise. "Just okay?"
"They weren't up to my standards. Why don't you come in so we can further discuss this?" I asked, allowing him into my kitchen once more."Yes, even though I had 'written' these pieces, they didn't seem like mine. As a matter of fact, I modeled the pile of junk you call a novel after my most recent novel; it was in no way, shape or form similar."
"Well, you can't expect the same thing twice if one was handwritten and the other machine written," Knipe said, trying to wave my comment away.
"Then what do you call writing something out by hand, then typing it on a typewriter? That's copying from hand to machine." I gave him a minute to comprehend this. "And, also," I continued, "the other pieces you gave me? I recognised many of the authors, and knew those personally. This work was nothing at all like their style." I paused a moment. "Would I be able to have any imput on what my name went on if I signed?"
Knipe tugged nervously at his collar. "Well, it's never come up before..."
"So, essentially, the answer's no?" He slowly shook his head. "How do you expect me to live with the thought that you're putting my good name on some junk I had nothing to do with?"
"Now see here, Ms. Sandon," he began defensively, "what if the writing was good?"
"How would I know, seeing as I would have no imput? It's almost as if I were to enroll you in some organization that you weren't familiar with, I committed some hanis crime, and said you did it."
Knipe was getting impatient. "Are you going to sign or not?"
I stood up so quickly my chair clattered loudly to the floor. "What kind of idiot do you take me for, Mr. Knipe? I don't suppose you've realized that I've been asking questions only about the negative aspects of your 'glorious' machine? I made it very clear that I am not satisfied with the quality of your product, and you're still asking me if I want to sign?!"
"Ms. Sandon," he said calmly, "I'm speaking to you, from one writer to another. I assure you, this will make the whole process easier."
"What process are you refering to, Mr. Knipe?
"We do the grunt work, and you reap the rewards."
"The rewards being what? The knowledge that what bears my name could be a potential embarassment?"
"No no, think about the real reason people write." I gave him a blank stare. "Money," he said simply, a hungry look in his eyes. "That's why anyone writes, correct?"
"Ah, see, that's the mane difference between us, Mr. Knipe," I responded, pointing a finger at his chest. "We have different standards. You 'write' for the cash; I write, as well as many others, for the sake of writing good quality literature, the money is only what keeps us alive to keep writing. Good quality anything can't be manufactured, don't try to deny it." I felt pretty triumphant after my little speech. Knipe, however, gave me a grave look.
"Very well," he said stiffly, "Since you won't easily comply, I have no choice but to place some restraints on you."
"You have 'no choice'? From a monetary standpoint? I'd never believe that you, of all people in this bloody country, have money issues."
"You'll have you're car taken and booted."
"This car doesn't exist."
"You'll be under house arrest."
"I have no immediate appointments."
"You'll have your telephone blocked."
"I've been neding a reason to use it less than I do."
"Your electricity will be cut."
"I've noticed my bill's been rather high lately; besides, I have a typewriter."
"Your food will be severely limited."
"I've been meaning to lose some weight." I felth fury rise in him. "Is that all you've got, Mr. Knipe?" I asked impishly. Knipe, his face beet-red, looked ready to throttle me. "Why, are you hot, Mr. Knipe? You look awfully red," I noted cheerfully. "But, you must be used to being hot because of where you're from."
"Where would that be, Ms. Sandon?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.
I gave him an impish smirk. "I think you know where I mean."
If such a thing was possible, Knipe's face got redder. "Go to ghenna," he hissed.
"Take that back!" I shouted, unaware that the kettle had been boiling over for the past three minutes.
"Not unless you sign."
"What, is this a 'get out of Hell free' contract now? Oh, but that would be an oxymoron; I'm sure you, as a writer, Mr. Knipe, are familiar with the device known as the oxymoron?" I could've sworn I saw steam coming from Knipe's ears; it gave me an odd satisfaction. Without another word, he stormed out the door.
The restraints that he had mentioned went into effect immediately. I was allowed to keep half of what food I had in the house, but the chain from my bike was torn out and the tires were slashed; the telephone and electrical cables were violently cut off; and, to add extra insult to my injury, a man took my 1925 typewriter to the top of the chimney and dropped it onto the flagstone walk below, where it shattered to pieces beyond repair. I was kept up all hours of the night. I took to writing in a form of shorthand I had learned in high school that looked like scribbles. When a few of the men guarding my house tried to take the papers I had written on, I had loudly proclaimed that they were exceedingly important. They let me keep them, unable to read it anyway, and they probably thought I had gone round the bend. I wrote of my semi-imprisonment, mostly. Then, about a week or so in, I got an idea. I begged for someone to go to Knipe and tell him I was reconsidering. Quickly, I packed a few of my possesions into three brown suitcases: my notebooks, my savings, a week's worth of clothes, a quilt of my grandmother's, a stack of letters and stationary, my favorite blue pen, and three keys from my broken typewriter: G, Q, and S; these were the initials of my name, Gwenna Quinn Sandon.
Two days after I had sent for Mr. Knipe, he pulled up to my house in his Cadillac. "Come round, have you?" he asked as he got out of the car, not even attempting to hide the look of triumph on his thin face. I nodded. He followed me to where the contract still sat on the kitchen table. My left hand twisted in my lap, I signed my name on the dotted line of the contract that stated that I would recieve some of the profits from some of the writing produced by the Adolph Knipe Literary Agency, and to never write another word under the name of Gwenna Quinn Sandon again as long as I lived. I set down my pen and looked up to Knipe; I thought he was going to explode from happiness.
"Pleasure doing business with you," he said, standing and shaking my hand viggerously. I nodded in acknowledgement, a knowing smile on my face.
This was before the knock on my door.
I was just about to begin my daily marathon of clacking at my typewriter, when I noticed a fine car pull up my gravel driveway. On closer inspection, I noticed it was a 1940 Cadillac. A mixture of surprise, and (for some reason) panic overtook me. No one I knew owned a Cadillac; I hadn't published anything in quite some time; I had paid my taxes on time. I watched with suspicion from my bedroom window as a young man got out of the car and walked up the dirt pathway up to my tiny house.When I heard the rap on my door, my heart seemed to skip a few beats. Get a hold of yourself, Gwenna, I said to myself. Don't get yourself all riled up about some man you've never seen in your entire life. I took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. The young man outside was dressed decently, his hair was a bit messy, but the most noticible thing about him was his persona. He held his head high, a person who knew what he was doing, what he wanted, and exactly how to get it. He seemed harmless enough, but part of me still didn't trust him.
He nodded to me. "Good day, ma'am. I'm Adolph Knipe, from the Literary Agency in town."
"I see," I replied coolly.
Unabashed, he continued. "I have a proposition for you." Hesitantly, I let him in. I led him to my small, sunlit kitchen and offered him tea, which hegraciously accepted.
As I heated the water, I saw him notice a copy of my most recent book on the table. "I read this just the other day," he said fondly.
"I'm sure you did, Mr. Knipe."
"One of your many best-sellers, isn't it?"
"It was published only a month ago, therefore not having the chance to be one yet," I replied frankly.
"Well, I believe that a novel of Victor Hugo's sold out in one day upon publication."
"That was Victor Hugo; besides, it seems that news about these sort of things travels around more slowly nowadays," I responded. "That trend seems to continue as we speak," I added, trying to emphasize that he was procrastinationg about the reason he was here. He still wasn't taking the hint. "Now, the reason you're here, Mr. Knipe?" I asked rather coldly.
"Ah, yes. I have a proposition for you," he repeated.
"It's not going to do me any good if I don't even know what it is," I replied.
Then he began to explain about the Great Automatic Grammatizator. It was a great machine that was almost like a word calculator; it took words from its huge memory, and assembed them into sentences, which were then spun into stories. A relatively new modification, he explained, was that it could create novels using several buttons, switches, stops, and pedals; almost like a cross between a car, a calculator, and a pipe organ. He told me how he had been a struggling writer, but concieved this idea to build a machine that could write in any style you wanted, to suit any publisher or magazine in the country.
"So, what your saying," I began, stupified, when he had finished his story, "is that you 've built a contraption that writes anything from a bitsy story to a giant novel?"
"Precisely," he answered, a small grin playing with the corners of his mouth. "Here would be the deal: we pay you to use your name on our work, and you promise never to write another word again," he continued, slowly pulling out a contract as he spoke.
I couldn't believe my ears. A machine that writes stories, and a contract to never write again, AND allow for your name to be put on something you had no part of? I had to see this for myself; I was suspicious, to say the least. "Would I be able to try it out?"
"Of course," he replied, somewhat convinced that I was interested.
The machine was housed in a huge brick building. He explained the process, and allowed me to run off a few stories and a novel. He was a bit surprised when I asked for other work that had been done on the thing.
"I only want to see what else this puppy can do," I said innocently. Reluctantly, he handed me a folder. "I'll read the manuscripts, and get back to you on the contract," I said finally, and leaving before Knipe could say otherwise.
I took my time reading "my work." I read it critically, as if it was someone else's work, which, technically, it was. It wasn't in my style, it wasn't my wording, it had nothing of mine in it whatsoever, even though it bore my name. How would I be able to live with this garbage bearing my name being sold? I read some of the other works by some other authors, many which I knew personally. But, in the writing, they seemed to be different people. How could they have agreed to do this?
The next week Knipe showed up at my door again. "Well? What did you think?" he asked cheerfully.
I merely shrugged in reply. "They were okay."
"Okay?" He raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise. "Just okay?"
"They weren't up to my standards. Why don't you come in so we can further discuss this?" I asked, allowing him into my kitchen once more."Yes, even though I had 'written' these pieces, they didn't seem like mine. As a matter of fact, I modeled the pile of junk you call a novel after my most recent novel; it was in no way, shape or form similar."
"Well, you can't expect the same thing twice if one was handwritten and the other machine written," Knipe said, trying to wave my comment away.
"Then what do you call writing something out by hand, then typing it on a typewriter? That's copying from hand to machine." I gave him a minute to comprehend this. "And, also," I continued, "the other pieces you gave me? I recognised many of the authors, and knew those personally. This work was nothing at all like their style." I paused a moment. "Would I be able to have any imput on what my name went on if I signed?"
Knipe tugged nervously at his collar. "Well, it's never come up before..."
"So, essentially, the answer's no?" He slowly shook his head. "How do you expect me to live with the thought that you're putting my good name on some junk I had nothing to do with?"
"Now see here, Ms. Sandon," he began defensively, "what if the writing was good?"
"How would I know, seeing as I would have no imput? It's almost as if I were to enroll you in some organization that you weren't familiar with, I committed some hanis crime, and said you did it."
Knipe was getting impatient. "Are you going to sign or not?"
I stood up so quickly my chair clattered loudly to the floor. "What kind of idiot do you take me for, Mr. Knipe? I don't suppose you've realized that I've been asking questions only about the negative aspects of your 'glorious' machine? I made it very clear that I am not satisfied with the quality of your product, and you're still asking me if I want to sign?!"
"Ms. Sandon," he said calmly, "I'm speaking to you, from one writer to another. I assure you, this will make the whole process easier."
"What process are you refering to, Mr. Knipe?
"We do the grunt work, and you reap the rewards."
"The rewards being what? The knowledge that what bears my name could be a potential embarassment?"
"No no, think about the real reason people write." I gave him a blank stare. "Money," he said simply, a hungry look in his eyes. "That's why anyone writes, correct?"
"Ah, see, that's the mane difference between us, Mr. Knipe," I responded, pointing a finger at his chest. "We have different standards. You 'write' for the cash; I write, as well as many others, for the sake of writing good quality literature, the money is only what keeps us alive to keep writing. Good quality anything can't be manufactured, don't try to deny it." I felt pretty triumphant after my little speech. Knipe, however, gave me a grave look.
"Very well," he said stiffly, "Since you won't easily comply, I have no choice but to place some restraints on you."
"You have 'no choice'? From a monetary standpoint? I'd never believe that you, of all people in this bloody country, have money issues."
"You'll have you're car taken and booted."
"This car doesn't exist."
"You'll be under house arrest."
"I have no immediate appointments."
"You'll have your telephone blocked."
"I've been neding a reason to use it less than I do."
"Your electricity will be cut."
"I've noticed my bill's been rather high lately; besides, I have a typewriter."
"Your food will be severely limited."
"I've been meaning to lose some weight." I felth fury rise in him. "Is that all you've got, Mr. Knipe?" I asked impishly. Knipe, his face beet-red, looked ready to throttle me. "Why, are you hot, Mr. Knipe? You look awfully red," I noted cheerfully. "But, you must be used to being hot because of where you're from."
"Where would that be, Ms. Sandon?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.
I gave him an impish smirk. "I think you know where I mean."
If such a thing was possible, Knipe's face got redder. "Go to ghenna," he hissed.
"Take that back!" I shouted, unaware that the kettle had been boiling over for the past three minutes.
"Not unless you sign."
"What, is this a 'get out of Hell free' contract now? Oh, but that would be an oxymoron; I'm sure you, as a writer, Mr. Knipe, are familiar with the device known as the oxymoron?" I could've sworn I saw steam coming from Knipe's ears; it gave me an odd satisfaction. Without another word, he stormed out the door.
The restraints that he had mentioned went into effect immediately. I was allowed to keep half of what food I had in the house, but the chain from my bike was torn out and the tires were slashed; the telephone and electrical cables were violently cut off; and, to add extra insult to my injury, a man took my 1925 typewriter to the top of the chimney and dropped it onto the flagstone walk below, where it shattered to pieces beyond repair. I was kept up all hours of the night. I took to writing in a form of shorthand I had learned in high school that looked like scribbles. When a few of the men guarding my house tried to take the papers I had written on, I had loudly proclaimed that they were exceedingly important. They let me keep them, unable to read it anyway, and they probably thought I had gone round the bend. I wrote of my semi-imprisonment, mostly. Then, about a week or so in, I got an idea. I begged for someone to go to Knipe and tell him I was reconsidering. Quickly, I packed a few of my possesions into three brown suitcases: my notebooks, my savings, a week's worth of clothes, a quilt of my grandmother's, a stack of letters and stationary, my favorite blue pen, and three keys from my broken typewriter: G, Q, and S; these were the initials of my name, Gwenna Quinn Sandon.
Two days after I had sent for Mr. Knipe, he pulled up to my house in his Cadillac. "Come round, have you?" he asked as he got out of the car, not even attempting to hide the look of triumph on his thin face. I nodded. He followed me to where the contract still sat on the kitchen table. My left hand twisted in my lap, I signed my name on the dotted line of the contract that stated that I would recieve some of the profits from some of the writing produced by the Adolph Knipe Literary Agency, and to never write another word under the name of Gwenna Quinn Sandon again as long as I lived. I set down my pen and looked up to Knipe; I thought he was going to explode from happiness.
"Pleasure doing business with you," he said, standing and shaking my hand viggerously. I nodded in acknowledgement, a knowing smile on my face.
You didn't think I was giving up THAT easily, did you?
I told Knipe to send the checks to the bank to be forwarded to me, as I was going away for some time. That very same day, I took the late train west, and took a ship further west to Ireland, and settled in Kilkenny. I still recieved my money from the Literary Agency under the name of Quenna Sandon, but I had changed my name to the name I write under today. I began writing in Kilkenny, starting life anew, but remembering who I really was.I clutched the pendant with the three typewriter key initials, as I decided to tell the secret of the Grammatizator and of Adolph Knipe, to tell those with true potential to be great on their own and resist this 'revolution.' I tell these stories slowly, and no suspicion has yet arisen; Knipe believes, from the word from one of her "old friends," that Gwenna Sandon died in a freak car accident.
But only those who truely pay attention really know the truth of the matter.
02 March 2008
Something for an as-of-present Unconcieved story
She tapped the counter impatiently with her fingertip. She looked ready to tear her white-blonde hair out by the roots.
"Francisca! Get in here!" she screeched. In almost no time, her right-hand girl scurried in, slightly tipsy and hiccupping.
"Yes, hic, ma'am?" she asked timidly. She turned to face Francisca in her highbacked chair, as small glass of chardonay in her left hand. Her look almost went soft.
"Tell me, Francisca: before I recruited you, you were familiar with that inspector, were you not?"
"Uh, I... um..."
The wine glass shattered onto the flagstone floor as she grabbed Francisca's collar. "Answer me, you ungrateful little..." Just then, a slightly sinister smile flickered onto her face. She dropped Francisca, letting her slide to the floor.
"Francisca, you know I have ways to get information, correct?" She nodded. "I know you have information about that inspector. I intended to get it from you one way or another. One in particular involving speek, a gasp of air, and a few large bottles of sparkling grape juice come to mind immediately." Francisa grasped her stomach and moaned. A devious smirk of victory crept over her face. "Will you give me the information that?"
"Francisca! Get in here!" she screeched. In almost no time, her right-hand girl scurried in, slightly tipsy and hiccupping.
"Yes, hic, ma'am?" she asked timidly. She turned to face Francisca in her highbacked chair, as small glass of chardonay in her left hand. Her look almost went soft.
"Tell me, Francisca: before I recruited you, you were familiar with that inspector, were you not?"
"Uh, I... um..."
The wine glass shattered onto the flagstone floor as she grabbed Francisca's collar. "Answer me, you ungrateful little..." Just then, a slightly sinister smile flickered onto her face. She dropped Francisca, letting her slide to the floor.
"Francisca, you know I have ways to get information, correct?" She nodded. "I know you have information about that inspector. I intended to get it from you one way or another. One in particular involving speek, a gasp of air, and a few large bottles of sparkling grape juice come to mind immediately." Francisa grasped her stomach and moaned. A devious smirk of victory crept over her face. "Will you give me the information that?"
A "Mild Epiphany" From an Untitled Story
The assembled officers looked at me in surprise. I stared back difiantly.
"What did you say?" one of them asked, voice trembling in fury.
"You heard me," I answered. "This whole this so freakin' messed up. All y'all are violating the first Amendment, if you peabrains have any idea what that is."
"Why you little..." one snarled, lunging towards me and siezing my neck.
"Hold it!" a voice tundered. Everyone turned and parted to show Charlie was coming towards Snarly, who was at my throat, and I. He quickly stood up.
"Uh, sir, um... this.... this.." he stammered, pointing stupidly at me.
"Girl," I interjected. "Woman. Female. Chick. Say something, you nitwit."
"She's breaking the opinion rule, in your presense too!" someone finished.
Charlie looked to the stammering idiot, then to me. He gave me a descrete wink. "Samson," he said sharply to the guy who nearly strangled me, "what are you trying to pull?"
"But... but.... you heard her just now! She called me a nitwit!" he stammered. "That's an opinion."
"Hm. That may be," Charlie pretended to contemplate. "Or maybe she was stating the obvious."
"But... but..."
"Regardless of the gender of the speaker, who doesn't agree with what was said?" Charlie asked everyone. There was a general consensus that they did agree. "Alright Samson. You tried to pull that she was giving an opinion, but everyone seems to agree that she was stating a fact," Charlie concluded.
"But... but sir!..."
"Who's higher than you?"
"You are," the idiot mumbled in defeat.
"Alright then. And I'll deal with you later," he said "sharply," giving me a wink. As the group dispersed, I thought to myself, as much as I hate the new government, I was glad my brother was a high-ranking officer.
But, now that I opened my yap this time, I might be in huge trouble next time. And next time, Charlie or I might not be so lucky.
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
I was a bit freaked out by the cryptic note, but since it appeared to be from someone important, I decided to head out right away. I grabbed my coat and hat and took off towards Gordan Road, out into the rain.
I glanced at the note again; it said to be by the newsstand. I leaned causally against the wall of said newsstand, prepared to wait a while. But, a hst, in the alley by my waiting spot seemed to beckon me. Cautiously, I followed the noise. Then, without warning, two guys pounced on me. I tried to fight back, but it was of no use: one had me pinned against a wall faster than you can say Samantha Alexandra Elizabeth Emma Lynn Chinnana. He had my amrs twisted against my back, and his hand was over my mouth to stifle my screams. When he took me off the wall, the other held a knife to my throat.
"We've been onto you, Inspector Ananin," the one at my throat hissed in my ear.
"Yeah. We have the feeling you haven't been entirely truthful," the other snickered.
"We're gonna take you to talk to The Man, and it's someone higher than Charles Chinnana. You wouldn't dare lie between him, would you?"
I had to think. My job and secret, or worse, was at stake.
"What did you say?" one of them asked, voice trembling in fury.
"You heard me," I answered. "This whole this so freakin' messed up. All y'all are violating the first Amendment, if you peabrains have any idea what that is."
"Why you little..." one snarled, lunging towards me and siezing my neck.
"Hold it!" a voice tundered. Everyone turned and parted to show Charlie was coming towards Snarly, who was at my throat, and I. He quickly stood up.
"Uh, sir, um... this.... this.." he stammered, pointing stupidly at me.
"Girl," I interjected. "Woman. Female. Chick. Say something, you nitwit."
"She's breaking the opinion rule, in your presense too!" someone finished.
Charlie looked to the stammering idiot, then to me. He gave me a descrete wink. "Samson," he said sharply to the guy who nearly strangled me, "what are you trying to pull?"
"But... but.... you heard her just now! She called me a nitwit!" he stammered. "That's an opinion."
"Hm. That may be," Charlie pretended to contemplate. "Or maybe she was stating the obvious."
"But... but..."
"Regardless of the gender of the speaker, who doesn't agree with what was said?" Charlie asked everyone. There was a general consensus that they did agree. "Alright Samson. You tried to pull that she was giving an opinion, but everyone seems to agree that she was stating a fact," Charlie concluded.
"But... but sir!..."
"Who's higher than you?"
"You are," the idiot mumbled in defeat.
"Alright then. And I'll deal with you later," he said "sharply," giving me a wink. As the group dispersed, I thought to myself, as much as I hate the new government, I was glad my brother was a high-ranking officer.
But, now that I opened my yap this time, I might be in huge trouble next time. And next time, Charlie or I might not be so lucky.
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
I was a bit freaked out by the cryptic note, but since it appeared to be from someone important, I decided to head out right away. I grabbed my coat and hat and took off towards Gordan Road, out into the rain.
I glanced at the note again; it said to be by the newsstand. I leaned causally against the wall of said newsstand, prepared to wait a while. But, a hst, in the alley by my waiting spot seemed to beckon me. Cautiously, I followed the noise. Then, without warning, two guys pounced on me. I tried to fight back, but it was of no use: one had me pinned against a wall faster than you can say Samantha Alexandra Elizabeth Emma Lynn Chinnana. He had my amrs twisted against my back, and his hand was over my mouth to stifle my screams. When he took me off the wall, the other held a knife to my throat.
"We've been onto you, Inspector Ananin," the one at my throat hissed in my ear.
"Yeah. We have the feeling you haven't been entirely truthful," the other snickered.
"We're gonna take you to talk to The Man, and it's someone higher than Charles Chinnana. You wouldn't dare lie between him, would you?"
I had to think. My job and secret, or worse, was at stake.
The Golden Rule (or Lack Thereof)
It’s always occurred to me in some way before, but for some reason more than before I see how little people in general (not all, mind you) ignore the “golden rule.” Y’know, do unto others what you would have others do unto you? Again, there are examples of it being done all over the place. However, there are almost as many examples of those not doing it. As a society we seem to put onto “doing what you want others to do to you,” but for some reason, I see it being interpreted as “do what you want others to do to you every once in a while,” or “when you feel like it.”
You could just laugh off this next part, but if you don’t, consider this: If you’re the person who constantly knocks people’s stuff out of their arms as they rush to class; or verbally cut someone down, either just “j/k-ing” or for real; or, God forbid, poke fun at someone else’s misery, pain and suffering (when the suffer isn’t doing so themselves), just swap sides with the person, even if just for a minute.
Sure, to you it may seem hilarious now, but look at it from the other person’s angle.
Not so funny now, huh?
Suffering is nothing to laugh at. But, for some strange reason, people in general don’t seem to realize that until it’s happened to them. But sometimes after that, unfortunately, it’s too late.
You could just laugh off this next part, but if you don’t, consider this: If you’re the person who constantly knocks people’s stuff out of their arms as they rush to class; or verbally cut someone down, either just “j/k-ing” or for real; or, God forbid, poke fun at someone else’s misery, pain and suffering (when the suffer isn’t doing so themselves), just swap sides with the person, even if just for a minute.
Sure, to you it may seem hilarious now, but look at it from the other person’s angle.
Not so funny now, huh?
Suffering is nothing to laugh at. But, for some strange reason, people in general don’t seem to realize that until it’s happened to them. But sometimes after that, unfortunately, it’s too late.
GE: Write Like Dickens
There wasn't much context to this one, we just had to pick a "gap" from the story and write about it. (Those that have read GE already, this was written before I finished the book, and some certain things were revealed)
The steely grey water lapped against the small rowboat, bound for the looming shadow of the hulks before us. I gazed ahead, my mind replaying the last week's events. I shuddered as I thought of them. Why had I been so ignorant of the consequences? The one that now loowmed over me, literally.
I came out of my daze when the little boat bumped the tower ship, sillohetted by the setting sun, framed by the bloodred sky.
A rope ladder was tossed down to us, a dismal crew of two convicts and myself. I hesitated. Should they go up first, or should I? One scurried up the ladder. I glanced at the other, a surly grouchy-looking man, who glared back at me.
"Well?" he asked gruffly. "We ain' got all day. Go!" Startled, I went up as fast as I could being unsteady over the greay water on a fraying ladder.
When I finally made it up, two soldiers firmly grasped my upper arms and led me below the deck. When we did, a mass of humanity greeted my eyes, ears, and nose. Waves of rough grey material lay before me. The little talk that was going on, a low somber buzz, ceased as the soldiers who flanked me and I entered But the most noticible thing was the absolute stench of humanity, particularly sweat. It was almost enough to gag me. But the surrounding men and soldiers seemed unaware of the surrounding smells.
We stopped at what looked like a horse's stall. One soldier released my arm, and and took a chain and iron, which he was about to fasten to my right ankle.
"Wait," said the one still tightly gripping my left arm. The other nodded, as if they were communicating in a way I couldn't understand. He tossed me some rough grey clothes. I glanced at the clothes, then at the chain and iron, then at the soldiers. They looked at me expectantly.
"What? You want me to change now?" I stuttered.
Exasperated, the one gripping my arm leered at me. "No, we want you to do it next Tuesday. Of course now!" I changed the fastest I had ever changed in my years.
After changing, the soldiers fastened the iron to my ankle and left. The situation was hopeless.
"So, what's a young man like you doing here?" a voice asked. I looked up to see a man staring down at me.
I sighed. "Only a grudge that went too far."
He smirked and asked, "How so?"
I told him of the grudge with an old neighbor, an all-around dislikeable fellow. We always fought with each other. But one night, he had called me the offspring of the most vile of vermin. My temper rose. He then said that of my family, my mother was the worst. I turned, grabbed a large branch and beat him in the head a few times. When he fell to the ground in a heap, I dropped the branch and backed away mortified.
Within a few days I was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to the hulks.
The man shook his head. "That's nothing," he grunted, waving off my tale of woe. At that time, a soldier came handing out food. He tossed everyone some bread, about half of a small loaf. He handed me a whole loaf. The man eyed it enviously.
"Say, you're young, right? Less than five-and-twenty?" he asked slyly. "You have more strength. You give me your bread, I'll keep mine. Sounds good, yes?"
I was shocked. Give him my bread for nothing?
He stared at my bread intently. "You'd be giving up a bad offer."
"You're mother's a bad offer," I snapped without thinking. Then, when I realized what I just said, the man had siezed my neck. I couldn't breathe, my eyes seemed to be popping out of my head. Someone broke us apart, but not before I realized that I had to get out of that place. That man would eventually kill me if he could.
The steely grey water lapped against the small rowboat, bound for the looming shadow of the hulks before us. I gazed ahead, my mind replaying the last week's events. I shuddered as I thought of them. Why had I been so ignorant of the consequences? The one that now loowmed over me, literally.
I came out of my daze when the little boat bumped the tower ship, sillohetted by the setting sun, framed by the bloodred sky.
A rope ladder was tossed down to us, a dismal crew of two convicts and myself. I hesitated. Should they go up first, or should I? One scurried up the ladder. I glanced at the other, a surly grouchy-looking man, who glared back at me.
"Well?" he asked gruffly. "We ain' got all day. Go!" Startled, I went up as fast as I could being unsteady over the greay water on a fraying ladder.
When I finally made it up, two soldiers firmly grasped my upper arms and led me below the deck. When we did, a mass of humanity greeted my eyes, ears, and nose. Waves of rough grey material lay before me. The little talk that was going on, a low somber buzz, ceased as the soldiers who flanked me and I entered But the most noticible thing was the absolute stench of humanity, particularly sweat. It was almost enough to gag me. But the surrounding men and soldiers seemed unaware of the surrounding smells.
We stopped at what looked like a horse's stall. One soldier released my arm, and and took a chain and iron, which he was about to fasten to my right ankle.
"Wait," said the one still tightly gripping my left arm. The other nodded, as if they were communicating in a way I couldn't understand. He tossed me some rough grey clothes. I glanced at the clothes, then at the chain and iron, then at the soldiers. They looked at me expectantly.
"What? You want me to change now?" I stuttered.
Exasperated, the one gripping my arm leered at me. "No, we want you to do it next Tuesday. Of course now!" I changed the fastest I had ever changed in my years.
After changing, the soldiers fastened the iron to my ankle and left. The situation was hopeless.
"So, what's a young man like you doing here?" a voice asked. I looked up to see a man staring down at me.
I sighed. "Only a grudge that went too far."
He smirked and asked, "How so?"
I told him of the grudge with an old neighbor, an all-around dislikeable fellow. We always fought with each other. But one night, he had called me the offspring of the most vile of vermin. My temper rose. He then said that of my family, my mother was the worst. I turned, grabbed a large branch and beat him in the head a few times. When he fell to the ground in a heap, I dropped the branch and backed away mortified.
Within a few days I was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to the hulks.
The man shook his head. "That's nothing," he grunted, waving off my tale of woe. At that time, a soldier came handing out food. He tossed everyone some bread, about half of a small loaf. He handed me a whole loaf. The man eyed it enviously.
"Say, you're young, right? Less than five-and-twenty?" he asked slyly. "You have more strength. You give me your bread, I'll keep mine. Sounds good, yes?"
I was shocked. Give him my bread for nothing?
He stared at my bread intently. "You'd be giving up a bad offer."
"You're mother's a bad offer," I snapped without thinking. Then, when I realized what I just said, the man had siezed my neck. I couldn't breathe, my eyes seemed to be popping out of my head. Someone broke us apart, but not before I realized that I had to get out of that place. That man would eventually kill me if he could.
GE: Choice or Chance?
I'm fairly sure the context of this assignment that Pip had just been made Joe's apprentice
Pip is in kind of a tough spot. He's doing what he wanted long ago, but he was forced into it, and he's seen "the light" of reality. Because now between twelve and fourteen, and if people our age [at the time this was written] haven't changed over the last two hundred years or so, if adults "strongly suggest" something, they [the young people] won't wnat to do it; even if it means changin past dreams. Because Pumblechook "strongly suggested" Pip ge Joe's apprentice, and Pip "strongly disliking" Pumblechook, naturally he's going to resent everything he [Pumblechook] suggests.
Generally things that determine a person's class is income and occupation. It depends on a person's situation if they can change these or not. If a person is really determined to, they could possibly change some aspect of their life. But you would need lots of time, patience, and sometimes lots of money to change their entire life. And sometimes a stroke of luck.
In life, it's a combination of both decisions and some luck. If I relied heavilly on luck, if anyone did, I wouldn't do anything. Nothing good would happen, nothing that lasted anyway. But someluck with decisions is good from time to time.
The conflict between fate and free will is universal. Through Pip, Dickens shows that he believes in free will. Based on personal experiance, I agree with Dickens. For most people, what they become in life is a matter of individual choice with a small bit of luck.
Pip is in kind of a tough spot. He's doing what he wanted long ago, but he was forced into it, and he's seen "the light" of reality. Because now between twelve and fourteen, and if people our age [at the time this was written] haven't changed over the last two hundred years or so, if adults "strongly suggest" something, they [the young people] won't wnat to do it; even if it means changin past dreams. Because Pumblechook "strongly suggested" Pip ge Joe's apprentice, and Pip "strongly disliking" Pumblechook, naturally he's going to resent everything he [Pumblechook] suggests.
Generally things that determine a person's class is income and occupation. It depends on a person's situation if they can change these or not. If a person is really determined to, they could possibly change some aspect of their life. But you would need lots of time, patience, and sometimes lots of money to change their entire life. And sometimes a stroke of luck.
In life, it's a combination of both decisions and some luck. If I relied heavilly on luck, if anyone did, I wouldn't do anything. Nothing good would happen, nothing that lasted anyway. But someluck with decisions is good from time to time.
The conflict between fate and free will is universal. Through Pip, Dickens shows that he believes in free will. Based on personal experiance, I agree with Dickens. For most people, what they become in life is a matter of individual choice with a small bit of luck.
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