The twist - A Culminating Experience

A plot change in a story can have a drastic effect upon the lives of the characters within. An author of a story is not bound by a conventional plot arc and can alter the course of it in an instant.The Story of an Hour" by Kate Chopin follows the final moments of a woman, named Mrs. Mallard, who has just discovered that her husband has been killed. In this plot twist, Mrs Mallard discovers that her husband has not been killed but is in fact alive and  well. Upon seeing that her husband lives, Mrs Mallard falls to the ground dead of a heart attack. Chopin's plot revolves around a false pretense that Mrs Mallard is free; liberated from her oppressively described husband. Chopin writes how "she had loved him;yet often she had not"(Chopin 14); leaving the reader with the feeling that Mrs. Mallard is living in an unhappy time in her life. The reader feels great relief in the knowledge that Mrs. Mallard will be able to find some peace and tranquility that she would otherwise miss. In addition to Mrs Mallard's shock, the reader is also taken aback after being informed that her husband is not dead, and that her life will be the same as it alwaysbeen. The death of Mrs Mallard reverses the tone of this short story, leaving an oppressed woman dead, and an oppressive husband free.

Objectifying: Subconscious or Nah?

Throughout Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl," Chimamanda Adichie's "The Thing Around Your Neck" and Flannery O'Connor's "Everything that Rises Must Converge," the significant issue of subtle and often subconscious objectification of other genders and races remains at the forefront of the stories' conflicts. Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl" brings to light the pertinent issue that is objectification through the degradation of the protagonist. With each individual instruction and reprimand, the protagonist's mother further establishes dominance over a girl believed by society to be inherently inferior to others by the very nature of her identity as a female. The fact that the protagonist is expected to do so much for her family and for men with no respect in return displays the nature of this girl's community: women are taken for granted and seen as little more than household objects. In this way, Kincaid reveals the socially unbalanced essence of human civilization, and how that results in clear objectification. Adichie's "The Thing Around Your Neck" demonstrates the often subconscious objectification of people of other races and genders. Akunna's boyfriend appears knowledgeable about Africa, and respectful of her, but sometimes his "love" for her seems solely because of her heritage. He objectifies Akunna and uses her to learn more about her culture, and to help convince himself and others that he is a forward-thinking man. Although the character is not trying be racist, it doesn't come off that way. In this way, Adichie shows that racism and objectification can be either intentional or unintentional. Objectification of races is also a prevalent theme in the short story "Everything That Rises Must Converge," written by Flannery  O'Connor. Throughout the short story, the main character; Julian, subconsciously objectifies black people. He uses the issue of race to make his racist mother uncomfortable, and also to prove a point and to convert her into a "non-racist." Although he does make many efforts to engage in conversations with black men, the way he does this subconsciously makes it seem that he sees them as objects, in a way to test himself. Objectifying races is frequently as offensive to many people as racist actions and remarks. In modern society, the objectification of those who are different is a prevalent issue. To be a tolerant society, it is important to imagine others as more than objects.

Objectification of women in short stories

A highly controversial topic in today's society–the objectification of women– is a reoccurring topic in many short stories. The objectification of women acknowledges the social standards of a woman's appearance through the eyes of others. Women are often described by their physical features and clothing choices in a sexual manner. An example of a story that references the theme of objectification and over sexualization of women is John Updike's "A&P". In "A&P", three girls walk into a supermarket in their bathing suits. They receive judgmental looks because of their lack of clothing. Sammy–a worker at the cash register makes comments on the girls. At one point, he comments on what one of the girls is wearing: “With the straps pushed off, there was nothing between the top of the suit and the top of her head except just her, this clean bare plane of the top of her chest down from the shoulder bones like a dented sheet of metal tilted in the light. I mean, it was more than pretty.” (Updike 113). Most of Sammy's comments are on the girls bodies. This shows that these girls were seen as sexual objects, because of what they were wearing.

A Middle Finger and a Smile

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, a famous writer of magical realism, would often pose for pictures with a Bright smile and a middle finger pointed towards the camera. This may seem odd, but that is exactly the point.  Magical realism, a writing tool used by writers like Garcia Marquez, would be written as though everything is perfectly normal, but not everything is, in order to make the distinction betewen fantasy and reality less clear.  Magical realism is often about more that just fantasy, however, and is frequently used as a tool for discussing bigger issues, such as politics, sociatal normalities, or even the struggles of adolescents. "A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings," demonstrates the use of this tool very well.
  Gabriel Garcia Marquez's use of magical realism within the story of "An Old with enormous wings" is to explain humans natural tendency to be more accepting with what's normal although something different can be just as interesting and engaging.  Marquez is able to convey this issue through the use of a foreign old angel who is not declared miracle by a catholic priest due to the Angels inhibility to speed Latin. The Catholic Church “spent their time finding out in the prisoner had a navel, if his dialect had any connection with Aramaic, how many times he could fit on the head of a pin, or whether he wasn't just a Norwegian with wings”(Garcia Marquez 4).This demonstrates the Marquezes feelings towards the writing community and how the community refuses to accept foreign texts as classics.  Through Marquez's short story the reader can begin to understand larger issues in human nature
  Gabriel Garcia Marquez effectively uses magical realism in his stories, and although the stories may seem like harmless tales, they manage to convey the author's take on bigger issues. Magical  realism is used by Garcia Marquez as a sort of code- where the author can write in fiction, and yet still write meaningful commentary on society

Don't Get Your Hopes Up

Life is like a high school party. The short stories "The Thing Around Your Neck," by Chimimanda Ngozi Adichie; "Araby," by James Joyce; and "A&P," by John Updike all reflect that life is inherently disappointing due to high expectations.

"The Thing Around Your Neck," a short story by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, explores defects in the perception of the American Dream. Akunna is a Nigerian who views her life in the United States as worse than her previous life in Africa. This is largely due to a series of unfortunate events which do not correspond with her family's promises of wealth. In reality, Akunna is much more fortunate in this new life than she was in Lagos, Nigeria. 

James Joyce's "Araby" is another short story in which the protagonist is torn aport by failed expectations. He spends days glorifying the bazaar where he is planning to buy a gift for the girl he is infatuated with. However, because of his drunken uncle and rude salespeople, he arrives at the bazaar late and cannot find a present that is desireable enough for his love. 

"A&P," a short story by John Updike, tells the tale of a cashier named Sammy who quickly falls for a customer. He quits his job (after his manager embarrasses the girl) in an attempt to get her attention. Sadly, his grand gesture goes unnoticed. Sammy realizes how difficult life is going to treat him after this hopeful stunt.

These short stories reflect one of life's most prominent patterns: rejection. Whether a person is let down due to broken promises, unsuccessful expeditions, or fruitless love pursuits, guilded expectations always end up warping reality

Social Issues in Short Stories

Ever since the creation of written language, literature has been a powerful tool as a catalyst for social change. The power of literature can span from changing the course of a major period of history, like the Qu'ran did during the Abbasid Caliphate, or representing a time of social restructuring, like To Kill A Mockingbird does for the 20th century. Many authors today use short stories as a way of making readers aware of current issues around the world, one such issue being the existence of racism. Racism is a hugely relevant issue in our world today and eradicating it is arguably one of the most pronounced struggles in modern America. Such a widespread issue leads to a multitude of short stories that promote awareness of racial inequality, as well as the closely related topics of gender inequality and classism. Authors such as Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Sherman Alexie, and Flannery O'Connor use short stories to expose various aspects of racism through their writing, especially in the forms of colonialism, privilege, and white supremacy. The internal and external conflicts of the characters within the stories "The Thing Around Your Neck," "What You Pawn I Will Redeem," and "Everything That Rises Must Converge" are effective portrayals of an issue that is prevalent in modern American culture. The goal of such authors (as well as others) is to raise readers about racism in America and advocate a shift towards a more equal society. 

Originality is the Key to Success

All of the world's most accomplished authors have their own unique writing style, and at the same time have been able to revolutionize the writing community, the most prominent being: James Joyce's "Araby", Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl", and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings". Time and time again, these authors are able to use their unique writing styles to have their readers ponder these contemporary issues.

Joyce is able to employ his childish side in his writing, but at the same time also put in "enigmas and puzzles" (James Joyce). He also was known for using writing tools such as: imagery, realism, epiphanies, and stream-of-consciousness to engage his readers in his stories and create a vivid image in their minds as well as a new perspective on the reality of life. He hits the reader with a sense of realism, and at the same time creates a dirty image in his or her mind all in a couple of sentences.

Jamaica Kincaid utilizes her writing in order to convey her feministic views. Throughout "Girl", Kincaid writes from a maternal perspective, almost dictating what appears to be her daughter. Stylistically, the motherly figure in the story gives life advice to this daughter-like figure showing her how to do things such sewing, growing okra, and  how to catch fish. Specifically, when Kincaid says, "This is how to bully a man; This is how a man bullies you" (Kincaid 53), she uses her writing style to convey female equality and empowerment. Overall, Kincaid conveys her own personal views through her stylistic writing.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez uses a technique called magical realism to emphasize people's treatment of what is foreign, or different. Magical realism is an art in which myth and fantasy mix with reality to blur differences between reality and fantasy. The old man is exploited by the townspeople, and treated as an oddity, while his identity is questioned because of his confusing and difficult to understand story. On the other hand, the spider woman has a clear story and moral, therefore no one questions her identity. Therefore, Garcia Marquez is emphasizing that in reality, people tend to accept a simpler explanation, rather than a complex but perhaps more truthful explanation. Therefore, Garcia Marquez uses this fantastical example to make his readers think about their treatment of others.

Many authors have been successful because they have unique and interesting writing styles. Authors such as James Joyce, Jamacia Kincaid, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez have used their respective writing styles, such as imagery and humor, magical realism, and using the entire story to convey her idea throughout.

As Time Slows

She wept in the imaginary hour.

An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge

The end is rapidly approaching you. 

Death’s imminent and there’s no escape.

A Soldier Approaches

The fire won't light; “Whose there?”

Neck

necks can never be un-snapped

This Never Made Sense

The man who survived: an angel

"PTSD"

"How many men grandpa?" "Too many."

A Warning

“No one may touch the railroad.”

The Inevitable

Death always catches up to you

Illusions

A weary traveler spots an oasis...

Truly

    His escape had never truly occurred.

Peyton and his wife

"Bye!”
 “Have fun at poker Honey."

Hanging for Reputation, Not Retaliation

Or so Captain relayed to everyone.

All's Fair In Love And War

War: man's excuse to play god.

That Night

Telegraph didn’t call him a hero.

Sad stories

I'm so sorry wife and kids

Fantasy can't take you from reality

dust in wind

"Civil" Disobedience: wind blowing, leaves swirling, bodies swinging.

What follows?

Dead man with a concious mind. 

Chance, the only thing that isn't thrown out of the window

Serendipity favors the live and well. 

Brave Dreams

Brave dreams, brave intentions, hopeless situation.

Aftermath

She holds her child and weeps.

Bitter Breath

Sister’s bitter sleep breath wakes me up. “Get up, I need to show you a secret.” I am pulled from my cocoon and instructed to tiptoe so Dad doesn’t hear us playing in the secret. The stairs creak and Sister shushes me and I rub my hands over the goosebumps on my legs. When she opens the door I get chills. The ground is higher and glowing in the dark, little clouds are waving themselves in a frenzy. The sky had fallen! I whimpered so Sister took my hand. “Surprise!” She stole Mom’s coat and ran from me into the sky. I stood cold in the doorway, watching the wind push her down. I should have shown Dad the surprise secret, too, and maybe he would have told Sister not to go out. She waves her limbs but the clouds are too sticky. I see less of her frantic movements and more clouds. Clouds clouds clouds. I step onto the porch and my foot is stung. I scream, I cry, but the wind yells louder. Dad doesn’t come but Sister sits up. She is not Sister anymore, she is a glowing monster and she reaches for my hands. I run inside and slam the door then click the lock like I had seen Sister do before. I sprint upstairs and I don’t care that the stairs creak and my goosebumps won’t go away but I just let them be. I wrap myself back up in my cocoon and I leave the curtains closed so Monster can’t look in. “Honey,” Dad whispers into the room. “Why are you running around? You’ll wake your sister.” I can’t tell him about Monster or else he’ll be mad. I make a little noise so he knows I heard him and then his feet pat back across the hall. I have never been up so late, maybe the sky always rises in the morning and Monster will turn back into Sister when the clouds go back home. I go to sleep hoping that bitter Monster breath doesn’t wake me up.

The Room

They told me I was to spend a night in the Room. My grovelling did little to convince them otherwise. A solution the colour of acid was injected into my bloodstream, and my world blurred, darkened, and, finally, receded.

As my consciousness trickled in, I became aware of my prostrated and shivering self. Feeling disorientated, I stood groggily to observe my unknown surroundings, choking back a gasp as I discover I am not alone. The Room is austere and forbidding with its doorless walls of sterile white, and standing by one stark wall is a figure - a figure with my clothes, my hair, my face. My knees buckle and I crumple to the floor, scrambling to put distance between myself and the monstrosity before me. Without hesitation, my doppelgänger mimics my actions precisely. Swallowing my panic, I still my movements, opting to remain motionless in my squatted position. The figure follows suit and ceases its squirming motions immediately. I breathe a sigh of relief, comforted by the fact that it at least appears to be harmless. Deciding that I am not in immediate danger, I pick myself up from the ground and experimentally raises a hand towards my doppelgänger. Predictably, it reciprocates the gesture - however, in reverse: I raised my right and it raised its left. I reach for my doppelgänger’s hand, it doing likewise, but my fingertips met a cold, smooth surface instead . It appears as if a clear glass wall separated us, and I realize the Room is half the size I thought it was. 

“Can you hear me?” I whisper. My doppelgänger mouths my question with me, but did not offer a reply of its own. 

I give up my attempts at communication with my doppelgänger. It, like me, appears to be confined to the Room. I close my eyes and tried to will time to hurry. Time always passes more slowly in the Room. 

Delusional Rebirth

Pray then hope, free for now.

The end.

His life flashed before his eyes.

Delusion

Three, two, one. Just kidding--darkness.

Alternate

It was what he had wanted.

A Chance Perhaps?

It was only a hopeful dream.

Eternal

But your dreams can never die.

Mr Rainbow

The walls are white. My bed is white. The tiles, the ceiling, my gown, even my pills; all are white in color. There are no paintings, not a single window, and nothing to numb my thoughts. There is not a single escape from the white room. Nothing to trick my mind, not even for a brief moment into the far fetched idea that I’m somewhere else. Prison would’ve been better quite frankly. In prison there are colors, the outside, and normal talking. In the hospital there’s therapy, with Ms. Lifton. I’m supposed to learn to be social, something that’s apparently attainable with a few pills every few hours. That isn’t normal talking though. Normal talking is something normal people do for pleasure or even courtesy, not necessity. One of me wants to be normal, but the other me fights that urge. Other me likes the white room. It likes the ear piercing silence of it.  Above all, I know other me doesn’t want other people round, and that includes me. Mr. Rainbow helps me escape for a while, but only if I earn it. If I scream, flail and take pokes at my own well being long enough the men dressed in white run in to “save” me. More white, but along with that white comes Mr. Rainbow. As I slide my arms through his singular, cloth sleeve the hairs on the back of my neck straight up. I’ve earned it. The men in white pin me down, and I hear Mr. Rainbows leather straps beginning to slip into notches. All seven of them, Richard, Olaf, Yelard, Garrett, Bryan, Ivan and Vic are in their fifth notch and I can feel Mr. Rainbow’s cocoon like cloth envelop my perception and body. The Men in white then pick me up, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you where they take me afterward. When I’m surrounded by Mr. Rainbow other me is no more and I have my escape. Everytime he brings me to the same escape, and nothing makes me happier. I’m back in the family summer house, and as soon as I turn the dull brass door knob clockwise my two little girls and wife all come to the door. Other me didn’t like them one bit, they were too much company in his mind, a danger to his sanity. It doesn’t matter when Mr. Rainbow guides me though, for he is no where to be found. My kids and Wife aren’t red anymore, there’s no mallet in my hand and they always forgive me on this escape. The world is filled with color and for a brief point in time the walls, the bed...nothing is white. 

The Flu

The Flu

Max Fine

When the doctor asked me how I was feeling, I let out a sigh. I knew it was time, but I kept my worries to myself. I answered in a mostly truthful fashion, knowing; dreading, what was about to happen. The doctor reached into a side cabinate, partly hidden by the examination bench, and, as he opened the door, I caught my first glimpse of it. It was a long ethereal tube, filled with a liquid so blue, that it transended the boundries between the whole, fufilling blue of the sky, and the deep, dark, boundless blue of the deepest oceans. Upon further inspection, the ethereal flask and the sky-ocean blue created a mysterious glamor that could inspire awe or terrior depending on the eye of the beholder. Finally, perching on the flask was one long silver spire. This was the crown, perched atop the king of concoctions, symbolizing my demise. As the doctor brought it closer, I knew. I knew that pain was next. The doctor discarded the empty flask, a husk of its former glory, waiting for its next victim.

A World Unknown

“Its mountains and valleys expose a new world,” they said with wide eyes. “It allows you to see into someone’s soul. Whether it is the positive things that give them joy or the bad things that hang off of them, dragging them down like bricks with every step. You have the ability to file through someone’s life, analyzing every aspect of it. It opens up a world unknown with its unique golden figure.” They handed it to me, glinting while reflecting the light from the window. I squinted my eyes avoiding the sharp light. “In the palm of your hand you hold so much power,” they warned, “there is no telling where you are headed. You may see good, bad or nothing at all. But be careful with this power, what is inside will surprise you.” I closed my hand as I tried to picture this world they were speaking of. Focusing on my breathing, I turned away anxious to find out what I would discover

Warm

They hover above my head when I go to sleep, a million tiny orbs glowing and pulsating, brightness doubling when I look away. I don’t normally use them, but they have this silent hum of light in the dark, not audible but almost tangible. If I squint my eyes, the light splinters and shoots off in thin spikes, trails away and disappears. They dance in the corners of my eyes like stars and blur and fade into an ambiguously directed line, an unclear glow out of my direct line of vision. The metal bed frame looks harsh and raw next to their soft flicker, the bed’s black a contrast to their white-yellow. If I turn my head a certain way, I can see their reflection in the window, as they appear to soar outside the glass, away with every slight twitch of my eyes. A thousand small eyes float quietly in the black of the room, resting their stare on me as I sleep and although I know they can’t really see me, I can almost feel the weight of their gaze, and somehow it’s warm.

Taking Flight in the Night Sky

Mason was well known for not being outgoing and was always spending time to himself. One day as he walked home alone—headphones in ear—he saw a man waving to him. He ran over right away thinking that the man was in danger, but the man just handed him an object that just slid into his hand, so light that it felt like it wasn’t actually there. The scruffy looking man nodded and carried on in another direction. Mason was left bewildered and staring at it, full of creases and wrinkles. Then a gust of wind pushed it out of his hand flying in the night sky, rising and then falling, swaying and spiraling. Meanwhile, Mason ran after this flying object, soon losing it when a few more appeared in the night sky battling for a spot in the night sky, until it made a soft landing on the side of the road.

Knowing What You Know

Round like the sun, but black like the night, it stares back at me. I know such an entity is rare in these times, but it does not know. It seems to know very little, it could know anything. That is its purpose, to know a specific something. It seemed, or rather, it seems impossible, yet, here it is. I think it’s a wonder, a marvel. But the reality is that time has rendered it obsolete. But the beauty of obsolescence is that, doing what I do, it can be ignored. I can use the knowledge trapped in the blackness.

Like everything, this thing has a purpose, a goal to achieve, a message to send, an operation to achieve, a song to sing. It does so in a roundabout, but pure way. It does not lose sight of its own fidelity. This thing however, has a second face, another side , giving a completely different message from the same sender. Such an item, then, purposes a bridge from few to millions. It carries its purpose, its song, on its face, leaving it there for all to see. It is wonderful. It is marvelous. But it is one of perhaps a billion. So it is no wonder that I should posses several. It was born into brilliance, yet knows only the song it is meant to sing.

Dun dun dun

If the sunlight weren’t encircling it on the rickety dull brown table I probably wouldn’t have noticed it. But, there it was, of a creamy, fluffy complexion and poised in such a way that I worried it would lift up and lurch at me. I pushed the small table over in hopes that it might get up and crawl away. It slid off, landed lightly on the floorboards but made no attempt to escape. Instead it laid curled over itself in a state of paralysis. Satisfied, that it was not alive I grasped it between my fingers. Motionless in my fingers, it softly bent to the contours of my hand. One end of it was ripped, or maybe it was open on purpose, but the hole was big enough for me to stick my hand in. The tiny sack had nothing in it but I imagine it would be used for that. After looking inside I realized the magnificence of this object, I could use it for—ugh, what is that smell! 

Dancing Animals

    A deep sea of bright red exploded across the flat canvas. A kaleidoscope of butterflies flowed around the pale angelic being. Snakes slithered gracefully toward the light, weaving through the sea of falling rose petals. It’s high tide as the sharks fall down from within, slamming and tapping and slamming and tapping, disappearing under the wings of cardinals. Snakes are reawakened and begin to dance around the young swaying cherry blossom tree. Tall and lean. Strong and confident.  Then the sharks and the snakes moved as one weaving through the  infinite field of red daisies, stamping and twirling together. The heavens above shine a light on them. Casting a women’s silhouette  into night, the echoes of their fun matching the rhythm of a far off spanish tune.

Changing the Earth

I picked the object up off of the dirt. It was heavy at first, but I adjusted to the weight easily. The shaft was hard and smooth; the bottom was cold. I put it into the ground and picked up the Earth. It occurred to me that with this device I could change the Earth. For the next hour I changed the Earth. I moved part of the Earth over by the great, blue ocean. I moved another part of the Earth onto a grass field as long as the eye could see. I moved part of the Earth next to a tree that looked like it went up through the heavens and kept going. With this device I changed how aliens would view the Earth, if they ever came. My device changed the way animals moved from place to place and how plants grew from their seeds. When I had finished I placed the object back down on the dirt where I found it. It was someone else’s time to change the Earth. 

First man on Mars

30 seconds till liftoff. The first man on Mars. He thought of what awaited him in the near future, and at the same time, thought of how he would be received by his family and peers when he returned. A million thoughts raced through his head, and time seemed to slow down. 20 seconds till liftoff. He thought of his parents, who had up until this point in his life, helped him get this far. He thought of his peers, who had provided support and encouragement through his best and worst points. 10 seconds till liftoff. Lastly, he thought of himself. He remembered the small, innocent, and naive boy that he used to be. At that moment, the thought of his childhood sparked a realization of what he had been carrying in his right pocket and what his father had entrusted him with to hold dear with him for the entirety of his life. He pulled it out of his pocket for one last quick glance before he was launched into the stars. Even in his remaining seconds, he studied it hard. The overhead lights reflected off of its shiny, metallic surface. His own reflection was distorted by the bowl-like indentation in the object. He ran his fingers up and down the handle as if trying to remember the feeling and shape of the object. Finally, coming back to reality, he placed it carefully back in his pocket. He strapped on his helmet. 5...4...3...2...1.

By The Creek

She found it by the creek, the one she was forbidden to visit. Every day she begged her mother to take her to the creek she heard all the stories about. After vehement refusal from her mother, the girl finally snuck out to the creek at the break of dawn. Faint sunlight barely streaming through the dense forest, she stumbled over rocks and roots on her way. At last, she arrived. Tired and out of breath, she plopped down on a mossy rock. A glint of silver caught her eye under the muddy leaves. Curiously, she reached around past the soggy dirt and pulled out a bracelet. It was not much to look at, but the girl seemed drawn to it by an unseen force. She fastened it on her wrist and admired it. Upon doing so she thought she detected a faint voice in the distance summoning her. Assuming it was her mother, the girl hastened back towards her house. Once safely back home, out of breath, the blustery wind whipping against the window she questioned her mother on calling her. Confused, the mother replied she hadn’t even noticed the girl was missing. The girl began to detect faint murmurings and craned her neck around to see if they had house guests. When no one appeared at the door, she was perplexed. Dismissing her thoughts, the girl hurried up stairs to get ready for school. Throwing on her clothes and grabbing her bag and a banana for the road she left the house. Sliding into her desk mere seconds before the first period bell she was certain she could hear people speaking. Casting off the notion as silly and thinking it was just her classmates muttering to each other she settled in for the lecture. The professor enters and the class goes silent. The voices the girl hears grow louder as the class gets quieter. She discreetly scans the classroom for another peer who may be experiencing the same thing as her. Soon she begins to panic. While no voice save for the teacher’s is heard by the rest of the class, a clashing cacophony of chaotic cluttered chatter overwhelms her senses. At last she can bear it no longer. A shout erupts from her mouth demanding silence. All eyes now on her, she flushes with embarrassment. Receiving a stern look from the lecturer, she is sent to the principal’s office. Horrified, she gathers her belongings and trudged down the hall to meet her apparent imposing doom. This is it. The end. It’s surely approaching. She must be going insane and losing her mind. She wonders if they will send her to an asylum. Racking her disorderly brain for an answer to her plight, she begins to feel woosy. She collapses to the floor. Then, darkness.  

The Luster it Once Had

They could see it clearly thought the trees. As the young men emerged from the woods they became encompassed in the full presence of the tower. They creeped out of the woods, into the dirty wooden sea, and around the rusted steeds. As they got closer, the more it towerd over their small frames and completely cast them in its shadow. They surround its worn down territory, one of them on each side. They grabbed a hold of its long limb and began to pound it with all their strength. The limp whipped back and forth, side to side, and around and around as the tower cried in strain, for it has lost the strength and luster. They pounded it with their adolescent fists and laughed in amusement until, finally a victor emerged and the tower stood entangled in its own weighted limb. The victor, smiling with pride, stated, "Dinner will be ready soon, we should go." They other boy replied with a nod, and they shoved off in the direction the came as the evening sun set thought the trees. The tower sat it the dim light more broken than it was before, but the boys would be back the next day.

Basement

The sun was about to go down, and he decided in the short amount of time he had left before dinner, he would finally explore the basement. All summer long, the boy had played in the apple orchard with his friends. This past summer was particularly torrid and the orchard became a refuge of shade for the youngsters. Now his friends had gone, and there was only a short time left before school. His aunt and uncle had been lenient with him throughout his stay, but their one big rule was that he shouldn’t go in the basement without them. He had refrained from exploring over the past two and a half months, but now his curiosity was to the point of almost making him itch.

There were two entrances to the basement that he could enter from. He could either enter from the inside the house and run the risk of being caught by his uncle or try to use the hatch that was by his aunt’s hedges. The hatch was unlocked, but while he was opening it, it creaked and made an unimaginable amount of noise, and yet his aunt and uncle didn’t seem to notice. The steps leading down to the basement were wooden and filled with cobwebs. The basement was musty and humid and it took the boy’s all not to sneeze. He found a light switch, switched it on, and subsequently closed the hatch. A small dim bulb towards the far left of the basement turned on, and the boy followed it. As the boy drew closer to the light source he noticed that it was flickering and much brighter than he originally thought. Not only that, but there were two bulbs and the bulbs were shaped like halos. The halo-bulbs were upright, and the flickering of the bulbs took place in the space inside the halo. The boy felt an urge to touch the bulb; the same urge that draws flies to lights, and children to touch stoves. He took his hand, callused from months of outdoor play, put his hand on the halo-bulb and felt the electrical energy pulsing through the metal. Suddenly he thrust his hand through the first halo, and to his horror it appeared in the space between the second halo-bulb.

Unidentified

It bewildered her, the powerful screen. It seemed to create hyper-realistic images right before her eyes. And not just images, films too. These changed every time she encountered it, although they always included the same main character. She would escape from her dwelling daily to come and observe this magical thing of beauty. It lived in the woods behind her home. She had found it there and intended to leave it there. She told nobody of it, afraid that she would be called a liar; or perhaps she thought she would be mocked and teased. Besides, it was her special secret and she wished to keep it that way. 

New Air

It seemed to disappear. It was gone into thin air within seconds. First a misty room, then nothing. Faded into the air and was gone. We saw it and could not touch it. It seemed almost like a being on its own. It needed no doctoring, and we could almost put it anywhere. But no touching. It was like nothing we had never seen. We could not feel it, but we could feel its chill. It had no texture, just a misting essence that we all saw, then never saw again. The feeling of it around our ankles was like none other. It felt like a cold air that could pull you down through the floor and down, down, down. It gripped you the way hands do when you meet someone new. You knew it would not  hurt you because it was just a misty air, but you couldn’t be sure...

Captivation

He sat directly in front of it, starstruck and jaw wide open at the fascinating scene that attracted his stare. Never before had the man been so captivated throughout his mundane and prosaic existence. The phenomenon this man was witnessing was an inanimate object; however, seemed to be teeming of life and vivacity. A mystifying fever was radiating from the substance, seemingly burning off the flesh of the worn and drab man. However, this phenomenon simultaneously extracted heat as it radiated it. The more the man felt the emission from the object, the closer he wanted to be to it, and the more lively he felt. The object was drawing out the man’s little liveliness he had left and filling him with new, pacifying energy. His eyes locked into place and his body froze completely, although he was filled with warmth.

The Box

     She walked in carrying a white box. The box was in the shape of a squashed rectangle, and it was coated in a geometric pattern consisting of red squares and strange squiggly lines. I immediately became curious as to what was in the box, so I approached it (with caution, as its contents may have been dangerous). As I drew closer to the box, the air became thick and warm, almost as if it was charged with some sort of otherwordly energy. I began to take deep breaths through my nose, and my limbs became heavy and my mind cloudy. It was almost as if I had entered a haze, like in the moments just before a dream ends and the dreamer awakens. Whatever was in the box undoubtedly had some sort of unearthly powers that dulled the senses.
    I emerged from my haze when the girl pried the box open. Her action seemed to occur in slow motion, and I was raptly attentive. Immidiately, another strong wave of thick air almost blew me backwards. Inside the box was a glowing orange circle that resembled the sun. Like the sun, I wanted to look away but could not. The circular thing was captivating, and it grabbed me and drew me near. I even dared to reach out and touch it. It was scalding, and I pulled my hand back. The girl smiled and then reached her own hand into the box. I wanted to tell her to stop, that the strange circle would burn her too, but it was too late. She latched onto the circle with her fingers and tore off a piece of it, leaving a gaping, tooth-shaped hole. After she was done, the box snapped shut like the maw of a carnivorous beast. The girl seemed unaffected, but I though that the box seemed angry. I backed away, never taking my eyes off of the box. Eventually, long after the girl had left the room, I felt my eyelids drooping and stopped worrying so much about the strange box and its powers. The squares on the box were starting to blur, and I knew it was time for me to go to sleep.

Adventures

A wedding cake of dust billowed around the object, which swirled endlessly into a dark hole. A perpetual musk, created by the toils of a man who had attempted Herculean tasks, surrounded it like a phantom cape. Running his hand across the bottom, he admired the feel of dolphin skin on his palm, also getting the sense of the squid’s tight grip around his hand, while his fingers traversed over crevasses and climbed up hills. Moving up the object, he encountered a canvas dirtied with mahogany, sprayed liberally like a paint gun, with blotches applied unevenly. The webbing above was fortified like castle walls, yet flexible as a yoga practitioner and soft as silk. His fingers were caught in the spider’s web above, and the more he struggled, the tighter the binds became. In particular, an area of the was shaped like handcuffs, being large enough for him to fit his waists through, yet hanging like a noose and growing ever tighter the longer he let it stay. From here, his hands ventured down into the dragon’s den, and rebounded off the ground of the bounce house. The snorts of the sleeping dragon were all he had to nourish his hands, while they explored the insides of a den fully without treasure. Finally, at the lowest point in this den, his hands reached a dead end, and he withdrew, satisfied with his inspection. As his hands ventured out, he unconsciously wrinkled his nose, suddenly annoyed by the odor which was the witch’s concoction. He took one last look at its infinite darkness, contradicted by the streaks of shooting stars flying through, seemingly content to leave it in the same position as it had been in earlier, and squelching his reminiscent thoughts as he left.

Darkness

When the girl returned home from school at six o'clock in the evening, none of her family was to be found in her house. She walked through the front door and when she gently closed it behind her, the hustle and bustle from the outside world at rush hour was silenced, and the air was still. The room was dim, and hung with the felling absence and alienation. The girl thought that she might have heard something move in the room, but she figured that it was merely her imagination dancing in the midst of the extreme quiet. She warily proceeded across the room and searched through the murkiness for the thing that would defeat the cold and dark being lurking in atmosphere. Her fingers trembled as they crept across the shadowed walls; searching for the one weapon that she had against the presence masking the room. When she finally found it, she immediately put it into use, so that the space was suddenly flooded with light and warmth. At that moment, her feeling of fear and loneliness was stifled by the new, dominant company deluging into the room. 

Disoriented

 The man walked through the dark house in search of his enemy. As he went from room to room, he didn’t see or hear anything. He was about to exit a room when there was a flash of lightning behind him along with a loud roaring noise. The flash became a constant light, brighter than the sun.  He spun around, but he had no idea what was happening, the light was changing colors and the noise was at a deafening volume. He heard voices all around him, he thought he was going mad. He could have sworn he knew what was happening, but he was too disoriented to realize exactly what was. Before he had the time to gather his wits, he was snatched up by his enemy. Only then, when he was being dragged out of the room, and his eyes had adjusted, he realized what tool of sorcery he had just fallen victim to.

Survivor

Survivor

Something didn’t seem right. He told me to wait for him; that was five hours ago. I clasped the cool metallic handle clad with string, my life-line. It’s curve was threatening if not self-incriminating. The tooth of a dragon that could be revealed at a moments notice. The hard boxing glove that could be the difference between me and my impending fate. As I gripped tighter I could feel my index finger slide deeper and deeper down into the ring binding to my hand. It was all I had, it was my father’s. I held the cat’s claw between my fingers with caution, I did not know what would follow. I heard a noise behind me; a rustling in the leaves; I lunged to the side behind cover and paused. I breathed. “just like he showed me,” I reminded my hands. I was the poised panther with my claws extended. I lurched forward. The stone from hell had a mind of its own, before I was aware of what had happened, it was too late. I looked into the eyes of my savior, the man who would never again return to his family; the man who would never again enjoy a drink at the bar. I looked into the eyes of my savior slipping away.

Gone

It lurks in the corner, unnoticed, until one day, it's gone, and its absence is like a dense and dusty cloud that stifles the room. The shadow it once cast upon the lonely walls ceases to exist. It's servants' hands are now forever burdened with the mud of the earth, the impure, that which stinks and festers. No longer will it eat up the mire. No longer will it obediently take what it is given. The Hole to the other world, a labyrinth of the unseen and forgotten, has closed--or rather, moved. The wrinkles in its dark skin, the folds in the film that was the barrier between its Body and the Hole, are now only faded memories. Sighing, its servants reminisce about the days when their humble master waited patiently to be filled. It was a gracious master, truly, when it still was; the way in which it accepted what was considered worthless so willingly was proof of that. What was even more was that it had been an utmost reliable presence, as it had never vanished before. Consuming all it was offered, the bottomless Hole was filled often, but never for long. Soon there was a new skin, one that had miraculously sunk itself into the Body overnight. Alas, what a tragedy! What unjustness! Such is the sudden loss of a lonely ruler. Once mundane and forgotten, it is now defined by the fear of its nonexistence.

Please

  The girl begged her mother for two of the largest sparkling pieces of copper and nickel that she had with her.  After a few seconds of her daughters incessant pleading, the mother relented and gracefully picked the round, glistening pieces from the pocket in her pants and placed them in the chubby hands of her daughter.  The girl pranced over to the towering device of metal and glass and stared, long and hard.  A lion from the jungle was staring from the corner.  A bunny from the meadow stuck out in the middle.  A fish from the deep blue was in the back.  After a short while, her eyes became transfixed on the midnight and snowy penguin in the front.  Had it just made its way from the South Pole?  Did it swim well?  How did it use its beak?  Answers, the girl thought.  She needed answers.  The girl carefully inserted the pieces from her mother into the sky high machine and precisely navigated the device to the exact location of the penguin.  Not too far this way, not too far that way.  She quickly ran to the other sides of the contraption to check for accuracy.  "Perfect," she thought, and she pursued the mission further.  The hand wavered over the top of the penguin and grasped it right around the stomach.  The girl quickly took a breath in and bit her lip, anxiously, as the hand holding her penguin swung perilously back and forth.  After what seemed like an eternity, the hand stopped over a deep hole and released the penguin, which plunged into a world of darkness for just a second before the girl grabbed it and brought it to the light.  She smiled and held her new friend tight, for her questions of but a minute and a half would now have answers.