Monday, July 30, 2012
At What Cost
Michael sat at the east end of Wade Park. The sun had set hours ago but because of its location at the center of the city, this park was usually well lit. Tonight it was especially dark. Mist rose and hung above the earth, untouched by any wind or movement. Despite the unusually low temperature for this time of year, sweat sat upon his brow, blinking at the faint traces of city light, shimmering brighter than the reflection upon his eyes, which seemed blacker than the shadow that had engulfed most of wood that surrounded the park at this time of night. He sat alone but felt the presence of someone else at his side, a presence that has grown stronger and much harder to ignore with each passing day, bringing with it a growing uneasiness that became much more difficult to ignore. A presence that he noticed the moment he set eyes upon Adam Braun, the boy who's very existence has ignited a rage within Michael, sparking cruel thoughts of revenge, but revenge for what? Why did Michael have such bitter hatred for this young man he had never met before? He stood and thought for a moment about going back home, to where his parents were most assuredly in a panic over his absence. Before taking a single step through the moist grass, before embarking on a journey, painful only because it would not end in the end of his mortal enemy, Michael paused, familiar with Adam's neighborhood and how easily he could sneak in and out of that home unnoticed, covering his trail and vanishing into the night before anyone was aware of what he had done. The Guardian realized he was quickly losing influence and may soon have to resort to the extreme in order to keep Michael from becoming what his grandparents fled from decades ago, from murdering in the name of hatred.
Trillionaire Aspirations
Mitt was your typical trillionaire, bad boy, false prophet. Convenient, since being first gave him carte blanche over the precedence of what’s deemed typical. Mitt’s inheritance of decadence gave him a blasé indifference to common folk, that only a lifetime spent as a plutocrat could foster. Fortunately for a man like Mitt, a good public image can be bought and sold like a commodity. The strength of his perceived propriety only empowered his multinational conglomerate empire. The gossip bombs from his heavy hand with hired women and careless affairs with narcotics, were easily defused with a strategic bribe.
But that was all misdemeanor ultra-wealth delinquency. Like his investment portfolio, Mitt was never one to settle for middle of the road performance. He had something more sinister in mind.
“Global domination.” Mitt smirked as he swiveled to face his panel of yes men.
“Through incremental easing of lending rates through our reser...”
“This isn’t a feedback session, Nerdgeek #4.” Mitt interjected, not knowing if he even got the Mittname of the guy he never bothered to learn, correct.
“Only a handful of people in this room have been made aware of Starfish Prime. Specifically, because all the mouth-breathers outside these walls would call it diabolical.” He elaborated with his innately condescending tone.
The members in the boardroom shared dampened looks of indifference and annoyance. This wouldn’t be the first time one of Mitt’s grand plans was forced upon them, complete with hyperbole and epic consequences, the board members knew to just agree and sit it through. The pay was good.
Mitt shouted over the quiet murmur amongst his staff: “As I figured, the words to explain to you gentiles, what’s on the agenda, simply don’t exist in english. You’re gonna need pictures. Roll that beautiful bean footage, A/V club.”
The boardroom windows flashed to opaque and sprung up the Conglomo corporate logo. “Enjoy.” Mitt blurted, as he openly directed his tablet to RedTube with the indifference of a honey badger.
“Conglomo: Innovators at life.” the video opened with a sterile female voice.
“Fast forward through my bio, get to the goodies.” Mitt demanded.
“Following a visit with the Supreme Leader of the Empire of Korea, Kim Jong Un, Mr. Mitt had realized a fantastic vision. Seeing the promise of the Korean Warrior Clone program and...”
“Fast forward again.” He again, interrupted.
“Starfish Prime will allow Conglomo to dictate its destiny. 16 years ago, Mr. Mitt enlisted 998,000 well-reimbursed mothers to act as surrogates through in-vitro fertilization. Through chromosome therapy and high-efficiency disposal measures, Conglomo was able to achieve a staggering, 93% male birth rate. The children were secured and brought to Conglomo Island 8, our largest and most secluded.
For the past 16 years, these children have been raised under the tutelage of former German Army General, Friedrich von Jäger. Following a strict regimen of diet, education and military training in a controlled, Spartan-esque environment, Conglomo has grown, of our own resources, the largest private military organization in history.”
(work in progress)
But that was all misdemeanor ultra-wealth delinquency. Like his investment portfolio, Mitt was never one to settle for middle of the road performance. He had something more sinister in mind.
“Global domination.” Mitt smirked as he swiveled to face his panel of yes men.
“Through incremental easing of lending rates through our reser...”
“This isn’t a feedback session, Nerdgeek #4.” Mitt interjected, not knowing if he even got the Mittname of the guy he never bothered to learn, correct.
“Only a handful of people in this room have been made aware of Starfish Prime. Specifically, because all the mouth-breathers outside these walls would call it diabolical.” He elaborated with his innately condescending tone.
The members in the boardroom shared dampened looks of indifference and annoyance. This wouldn’t be the first time one of Mitt’s grand plans was forced upon them, complete with hyperbole and epic consequences, the board members knew to just agree and sit it through. The pay was good.
Mitt shouted over the quiet murmur amongst his staff: “As I figured, the words to explain to you gentiles, what’s on the agenda, simply don’t exist in english. You’re gonna need pictures. Roll that beautiful bean footage, A/V club.”
The boardroom windows flashed to opaque and sprung up the Conglomo corporate logo. “Enjoy.” Mitt blurted, as he openly directed his tablet to RedTube with the indifference of a honey badger.
“Conglomo: Innovators at life.” the video opened with a sterile female voice.
“Fast forward through my bio, get to the goodies.” Mitt demanded.
“Following a visit with the Supreme Leader of the Empire of Korea, Kim Jong Un, Mr. Mitt had realized a fantastic vision. Seeing the promise of the Korean Warrior Clone program and...”
“Fast forward again.” He again, interrupted.
“Starfish Prime will allow Conglomo to dictate its destiny. 16 years ago, Mr. Mitt enlisted 998,000 well-reimbursed mothers to act as surrogates through in-vitro fertilization. Through chromosome therapy and high-efficiency disposal measures, Conglomo was able to achieve a staggering, 93% male birth rate. The children were secured and brought to Conglomo Island 8, our largest and most secluded.
For the past 16 years, these children have been raised under the tutelage of former German Army General, Friedrich von Jäger. Following a strict regimen of diet, education and military training in a controlled, Spartan-esque environment, Conglomo has grown, of our own resources, the largest private military organization in history.”
(work in progress)
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Guarding Michael
Michael is a good kid, a rare quality that has made my job easy, so far. Though he remains completely unaware of my presence in his life, I've been with him since the beginning. I've been charged with protecting the young man from birth until burial. As his Guardian, it is my duty to keep him from harm's way. People often assume everything is within God's plan but the painful truth is that the Creator has pretty much left everything up to us. He's assigned us our lamb and it's our duty to protect it from slaughter. Though Michael's protection has been a simple task thus far, guarding Michael will soon take on a dark new path. A path that may mean the end of us both.
Michael has been a gentle natured boy since birth. His first smile, though mistaken for gas, was of sincere happiness. As a young boy, Michael had expressed appreciation for every creature he has encountered, whether animal or man. Michael's bright outlook on life endures, despite his family's dark past. Though he and his parents were born and raised in New York, Michael's grandparents were immigrants to this great nation. Having narrowly escaped Auschwitz in 1944, they fled to Switzerland with a small group of refugees. There they provided details of the concentration camp from which they fled and were offered safe relocation to the United States. It was at this point that their family had the chance to start fresh and leave the gruesome details of their past behind them. This was their intention but the door they closed behind them would not remain shut forever.
Michael, now in his senior year, looked forward to his final year at Iredell High, though it had only just begun. He had maintained the kind of grades to land him a scholarship at the University of his choosing and he looked forward to the opportunity to show his parents that he was able to make it on his own, as if they doubted that at all. Looking over his schedule he realized that if he didn't hurry, he was going to be late to his first class. Having barely made it through the door before the bell rang, he noticed every seat had been taken but one; back row, in the corner, next to a blonde, blue eyed young man who he would later learn to be Adam Braun. Adam's upbringing was similar to Michael's. His parents relocated from Poland to the United States in search of a new beginning, but for different reasons. When Adam and Michael's eyes met, there was a strange sense that they had met before. It was at this point that I came into contact with Adam's Guardian and our fates were forever changed.
Michael has been a gentle natured boy since birth. His first smile, though mistaken for gas, was of sincere happiness. As a young boy, Michael had expressed appreciation for every creature he has encountered, whether animal or man. Michael's bright outlook on life endures, despite his family's dark past. Though he and his parents were born and raised in New York, Michael's grandparents were immigrants to this great nation. Having narrowly escaped Auschwitz in 1944, they fled to Switzerland with a small group of refugees. There they provided details of the concentration camp from which they fled and were offered safe relocation to the United States. It was at this point that their family had the chance to start fresh and leave the gruesome details of their past behind them. This was their intention but the door they closed behind them would not remain shut forever.
Michael, now in his senior year, looked forward to his final year at Iredell High, though it had only just begun. He had maintained the kind of grades to land him a scholarship at the University of his choosing and he looked forward to the opportunity to show his parents that he was able to make it on his own, as if they doubted that at all. Looking over his schedule he realized that if he didn't hurry, he was going to be late to his first class. Having barely made it through the door before the bell rang, he noticed every seat had been taken but one; back row, in the corner, next to a blonde, blue eyed young man who he would later learn to be Adam Braun. Adam's upbringing was similar to Michael's. His parents relocated from Poland to the United States in search of a new beginning, but for different reasons. When Adam and Michael's eyes met, there was a strange sense that they had met before. It was at this point that I came into contact with Adam's Guardian and our fates were forever changed.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Style Theif: Assignment for Monday, 7/30
Last week we read stories by the great American writers Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, and Flannery O'Connor.
Your assignment for this week is to write a piece in the style of one of these authors. Your piece should be of the usual length and can be a re-imagining or continuation of something you've already written, or it can be completely new.
In order to successfully imitate the style of one of these authors, you need to first analyze what makes their respective styles unique. We did some of this in class, as you will recall. Here's a refresher on some of the traits we talked about in each of the stories. Remember to go back to these stories to figure out more about what makes these authors' voices some of the most distinctive in literature.
Hemingway:
There's so much more to the style of each author, even based only on the stories that we read. So make sure you get your noses back in the book before you start writing.
Have a great weekend, and have fun with this writing assignment!
Your assignment for this week is to write a piece in the style of one of these authors. Your piece should be of the usual length and can be a re-imagining or continuation of something you've already written, or it can be completely new.
In order to successfully imitate the style of one of these authors, you need to first analyze what makes their respective styles unique. We did some of this in class, as you will recall. Here's a refresher on some of the traits we talked about in each of the stories. Remember to go back to these stories to figure out more about what makes these authors' voices some of the most distinctive in literature.
Hemingway:
- Simple, straightforward, economical language
- Frequent use of short sentences
- Naturalistic dialogue--characters often speak in short phrases
- Repetition for emphasis
- Characters tend not to reveal much about themselves, seem almost reluctant to speak
- Long, winding sentences with somewhat elevated diction
- Use of almost microscopic detail to describe certain actions or sensations that have particular significance to the story or the main character
- Partially omniscient narrator that has access to the deepest recesses of one or more characters' psyches.
- Regional dialect in the dialogue contrasts more formal language in narration.
- Accessible language, casual diction, simple sentence structure
- Somewhat cynical tone--narrator doesn't necessarily sympathize with the characters
- Macabre subject matter
- Dark humor--even mixes slapstick, visual humor with violence
- Plot twists hinting at the random turns life and death can take
- Use of simple, yet striking similes ("Face as broad and innocent as a cabbage")
- Regional dialect
There's so much more to the style of each author, even based only on the stories that we read. So make sure you get your noses back in the book before you start writing.
Have a great weekend, and have fun with this writing assignment!
Monday, July 23, 2012
Livindedgirl
Dismounting from my dragon I cast a spell, and in the blink of an eye I'm standing before a group of battle-hardened soldiers of Death, in every way. I quietly eye a large Tauren as it excitedly jumps around a giant seafood feast on the floor.
My gear in comparison is substandard, and lacking in everything needed to perform adequately as a member of the raid. I awkwardly try to ignore the other people's gear and sneakily flick my eyes over each detail.
Studying the moiety of members in front of me I gently, silently weave a refreshment table, the portal manifesting in a cool, electric-blue egg.While I sit inside my head and consider how to introduce myself, guild members come over to activate the portal, syncing their spirits with mine, to summon a magic table capable of supplying cupcakes that revitalize ones intellect and fortitude.
The magic fades from my bony finger tips and I let my hands fall to the table. As I straighten I gingerly munch on a miniature mana cake. "Oh Thrall's balls I hope this goes ok . . ." I sigh inwardly. As the others chat away amongst themselves, I'm left alone with my own thoughts.
Turning my head to look at the twinkling lights glaring off this paladin's golden garb, I find myself face to face with the cold and tranquil face of an undead. She stares at me. I slowly back up, heart pounding, and hastily contemplate her intentions. She slowly blinks and hands me her leather flackett of Highland Spring water.
My gear in comparison is substandard, and lacking in everything needed to perform adequately as a member of the raid. I awkwardly try to ignore the other people's gear and sneakily flick my eyes over each detail.
Studying the moiety of members in front of me I gently, silently weave a refreshment table, the portal manifesting in a cool, electric-blue egg.While I sit inside my head and consider how to introduce myself, guild members come over to activate the portal, syncing their spirits with mine, to summon a magic table capable of supplying cupcakes that revitalize ones intellect and fortitude.
The magic fades from my bony finger tips and I let my hands fall to the table. As I straighten I gingerly munch on a miniature mana cake. "Oh Thrall's balls I hope this goes ok . . ." I sigh inwardly. As the others chat away amongst themselves, I'm left alone with my own thoughts.
Turning my head to look at the twinkling lights glaring off this paladin's golden garb, I find myself face to face with the cold and tranquil face of an undead. She stares at me. I slowly back up, heart pounding, and hastily contemplate her intentions. She slowly blinks and hands me her leather flackett of Highland Spring water.
Red Dawn Pt. II, POV
It had been four years since Walt had seen home. Ever since the invasion of London, his life became an unpredictable maelstrom of change. He longed for the simpler days in Calgary. Teaching high school physics was not a particular hobby of his, but being able to spark inspiration in a few of his otherwise belligerent students was worth the effort. From wielding Bunsen burners and demerits to proton cannons and human heads, Walt's last few years had indeed seen some change.
“I should really start acting like I’ve got some survival instinct.” Walt muttered to himself, snapping out of his reflective haze. He peeked his head out from the safety of a shipping container he had found refuge in. The ruins of the fuel depot around him fit his mental image of what a battlefield would like. The smell of diesel in the air was intoxicating and the fiery heat, almost unbearable. Canadians were not built for hot climates. Struggling to form a plan, Walt knew this was no time to gripe about comfort.
Walt flew out of hiding, the thrusters in his suit let off a crack like thunder. He blasted the last remaining fuel tank and perched himself on top of the base’s gymnasium. He had made his intentions clear. Walt intended to make a stand.
A bright reaction of lights followed by faint warmth danced across Walt's face, as artillery rounds blossomed to life in front of him. "They weren't trained in lobbing artillery at a man-sized target." Walt gleaned to himself as their fire for effect, had none. "Ugh, and I've never trained to fight off an entire infantry battalion on my own."
With just a matter of time before the artillery batteries could bracket Walt in for an easy kill, he made a dash for the treeline just behind his lab. He noticed his brown Escort sitting unscathed in the employee parking lot, almost upset even World War III couldn't get rid of it. With a more important task at hand, Walt regains focus. He has a hunch the Russians placed their command and control assets behind the safety of the mountain wilderness behind Black Mesa. Owing most of his military strategy knowledge to a few Sun Tzu quotes and a childhood playing Civilization, it was the logical choice. If he could convince the guy in charge of the whole invasion this was a bad move, he'd have victory in his hands.
Reaching the summit of a glaciated peak, Walt got to savor the rare joy of being right. In the valley below him, lay dozens of satellite dishes, tents and vehicles, all strewn about in haste like Burning Man. He surmises the "big one in the middle" is where the head man lives, if only he had he means to get down there. Their little makeshift city was surprisingly well fortified for time they had to establish. He knew if he made too grand of an entrance, Russian aircraft or even satellites might be able to relay his position.
....
“I should really start acting like I’ve got some survival instinct.” Walt muttered to himself, snapping out of his reflective haze. He peeked his head out from the safety of a shipping container he had found refuge in. The ruins of the fuel depot around him fit his mental image of what a battlefield would like. The smell of diesel in the air was intoxicating and the fiery heat, almost unbearable. Canadians were not built for hot climates. Struggling to form a plan, Walt knew this was no time to gripe about comfort.
Walt flew out of hiding, the thrusters in his suit let off a crack like thunder. He blasted the last remaining fuel tank and perched himself on top of the base’s gymnasium. He had made his intentions clear. Walt intended to make a stand.
A bright reaction of lights followed by faint warmth danced across Walt's face, as artillery rounds blossomed to life in front of him. "They weren't trained in lobbing artillery at a man-sized target." Walt gleaned to himself as their fire for effect, had none. "Ugh, and I've never trained to fight off an entire infantry battalion on my own."
With just a matter of time before the artillery batteries could bracket Walt in for an easy kill, he made a dash for the treeline just behind his lab. He noticed his brown Escort sitting unscathed in the employee parking lot, almost upset even World War III couldn't get rid of it. With a more important task at hand, Walt regains focus. He has a hunch the Russians placed their command and control assets behind the safety of the mountain wilderness behind Black Mesa. Owing most of his military strategy knowledge to a few Sun Tzu quotes and a childhood playing Civilization, it was the logical choice. If he could convince the guy in charge of the whole invasion this was a bad move, he'd have victory in his hands.
Reaching the summit of a glaciated peak, Walt got to savor the rare joy of being right. In the valley below him, lay dozens of satellite dishes, tents and vehicles, all strewn about in haste like Burning Man. He surmises the "big one in the middle" is where the head man lives, if only he had he means to get down there. Their little makeshift city was surprisingly well fortified for time they had to establish. He knew if he made too grand of an entrance, Russian aircraft or even satellites might be able to relay his position.
....
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Assignment for 7/22: Point of View/Characterization
In class, we talked about the strong voices of the characters who narrate "The Tell-Tale Heart" and "A&P." For your assignment, I would like you to write a passage of 400 words or more, that shows a living breathing human behind the story.
Don't worry too much about plot, just create a narrator with a distinctive voice. Try to avoid exposition. Don't *tell* us who the narrator is with phrases like, "I was born in Albany New York to a family of hairbrush salesmen..."; *show* us who he/she is with his/her thoughts, observations, actions, and dialogue.
Don't worry too much about plot, just create a narrator with a distinctive voice. Try to avoid exposition. Don't *tell* us who the narrator is with phrases like, "I was born in Albany New York to a family of hairbrush salesmen..."; *show* us who he/she is with his/her thoughts, observations, actions, and dialogue.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Epic Fail
"I am now leaving!" She called as she exited her domicile, stepping daintily
over the abyssal gaps between each plank of wood on her deck.
She warily eyes the uneven ground, steadying herself for the odyssey ahead,
and then takes the first step forward on her treacherous trek.
Wading through uprooted nails and scattered shoes she pursues level ground.
While evading and contemplating the merciless onslaught
from a plastic bag, the sun appears and casts blinding light from around the corner.
In defense she thrusts her hand to the sky, eyes ignited.
Ceasing her journey to regain her bearings, she judges the terrain before her.
With enemies stalking her every move her desperation rises.
"Onward!" She cries out, raising her head confidently. Though inside unsure
of her precises chances of survival, she charges forward.
A canyon opens up before her, resolved she steps down firmly and plants her
heel on the tail of a sleeping rug. Panicked it struggles
to pull free; obscuring the rugged terrain beneath even further. As she lifts
her other foot to step, the rug lashes out, swallowing her heel,
and stealing the ground from beneath her her, she falls.
To be continued.
(I've had way too much fun with this already, and if I continue it may not end for a while)
over the abyssal gaps between each plank of wood on her deck.
She warily eyes the uneven ground, steadying herself for the odyssey ahead,
and then takes the first step forward on her treacherous trek.
Wading through uprooted nails and scattered shoes she pursues level ground.
While evading and contemplating the merciless onslaught
from a plastic bag, the sun appears and casts blinding light from around the corner.
In defense she thrusts her hand to the sky, eyes ignited.
Ceasing her journey to regain her bearings, she judges the terrain before her.
With enemies stalking her every move her desperation rises.
"Onward!" She cries out, raising her head confidently. Though inside unsure
of her precises chances of survival, she charges forward.
A canyon opens up before her, resolved she steps down firmly and plants her
heel on the tail of a sleeping rug. Panicked it struggles
to pull free; obscuring the rugged terrain beneath even further. As she lifts
her other foot to step, the rug lashes out, swallowing her heel,
and stealing the ground from beneath her her, she falls.
To be continued.
(I've had way too much fun with this already, and if I continue it may not end for a while)
Monday, July 16, 2012
Lessons in life
There was once a little frog named Gus. He was a good little frog, always paying attention to his surroundings, since his mother always told him to be careful of dangers in the pond. He had a friend named Lucifer, who was another little frog who would always get into trouble. Lucifer didn’t care about rules, he felt he knew everything and always called the other little frogs, “WOGS” !!! Because they always jumped into the pond when danger was near.
As the light came near to the lilys where the little frogs were singing, they all jumped into the water except for Lucifer. “Where did everyone go?”, “awww you guys are a bunch of “WOGS”. At that moment, Lucifer was by himself and wanted to impress the Frogs who were hiding under the water, away from harm. He croaked with all his might, as if he wanted to prove everyone wrong around him. Just before he inhaled another deep breath, his eyes brightened the pond like the morning sun.
The flashlight the humans had, met Lucifer's eyes, causing his location to be found because of the reflection. At that moment, Gus and the others watched in horror as the pitch fork was thrust forward and soaked into Lucifer’s chest, causing his limp body to rip through the lilly he was sitting on. They heard his bones crack as the barbed hooks met their target. As soon as the attack started, it was over. the frog gig was lifted out of the pond, accompanied by cheers of excitement from the humans. The Light from the boat had faded away as the shallow boat was quietly paddled along.
The little frogs slowly reached the surface of the water, being careful to avoid the bloody water that was slowly blending with the surrounding water. Gus swam home to tell his mother what had happened. “I told you little Gus, Listen to your elders and learn from our mistakes”.”It could save your life”
Red Dawn Pt. II
They were here. The Russians had sterilized the base of any resistance within an hours time. They were emboldened by their accomplishment and now the deuterium core research facility was their reward. The only thing preventing a strategic Allied defeat was 18 inches of steel reinforced concrete. The Russians brought explosives.
“Well, if I die today, and at least, delay their advance, I’ll probably have a high school named after me.” Walt consoled himself as he tried to structure a plan of attack in his head. The exosuit was powered to beyond critical. Walt knew he’d need every last watt of electricity to even entertain the possibility of surviving. And with a loud crack, the Russians had broken through.
“‘Sup guys? I’m the official Spetznaz welcoming party.” Walt taunted over his suit’s loudspeaker. The Russians replied with a flurry of machine gun fire. Knowing the constraints of his armor, Walt knew he couldn’t play the role of bullet sponge for much longer. He ran towards the advancing line, snagging a forklift in each hand and made a gory scene, too macabre for even Poe to put into words. He meleed his way to ground level expecting better news. Instead of a small special forces operation--the type the lab had at least considered a contingency plan for--was a full on invasion force.
Walt knew if the Axis powers were able to secure the fusion cores and retrieve the Allied research, the war would be over. He couldn’t let that rest on his shoulders. He sprang towards the base fuel depot and left off a lightning bolt from his suit’s reactor. Walt had successfully announced his presence.
To be continued...
Delilah's Revelation
As a child, Delilah was taught that the Lord ruled all. God was infallible and to doubt his grace was to bring shame upon your family, yourself, and to suffer eternal damnation. Despite what she had been taught to believe, Delilah’s faith faded over time. She longed to feel His presence or to be graced with proof of His existence but, no matter how much she wished for this, it did not come to pass.
As she matured, Delilah had adopted the belief that God did not exist and that she was free to live life as she pleased, without fear of damnation’s hellfire. But Delilah was kind in heart. She did not require fear of punishment to enforce her actions. She treated all before her with compassion and endearment. When she confessed to her family that she no longer accepted their belief in any God, she was cast out from their home, forbidden from returning. Having been disowned and left out on her own, Delilah vowed never to allow another person’s beliefs to affect her opinion of them. She influenced others to do the same. “Let ye be judged by thine actions, not by the faiths you possess.” Words that rang true in the monastery of compassion and acceptance she built as a safe haven for those who were cast from their homes, just as she was. What started as a small gathering of lost souls seeking acceptance grew into an entire community of gentle people with different faiths, but a similar belief that an individual is to be judged by the quality of their character, not by the God unto which they kneel.
Delilah had lived a full life in the company of those she loved, those who loved her and viewed her almost like their own mother. Delilah looked out upon her people with love and respect for their bravery, living among others whose own countries have waged war upon each other for their religious dissimilarities. This in itself was her life’s achievement and her greatest contribution to the world she knew.
As an old woman, no longer able to stand, she spent her final moments in a bed facing the setting sun, enjoying its warmth upon her weary skin. She had constant visits from friends, loved ones, disciples and visitors from afar who came to express their appreciation for what she has given to them and their families, but those she wanted to see most did not come. The family that cast her out remained steadfast in their decision to remove her from their lives. Her life was full, but their absence created a void that would forever remain empty.
On the final night of her life, Delilah knew she was within moments of the end. She was prepared for it and was grateful for the opportunities to do everything she had done. To experience things others would never know. To bring happiness and peace to so many people whose lives had, up until that moment, been filled with torment and fear. Delilah looked through the open door and was met with a cool breeze gently blowing aside the cloth draped over the doorway. She felt a sudden warmth upon her hand and looked over to see a man standing over her. Despite the setting sun, an apparent glow seemed to fill the room bringing with it a peaceful warmth that surrounded and comforted her. She gazed into the eyes of the man and was filled with the overwhelming sense that she knew this man, possibly from when she was but a child. He spoke. “Delilah, you may not believe in any god, but your actions have not gone unnoticed. You have brought peace and happiness to so many who have, in turn, adopted your kindness and will carry on your gentle nature throughout their lives and the lives of others. Your days in this place will cease to be, but this is not the end for you. Rest, my dear, for soon you will be home.” Delilah’s eyes remained fixated on the man until she realized he was gone. Her weary eyes could remain open no longer and Delilah was able to enjoy what she had been instructed to do by the friendly visitor, rest. Graced with the presence of what she felt she had been missing her entire life, Delilah was now at peace.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Assignment due 7/16: Epics and Fables
This week in class we read and discussed the narrative forms of epic poetry and fables.
Your assignment for Monday (due before class starts) is to write a story, or a piece of a story, in the style of the epic or the fable. Your story may be about any topic, deal with any theme, and take place in any era. All I'm looking for is a demonstration of your understanding of some of the characteristics and conventions of the two genres we have been discussing.
For inspiration and information about epic poetry, re-read the passages from Beowulf and The Iliad that were included in the handouts I provided for you. Also, refer to your notes regarding the characteristics of epic poetry and the heroes that populate it.
And to refresh your memory regarding fables, turn to pages 5-16 in your reader, where you'll find examples of fables as well as excellent analysis by the editor.
Have a great weekend, and have fun writing your epics and fables!
Your assignment for Monday (due before class starts) is to write a story, or a piece of a story, in the style of the epic or the fable. Your story may be about any topic, deal with any theme, and take place in any era. All I'm looking for is a demonstration of your understanding of some of the characteristics and conventions of the two genres we have been discussing.
For inspiration and information about epic poetry, re-read the passages from Beowulf and The Iliad that were included in the handouts I provided for you. Also, refer to your notes regarding the characteristics of epic poetry and the heroes that populate it.
And to refresh your memory regarding fables, turn to pages 5-16 in your reader, where you'll find examples of fables as well as excellent analysis by the editor.
Have a great weekend, and have fun writing your epics and fables!
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