Thoughts While Reading "The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey"

I just finished reading The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey (though not quick enough, I think). And, as things so often do, got me thinking. What about, you ask? Well, about the characters, their motives, the little nuances, but other things as well.

This book was the sequal of the New York Times bestseller The Mysterious Benedict Society, which I personally thought was fantastic. I didn't think the author, Trenton Lee Stewart, would be able to top himself if he wrote a sequal to this book. But, as I was enveloped in the new adventure of intuitive Reynie, scholarly-but-nervous Sticky, resourceful Kate, and stubborn Constance, I realized that Stewart topped himself easily. I was rather glad that more was shown of what was going on in the minds of some of the other characters besides Reynie. I felt it developed the characters more. What's more, they were thrown into more excitement, danger, and a "higher-stakes game" than before.

I feel that the sign of a good author is the ability to not only create memorable protagonists, but to also to create memorable antagonists. Anyone who read The Mysterious Benedict Society will vividly remember Ledropetha Curtain, the man bent on global control through brainwashing and transmitting voices to people through their minds. This time, this plan seems a bit more drastic (but I will not reveal any details). For as long as I can remember, I have never understood the reason people can be so bent on world domination. With all the people in the world, it's impossible for there not to be opposition to that person's control. The person would then have to figure out how to silence this opposition without creating even more opposition. If the person was the ruler of the world, people would come to him or her with problems, expecting the person to magically make the problem better. I mean, we're all human; we can't use pixie dust to make problems go away (though that would be kind of nice). The way I see it, there's too much pressure and stress.

Then I thought of a conversation within the story, discussing how there seem to be more bad people in the world than good. Someone made the point that bad might just be more noticed or noticable than good. I felt that this was a good point. Think of what you hear on when you turn on the news on TV; fires, earthquakes, shootings, tyrany, bad, bad, bad, bad. That's all you hear; for some reason that's very sellable in mainstream journalism these days. There are people doubting the good in people, or that good even exists at all. For all some people care, "good" is just an urban legend. We need to re-remind these people that there is good in the world; there are good people working against the bad. There are more unsung heroes than maniacal villians in this world; we just need to find them.

On one of the book jacket flaps of The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey, Stewart had a very interesting quote on the characters in his previous book: "I wish I had Reynie's shrewdness and his gift of perception, just as I wish I could read as quick and remember as well as Sticky does, and be as acrobatic as Kate, and have a fraction of Constance's ability to say what she thinks." This got me thinking about my own writing, or most writing in general. People say that writers put themselves in their stories and everything that they write. For myself, I know I put some of my own personality to my characters, plots and choice of words. But in addition, I add things to my characters that I wish I could do or could be. For example, I'm a rather shy, relatively unadventurous person. However, most of my characters are pretty outgoing and daring. Some of the things they pull off I'd never be able to do under normal circumstances, but sometimes I wish I could do the things they do so badly. I'm not sure about other writers, but I think this idea is true for most other writers.

Extra Great Expectations Installment

Installment 33 ½
Chapter 54 1/3
In an unsuccessful attempt to ease my mind while Magwitch awaited trial, I took to taking walks to nowhere in particular. Sometimes I walked by the Castle, or through Little Britain. I attempted to stay away from Newgate, for fear of going mad with anxiety.

It was on one of these aimless ventures, accompanied by a travel-weary Herbert, that we were approached by a scrawny boy. He reminded me greatly of Trabb’s boy when he was younger, complete with a look of mischief sparkling in his eyes.

"Excuse me sirs, does either of you know of, or answer to the name of Mr. Pip?"

Skeptically I looked at Herbert, who shrugged his shoulders in indifference. But when I caught his eyes, they told a different story. They said that I should proceed with caution.

"I know of him," I answered.

"Would you deliver a note to him? My master expresses great urgency in it being delivered to him right away." Then the boy took off.

"Who is your master?" I called after him, but my words were lost in the noise of sudden burst of traffic. I stood in the street, lost in thought. Herbert tried to snap me out of my daze.

"Come, let us go somewhere else to discuss this matter. I hope you realize that it’s fairly difficult to discuss serious business in the middle of the street." Seeing I was still in the fog of thought, he grabbed my arm and dragged me towards the Temple.

He steered me into a chair away from the windows and door of our apartment, then he dragged a chair close to mine.

"Open it," he said expectantly, gesturing towards the letter in my fist. Slowly, I pried it out of my hand, opened it, smoothed it out on the table, and read it quietly aloud.

No matter where you go, your past and future will follow. Come to the place where your young life took a turn. Come quickly, come alone.

There was no signature. A long, gossamer strand of silence followed. It was a long period before Herbert broke it.

"Dear Handel, what do you think of this?"

I didn’t answer right away, because I wasn’t quite sure what to think. "I do not know, Herbert."

"You do remember, Handel, what ensued when you received a similar note?"

"All too well, Herbert. All too well." The thought of the encounter with Orlick in the sluice-house sent a chill through my skin.

After another long, uncomfortable silence, I said, "The only way to know if something similar won’t happen is to do what it says."

This idea didn’t seems to sit well with Herbert. "Well, yes... but, what if, ... erm, you know?" His
voice trailed off after that thought. But I knew what he meant. What if the same situation
happened in the marshes, without the same ending? This idea didn’t sit well with me now.

Herbert broke the next bit of silence. "What if I came with you from the initial beginning? Just to make sure nothing goes awry. What does it mean, ‘the place where your young life took a turn’?"

"I don’t know," said I. But, I knew all too well what it meant; the note’s author wanted me to go to Miss Havisham’s estate. "Well, possibly somewhere near Satis House," I muttered.

"Indeed?" Herbert eyed me skeptically. "Well, let’s see what ensues on this occasion." At first, I couldn’t believe what he said. He wants to pursue danger? Possibly he wanted to get used to danger, in case danger met him in Egypt.

"Are you sure Herbert?" I asked.

"Indeed, good Handel. Besides, one must live life while one can!"

Chapter 55 2/3

We took the first carriage from London to my little town the next morning. The journey seemed to drag on for days, but the reality of time care when we stepped out into the sunlight. My mind became flustered.

"Quick Herbert, what day is it?"

"It is still Monday, the day we left London," he replied. His look then turned concerned. "Are you sure you want to do this Handel?"

"Now that you doubt it,..." I started to say, then I thought about it. My mind seemed to revert to a child’s mind. It wanted to do what the responsible one specifically said not to do. "Now that you doubt it, good Herbert, I want to do this more than ever." I thought I saw him shake his head in amusement.

Since we were in no rush to Satis House, we meandered our way from the one side of town where the carriage dropped us off to the other where an unknown fate awaited me. I had no idea if the unknown was favorable or unforgiving. But my curiosity seemed to stifle my voice of reason, or the reasoning of Herbert.

We had barely strolled by two houses when we encountered Trabb’s boy. He seemed to recognize Herbert from the encounter on the marshes. He had matured slightly, but the sparkle of mischief had not been extinguished. He carried on polite conversation with Herbert for a while, but then seemed to get bored with it. An impish impulse seemed to come over him.

"Where’s your companion? He had an odd name, maybe Moon-Head..."

"Startop," Herbert corrected politely. He seemed to have more patience with him than I could ever hope to have. "Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re in a hurry."

"You didn’t seem to be in a hurry a moment ago."

"Well, we’re slowly hurrying."

"Slowly hurrying?"

"Yes. Just as we are slowly hurrying, you are politely pestering us, and I am patiently losing my temper. Now, let us go, dear Handel." With that, we continued down the street as Trabb’s boy tried to make sense of what Herbert had said.

"That was brilliant Herbert!" I exclaimed.

He humbly muttered something about it being nothing.

"You have more patience than I could ever hope to have."

"Yes, I had found that growing up surrounded by little ones made me have to set an example for them. During that time I found that mixing words keeps one occupied for some time attempting to make heads or tails of what you said."

"Again, brilliant!"

We stopped midway into town for lunch at a small inn. This was one of the first times that I didn’t hear the local version of how I came into my expectations. I barely noticed the taste of the food during that time. I didn’t even remember what was put in front of me. Herbert glanced at me nervously every once in a while.

Afterwards we kept wandering towards Satis House. As we approached it, my mind kept spinning with unpleasant thoughts about what might lay ahead. I shuddered with these thoughts.

As the sun began to dip into the horizon, we were outside the deserted gates of Satis House. Herbert put a hand reassuringly on my shoulder.

"You know that you don’t have to do this," he said quietly. I nodded. "But you still do?" he asked. Slowly, I nodded again. After some silence, Herbert spoke again.

"How about we patrol around the fence, and see what happens?" I looked from Herbert, the ground, at the ever-foreboding house, back to my shoes, then up to Herbert again. I swallowed and nodded slowly.

"If either of us needs help, call out in some way," he added, beginning to proceed to the south side of the property. I decided to head in the opposite direction.
As the light continued to retreat, my senses seemed to be ever enhanced, including my sense of fear. I rounded the corner to go along the west side of the property, and I saw two shadowy figures. I considered turning around to go the way I had just come, but it was clear that they had seen me, and were approaching. I felt as if my feet had been turned to stone.

"Where d’ye think yer goin’?" one of them asked savagely.

"Well, see here, I had received a note," I stammered, beginning to take the anonymous note out of my pocket. The other figure seized it and proceeded to tear it to shreds.

"What note? ‘S far’s we know, yer trespassin’."

"We don’ ‘low fer trespassin’," the first said, reaching into his pocket.

I began to back away. "Er, who’s the gatekeeper now?" I asked.

The second one answered. "We’ll be askin’ the questions ‘round ‘ere. An’ who’s the gatekeeper? Ye’ll find out well enough." I tried to call out, but my voice betrayed me. The second spun me around to grip my shoulders tightly, while the first pulled a dagger out of his pocket and held it close to my throat.

"Make one shout, one peep, it’ll be th’ last sound ye make," he croaked. My mind began racing wildly. It was rushing so quickly, it felt as if my head would collapse. My vision became blurry, and I went limp.

When I finally came round, I saw a small light, which lit the small gatehouse. There were three blurry figures in front of me, one cast completely in shadow. From the pressure on my upper arms, I assumed the fourth was still restraining me.

"Thank you, gentlemen. Now, would you be so kind as to show our friend to a chair?" one of the figures asked. I couldn’t tell which one because my vision was still swampy.

The man who gripped my arms forced me into a straight-backed chair and bound my arms to the side of it. I found it astonishing that he bound them so I couldn’t move them in the least bit, yet the ropes didn’t cut into my arms.

"Thank you. Now would you mind looking out for anyone else? If you should see or hear anyone, bring them here so I could personally... deal with them." The two men which had been my welcoming committee nodded their heads and exited the gatehouse.

"Can I do it yet sir?" the figure in the shadows wheezed.

"No, not yet," the other hissed. My vision began clearing, and although I had only seen him twice previous to this, the scar on his face made it so there was no denying who it was.

"Compeyson?" I whispered in disbelief, more to myself than anyone. I was so surprised because I believed him dead.

"The one and only," he said with a sly smirk.

"Okay, he knows who ye are, now let me..."

"Quiet! I will tell you when I am good and ready!" Compeyson then took to slowly circling my chair, like some great predator wishing to pounce on its prey. I was frozen with fear.

"You do realize," said he after some time, "how ungrateful you are?"

"In what way?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"I am the whole reason you are here. No, I don’t mean just the note bringing you here. I mean I am the whole reason you are what you are," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He circled closer.

Now that he mentioned it, now that I thought about it, he was right. If he hadn’t messed between Molly and Magwitch, Estella would be a gypsy, or she wouldn’t be with Miss Havisham. If he hadn’t deserted Miss Havisham, she wouldn’t be so mean-hearted. There also might’ve been life on the Satis House property, and I never would’ve met Estella. If he hadn’t framed Magwitch, I’d still be a blacksmiths’ apprentice.

I must’ve had a look of realization on my face. "You’ve realized?" Compeyson said with a triumphant look that made me sick. "But, it is you who is making my life difficult."

A burst of bravery loosened my tongue. "Really? Your life is difficult? What about all of the other people whose lives are difficult because of you? Miss Havisham? Estella? Molly? Provis?" I immediately regretted this last suggestion, for Compeyson stopped me there.

"Provis? I’m not familiar with a Provis. Who is he?"

"I knows who Provis be," croaked the raspy voice in the shadowy corner. "Oh, old Orlick knows of this Provis," he continued, as Orlick emerged from his shadows. He had a murderous longing in his eyes when he looked at me, a burning vengeance about him.

Compeyson looked curious and slightly amused at my dismay. "Do you, Orlick? Well then, if our friend here won’t tell us, why don’t you give us the pleasure of telling who he is?"

"Aye, I’ll tell. But then can I...?"

Compeyson lost his temper. "Good God Orlick, I’ll tell you when you can!" he roared. After a few deep breaths, he managed to get a hold of himself. "Now, continue."

Orlick had a grin that grew more sinister with every word he spoke. "Provis be the other name, the ‘safe’ name for yer good pal, Magwitch."

"Indeed?" Compeyson seemed surprised by this news. "Magwitch? As in, Abel Magwitch?"

"The very same."

"Really?"

"An’ I knowed where he’s hidin’ too."

"He’s left New South Wales?"

Before Orlick could answer, I desperately cried out, "No! It’s all a lie!" Orlick began approaching me menacingly.

"Why you devil..." But with surprising speed, Compeyson took a gun out of his jacket and shot a small glass close to my head, causing it to shatter.

"You are as rude as you are ungrateful. You will speak when spoken to, or you will be like that glass sooner than you would like," he hissed. Replacing the gun into his coat, he turned back to me.

"Yes, you are making my life difficult. You see, I want this whole thing; you, Magwitch, your ‘expectations,’ the happening on the galley. I want it to disappear from... more prying eyes. You or your friend Provis could let the entire story going back to that gypsy woman out of the bag. So, I thought I’d remove the dead weight that could unravel my whole plan. Magwitch is certainly done for, so I thought I’d remove you as well. Also, you wouldn’t be who you are without me and my, how to put it lightly?, meddlings. If you were any bit grateful, you’d be falling all over me with gratitude. Do you not agree?"

I thought about it for a while.

"I said, do you not agree? Answer me when I ask you a question."

Another brave impulse loosened my tongue.

"No." Compeyson was taken aback.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No, I do not agree. If it wasn’t for you, there would be fewer miserable people."

Compeyson gave a harsh laugh. "Name two, then." A moment before I had a whole list of people, but as soon as he gave the command, the words left me.

He laughed again. "See? You can’t even name one." I glared at him.

"Actually, to name one, a young man by the name of Phillip Pirrup." He gave me a strange look.

"Who’s he?"

"He’s in your presence as we speak," I answered.

"You?" he asked surprised.

"Yes. You’ve caused Miss Havisham and Magwitch much grief. Miss Havisham raised Estella to be who she is because of you, which has been a heartache for me. Magwitch established my expectations, which has now amounted to a mountainous debt, which is a great hindrance on my conscience."

Compeyson searched for a way to prove my words wrong, but could find none. I felt triumphant. His brow furrowed in frustration and fury.

"You may have thought that you’ve turned the tables on me, but you would be wrong. You have actually put yourself into more danger. You, alone, are bound to a chair on a deserted estate in the middle of the night. I, however, am not bound to a chair in the middle of the night. The second-most important detail: I have no secret that could lose me my life. Well, that no one else knows. But the most important: you are outnumbered." He gave me a look of sinister triumph and nodded to Orlick, who looked thrilled beyond words.

"I’m not as outnumbered as you think!" I shouted, as I made feudal attempts to break free of my entrapment. I hoped that Herbert had heard my shouts, wherever he was.

Compeyson let out a villainous cackle. "You’re daft, boy! Do you really think anyone is going to save you now?"

"Yes, he does!" a distant voice replied. "Tally ho!" A crashing noise against the door followed this last cry. Compeyson lost his cocky air and became flustered.

"Get the door!" he shouted to Orlick. But before he could, the door fell in with a crash, and Herbert appeared in the doorway, followed by a ghostly figure.

"Are you alright, Handel?" he asked, beginning to approach me. But Compeyson leaped between us, his gun out again, pointed directly at Herbert.

"You make one more move towards him," he hissed menacingly, "it’ll be the last move you make."

"That doesn’t sound like the manners of a gentleman," said the ghostly figure that had followed Herbert into the gatehouse. "Then again, deserting your betrothed on her wedding day isn’t gentleman-like either." The figure came into the light.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Miss Havisham, looking in even worse shape than when I last saw her. Her moth-eaten dress was still scorched, her veil (or what remained of it) blackened, the one side of her face seemed shrunken.

Compeyson looked even more shocked than I.

"I... I... I thought... I thought..." he stammered, but she interrupted.

"You thought I was gone long ago, when I realized that you weren’t going to come. You hoped that I would have been wasted away by now. But I’ve been waiting all of these years for you, and I won’t seem to go until I get this settled. I’ve been waiting, but not for you to come back for your wedding. No, I’ve been waiting to tell you that I know you thought of me as an open pocketbook, with anything in it for the taking. When you ran off with your takings, I became a changed woman. I came to loathe all men. I raised a girl to wreak my revenge on men. After she left, I came to realize that I never would have done it had you not deserted me.

"You gave me everlasting misery. Now, I have something for you." With surprising speed and strength, the frail old woman wound up and slapped Compeyson across the face. He stumbled backwards, tripped over something on the floor, and fell. He had hit his head on a table and was knocked out cold by the time he hit the floor with a sickening thud. By this time Orlick was long gone.

Miss Havisham looked exhausted, but her eyes glittered with fire of satisfaction. Herbert rushed to untie the ropes which bound me to the chair. As I stood up, I spied Compeyson’s gun on the floor. I picked it up and realized it was the very gun which Orlick had nearly used to do me in on the marshes a few weeks ago. I quickly tucked it into my pocket.

I looked back at Miss Havisham. She was swaying wildly, when she finally collapsed into Herbert’s arms.

"Help me bring her back to her room," he whispered. I stepped over a motionless Compeyson to help Herbert drag her out of the gatehouse, up to her room with the open wardrobe, half-packed trunk, and various items strewn around it. After we deposited her onto the couch, we went back to the gatehouse. Compeyson was still out cold.

"What should we do with him?" I asked. Herbert looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Let’s get him out of here. We’ll take him outside," he suggested, beginning to drag the still-unconscious Compeyson. We started to leave the gatehouse when Herbert picked up a blanket. I began to think that Herbert had gone insane, but then I remembered that he had an extremely kind heart. Even if someone was holding him at gunpoint, he would still treat that person with the utmost respect.

After we dragged Compeyson outside (and Herbert covered him with a blanket), we went to an inn closest to the carriage stop. We took the early-morning carriage back to London. Both still shaken from lack of sleep last night, we slept restlessly for a ways. When we reached a bridge halfway between London and my little town, I asked the driver to stop. I stepped out of the carriage and walked to the edge of the bridge. Looking down at the water rushing below, I took the gun out of my pocket. I had a feeling that it would haunt me for the rest of my life unless I got rid of it. After pondering it a while longer, I dropped it into the rushing river below.

After watching the spot where it hit the water for a bit, I climbed back into the carriage. We rode in silence the rest of the way back to London.

A few days later I heard that very soon after we had returned to London, a bridge collapsed and a one-person carriage fell into the river. The carriage and horse were found downstream, but the person in it had not. I later discovered it was the very bridge I had stopped our carriage on. I never told anyone, but I had a sneaking suspicion that Compeyson had tried to follow us, but it possibly had lead to his demise. So now all I had to occupy my mind was the upcoming trial.

If Only...

If only I could see your smiling face
Lighting up with gladness
Seeing the beauty of each day.
If only I could see your graceful hands
Dancing over the piano keys,
As they say you do so well.
If only I could see your velvet hair
Thick as it cascades over your shoulder
Falling through my unworth fingers.
If only this barrier of mine
Didn't lay between us.

If only I could hear your voice
Rough but sweet, crooning
The blues in your heart.
If only I could hear you play
That sax filled with the passion of your soul
As they say you do so well.
If only I could hear you laugh
Richly, joyfully, at Life's comidies
Amidst our own tragedies.
If only this barrier of mine
Didn't lay between us.

If only they could see our strength,
Hindered as we may seem,
Our barriers don't effect us.
If only they could hear the music of our hearts
Intertwined like the bramble and rose,
As they say it does so well.
If only they could feel our bond
Holding us fast
Holding us close.
If only they could know these barriers of ours
Don't lay between us.

If only you could see the strength
Of their hearts,
Compassionate and understanding.
If only you could hear the wordless conversations
Between these two so frequently
As I see they do so well.
If only you could know their barriers,
He is blind, she is deaf,
But each understanding of the other's.
If only you could understand that
In His eyes, their love is enough
To break the barriers laying between them

Advent of Spring

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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.