I had been tracking this guy for several months. I didn't know him by name but rather by number....they called him number 3. I don't know much about him, but I do know that he is one of the remaining members of the S.E.G. The acronym stands for the Socialist Espionage Group. The group was created in the 1950's when some members of the KGB went defect and created a liberation group in the Ukraine. Again I have to say I don't know much about him, but I do now that now as I look at him laying lifeless on the ground, my mission is complete. Even my own government wouldn't reveal the secrets of the operation to me for fear that I might become compromised. I was told to eliminate the target as that was all. Months of work had finally culminated when I managed to slip a cyanide pill into his drink before the waiter brought it too his table. I knew it was a futile attempt but for some reason Number 3 had forgotten to check his drink before he put it to his mouth. That was the strangest part of the entire operation. Until approximately 30 minutes about, Number 3 had been so careful. He always covered his footsteps, always remembered his safety precautions. Why did he forget this one time?
Oh well, I guess the questions don't matter much anymore...he is dead and that is all that matters. After I slipped the pill into his drink i traversed through the kitchen and managed to get to the fire escape that lead to the back alley way. There was another strange twist to the story I forgot to mention. I had taken my time getting to the alley because I knew that Number 3 would take a little longer to get there then I would. Also at that time I knew the cyanide would be kicking in...I was sure he wouldn't make it out of the alley without passing out. He's there, and hes dead, but how did he get there before me?
I'm not too concerned. I still have a little bit of work to do. I have reason to believe he is carrying an envelope of documents that I need to bring back to my overseer. As I jumped down from the fire escape I moved quickly to his body and opened up his suit jacket. Wait, something is wrong....this body is cold...his body should still be warm. I pulled the envelope out from his pocket and removed the only paper I found inside. There should be more here. I unfolded the paper. It read "Thanks for playing. Game Over."
Oh no.....I've been set--------------
Then everything went dark.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
the sparkling dimension
As he stumbled into his college, barely able to flash his ID card at the porter, Rhodri tried to remember what had happened that night. The only clear thing he could recall was that a stranger had carried him back to his school. Besides that, things got a bit blurry for Rhodri.
Going out with his football team after a brilliant victory over their rival college, Rhodri only had one thing on his mind: celebrate. One drink became two, two became four, and the chugging contests put him over the edge. Staggering out the door of the bar, Rhodri called for his team to follow him in slurred, barely comprehensible speech, but the rest of them were too preoccupied with their food and drinks to notice him.
Aimlessly running over the Isis River on a footbridge to get to the center of town and the majority of the pubs, Rhodri noticed something sparkling in the water. Having lost all sense of inhibition, he dove into the water in pursuit of the sparkle. Instead of swimming back to the surface once he was submerged, Rhodri felt himself being sucked deeper into the river until eventually his surroundings became something that he’d never seen before. He felt as if he’d been sucked into another dimension, another time – which is exactly what had happened! He’d been transferred into the Sparkling Dimension of the Isis River that only drunk people could gain access to. Here, whatever thought came to mind, the Sparkling Dimension would make a reality out of the person’s initial thought. At this moment, since he felt discombobulated and beaten from the transfer into the dimension, Rhodri imagined himself on the bottom of a scrum in a rugby game. So naturally, the Sparkling Dimension transferred Rhodri to the nearest rugby game, which happened to be in Dublin, Ireland. Here, Rhodri spent a good chunk of his night in a frantic, inebriated state trying his best to stay on his feet while also trying to score, since the team he was on just happened to be his favorite team, the Leinster Lions. Eventually, Rhodri’s inebriation wore off and he became more tenacious in his gameplay until a nasty brute of a player blindsided him when he had the ball. At this point, since Rhodri was knocked unconscious, the Sparkling Dimension retransferred Rhodri back to his original location in Oxford. Still unconscious, he was expelled from the Isis River high into the air and landed on the sidewalk on the bank of the river. In a comatose state, Rhodri remained there for the remainder of the night, until a kind stranger offered to carry him home to his college. Not remembering a thing, since the Sparkling Dimension erased the memory of its users, Rhodri went to bed late that night in a confused yet sober state of mind. "At least I won't be hungover in the morning," he thought. And if he could remember, he would have thanked the Sparkling Dimension for preventing his hangover.
Going out with his football team after a brilliant victory over their rival college, Rhodri only had one thing on his mind: celebrate. One drink became two, two became four, and the chugging contests put him over the edge. Staggering out the door of the bar, Rhodri called for his team to follow him in slurred, barely comprehensible speech, but the rest of them were too preoccupied with their food and drinks to notice him.
Aimlessly running over the Isis River on a footbridge to get to the center of town and the majority of the pubs, Rhodri noticed something sparkling in the water. Having lost all sense of inhibition, he dove into the water in pursuit of the sparkle. Instead of swimming back to the surface once he was submerged, Rhodri felt himself being sucked deeper into the river until eventually his surroundings became something that he’d never seen before. He felt as if he’d been sucked into another dimension, another time – which is exactly what had happened! He’d been transferred into the Sparkling Dimension of the Isis River that only drunk people could gain access to. Here, whatever thought came to mind, the Sparkling Dimension would make a reality out of the person’s initial thought. At this moment, since he felt discombobulated and beaten from the transfer into the dimension, Rhodri imagined himself on the bottom of a scrum in a rugby game. So naturally, the Sparkling Dimension transferred Rhodri to the nearest rugby game, which happened to be in Dublin, Ireland. Here, Rhodri spent a good chunk of his night in a frantic, inebriated state trying his best to stay on his feet while also trying to score, since the team he was on just happened to be his favorite team, the Leinster Lions. Eventually, Rhodri’s inebriation wore off and he became more tenacious in his gameplay until a nasty brute of a player blindsided him when he had the ball. At this point, since Rhodri was knocked unconscious, the Sparkling Dimension retransferred Rhodri back to his original location in Oxford. Still unconscious, he was expelled from the Isis River high into the air and landed on the sidewalk on the bank of the river. In a comatose state, Rhodri remained there for the remainder of the night, until a kind stranger offered to carry him home to his college. Not remembering a thing, since the Sparkling Dimension erased the memory of its users, Rhodri went to bed late that night in a confused yet sober state of mind. "At least I won't be hungover in the morning," he thought. And if he could remember, he would have thanked the Sparkling Dimension for preventing his hangover.
I was suddenly aware of the sheer weight of my body. As the darkness crept in and my neck stopped supporting my head I remember vaguely imagining flying would feel similar. I’m sure I blacked out completely before hitting the pavement, or, possibly, the impact of my dead weight knocked me out.
That morning, in the shower, with the hot water running down my body, I was completely unaware of what was about to happen. No one has a perfect life, believe me I’m aware, but I thought I was getting close. It seems so silly now. Why couldn’t I have seen it all along?
I remember, vividly, stepping out onto the cold tile floor. Drops of water rolled off my skin making small puddle. When I looked into it my reflection was foggy, unclear. I can feel the terrycloth towel as I vigorously dry my hair. Doesn’t it seem strange now that I remember the feeling of a towel more clearly than anything else?
You had left already. Looking back, I suppose there is some dramatic irony in that. Not that it matters now. Looking back, I can see there was no warmth in any of the rooms. Sure, the heat was on, but where was the warmth?
I ignored the feeling. I think, as humans, we tend to ignore a lot of feelings that we can’t quite describe. I guess intuition doesn’t count for as much as we thought.
Last night, before you got back, I looked through our book. Over my dark red glass of merlot I think I remember being happy. The tokens of our adventures paired with pictures, memories, of our best times was something I enjoyed thumbing through. Now, it seems I was listlessly thumbing. The smiles don’t look as genuine when I think about it. They appear to be mocking me. If I could, I think I’d probably burn it and the merciless absurdity of it all.
You left early that morning. If you hadn’t, I probably would have never felt the urge to see you. It seems crazy to me now, the lengths I went to. I rescheduled a meeting with my biggest client, one of the firm’s biggest cases! For you, though, it seemed like hardly anything.
Usually, I would never even pass that hotel. Usually, I would never look to see who was coming or going. I guess that’s how these things work right? If you’re supposed to know something the Big Guy will help you find out.
You almost saw me; you turned your head right after I ducked into this alley, right here. Usually, I would never do that. Usually, muggings don’t end like this. Why can I remember my terrycloth towel and not you?
That morning, in the shower, with the hot water running down my body, I was completely unaware of what was about to happen. No one has a perfect life, believe me I’m aware, but I thought I was getting close. It seems so silly now. Why couldn’t I have seen it all along?
I remember, vividly, stepping out onto the cold tile floor. Drops of water rolled off my skin making small puddle. When I looked into it my reflection was foggy, unclear. I can feel the terrycloth towel as I vigorously dry my hair. Doesn’t it seem strange now that I remember the feeling of a towel more clearly than anything else?
You had left already. Looking back, I suppose there is some dramatic irony in that. Not that it matters now. Looking back, I can see there was no warmth in any of the rooms. Sure, the heat was on, but where was the warmth?
I ignored the feeling. I think, as humans, we tend to ignore a lot of feelings that we can’t quite describe. I guess intuition doesn’t count for as much as we thought.
Last night, before you got back, I looked through our book. Over my dark red glass of merlot I think I remember being happy. The tokens of our adventures paired with pictures, memories, of our best times was something I enjoyed thumbing through. Now, it seems I was listlessly thumbing. The smiles don’t look as genuine when I think about it. They appear to be mocking me. If I could, I think I’d probably burn it and the merciless absurdity of it all.
You left early that morning. If you hadn’t, I probably would have never felt the urge to see you. It seems crazy to me now, the lengths I went to. I rescheduled a meeting with my biggest client, one of the firm’s biggest cases! For you, though, it seemed like hardly anything.
Usually, I would never even pass that hotel. Usually, I would never look to see who was coming or going. I guess that’s how these things work right? If you’re supposed to know something the Big Guy will help you find out.
You almost saw me; you turned your head right after I ducked into this alley, right here. Usually, I would never do that. Usually, muggings don’t end like this. Why can I remember my terrycloth towel and not you?
The T Ride
I step on to the T in
Unknown in Paris
He arrived at the scene and was immediately greeted by the blair of sirens. Then again this wans't exactly a novel occurence, ever since the prime minister had been assassinated crime rates had shot through the roof. Fortunately, he was a detective with the police and had secure connections. He had never realized how important a simple gold metallic badge could be until recently. It was midnight and anyone caught on the streets without proper identification was at risk. Paranoia had become a very tangible thing that everyone had to deal with. What exactly the risk was remained questionable but he had heard gruesome stories. Perhaps there really was nothing out there but no one seemed willing to take that risk. The whole city of Paris normally bustling with tourists photographing the Eiffel tower and other marvels was virtually lifeless. What was once lively and prosperous had turned into a wasteland where one could hear the echoing of one's footsteps on the cobblestone streets at night. The alleyways were filled with old flyers advertising performances that took place months ago. He picked up a flyer advertising Madame Toussaird's Dance Show scheduled for May, 14 2020...that was 6 months ago. A lot had happened in that amount of time and everyone was still reeling in the aftermath.
His thoughts were interrupted by the chief of police calling him"Hey, Jason, willya come over here an take a look at this, this is a crime scene, we aint messing around." He hurriedly walked over wondering what he would find, for some unknown reason he felt a distinct sinking feeling as if a stone had just been dropped in his stomach. An empty capsule of lipstick lay on the ground along with a black sequined purse. Then he saw what appeared to be a hand reaching out from behind a large green dumpster. A woman was laying on the black asphalt her hair spread around her face like some sort of tragic halo. She was strangely beautiful as she lay there; she was wearing a simple black dress with gold metallic heels. Apparently, she had been going out somewhere but where would she have gone, no one got dressed up anymore and there was no where to go at this time of night. He immediately wondered if she was dead, but if she was then she would have been taken away immediately to the morgue. He quaveringly asked the chief of police; "Is she still alive?" "I honestly dunno" was his reply, "that's why we called you here" "Well I'm only a detective, I wouldnt really know..." and his voice trailed off. He checked her pulse and detected a faint heart beat. He then searched her purse and found some identification. Her Id said Carmen Jeners; there were about 20 $100 bills in her purse along with a fake passport. He sensed that she had a hidden past. Turning to the chief of police he said "I'm sorry but she's dead" as he pocketed the contents of her purse. He knew that if the police discovered who this woman was she would be better off dead. Meanwhile he was constructing a plan that would lead her to safety.
His thoughts were interrupted by the chief of police calling him"Hey, Jason, willya come over here an take a look at this, this is a crime scene, we aint messing around." He hurriedly walked over wondering what he would find, for some unknown reason he felt a distinct sinking feeling as if a stone had just been dropped in his stomach. An empty capsule of lipstick lay on the ground along with a black sequined purse. Then he saw what appeared to be a hand reaching out from behind a large green dumpster. A woman was laying on the black asphalt her hair spread around her face like some sort of tragic halo. She was strangely beautiful as she lay there; she was wearing a simple black dress with gold metallic heels. Apparently, she had been going out somewhere but where would she have gone, no one got dressed up anymore and there was no where to go at this time of night. He immediately wondered if she was dead, but if she was then she would have been taken away immediately to the morgue. He quaveringly asked the chief of police; "Is she still alive?" "I honestly dunno" was his reply, "that's why we called you here" "Well I'm only a detective, I wouldnt really know..." and his voice trailed off. He checked her pulse and detected a faint heart beat. He then searched her purse and found some identification. Her Id said Carmen Jeners; there were about 20 $100 bills in her purse along with a fake passport. He sensed that she had a hidden past. Turning to the chief of police he said "I'm sorry but she's dead" as he pocketed the contents of her purse. He knew that if the police discovered who this woman was she would be better off dead. Meanwhile he was constructing a plan that would lead her to safety.
Early One Morning...
Early one morning, while walking down Brookline Ave in Boston, I came across a man laying at the end of the sidewalk where Ralph’s Way begins. He was an older looking man, probably in his late forties or early fifties, wearing grey pants and a matching sports jacket. He was clean-shaven, but I could see a shadowy patch of salt and pepper whiskers where the right corner of his jaw and neck met. He was crumpled up on the sidewalk with his head slumped against the corner of the brick building’s concrete foundation.
Upon first observation, the man appeared to be sleeping. However, from where he was laying and by the angle at which his head and body were positioned, I knew this was no sleeping man. No bum, wino, junkie, whore, transient, or tramp in their right mind would have chosen to sleep on this sidewalk. Brookline Ave was too busy of a street for a bum to hang out. A sleeping bum would be woken up by either the sheer noise of the street or the foot-traffic of passersby. Plus, the area was heavily patrolled by security and other law enforcement, so any bum found sleeping on the street would be told to move along. On top of these facts, the man was too well-dressed to be a bum, although he may have passed in some circles for your typical Wall Street cokehead. He could not have been laying there for a long time; otherwise someone surely would have noticed him.
Not sensing any immediate danger, I drew closer to where the man laid like a lifeless ragdoll. Walking up from behind the body, I circled around to the man’s front, then again to the back after realizing I could not get a straight look at his face. Placing my hand on his right shoulder, I turned his body so that the man was facing me. I gathered that the man was unconscious because of the way I was forced to catch him from toppling over onto his side. Making some adjustments, I propped the man’s frame against the building and checked to see if he was breathing. He was. Before reaching into my purse for my cellphone so I could dial 911, I glanced at the man laying before me and got my first good look of his face. I was utterly dumbfounded by the face I saw. The closed eyes, the nose, the lips, the scraped forehead, all these features rested on the face belonging to my boss, Peter Kendall.
*
Later on at the hospital, I found out how Peter had ended up where I had found him. After wallowing back into consciousness, Peter told his doctor that the last thing he remembered was walking down the street. By his own account, he had gone into the office that morning to get an early start on a project he had left unfinished the day before. After working for about an hour, he went outside to have a smoke. Before he could light up, however, he passed out. I must have stumbled upon him about five minutes later. And it’s a good thing I did, too. The doctor told Peter that he had apparently suffered a mini stroke. The doctor said I was very lucky to find him when I did. Although the doctor has advised Peter to lay off the cigarettes in the future, he also said it was very lucky that he had gone for a smoke at that particular time. If he had passed out in the office where no one would have seen him for at least an hour, things could have been much worse. The doctor also told me to expect a pay increase later this month. He was joking, of course.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Unconscious
She was lying with her back against the brick wall, her head of red hair flopped down over her scrawny chest, like someone’s rag doll that didn’t have enough stuffing in its neck. Her yellow sundress was stained with the filth of the alley and the tattered ends lay dead against her legs. On leg crooked toward her, bent at the knee, the other stuck straight out pointing away from her body. Covered in the sleeves of a dingy oatmeal-colored sweater, her arms with the hands palm-up, finger curled at her sides. Jillian gaped and drew her arms over her red-sequined shirt. She rarely cut through this alley to get to the club, but she was late and this route was direct and uncluttered unlike the alley a block down behind the laundr o’ mat.
Shivering in the chill air blown down the alley she thought about calling for help. The woman’s body didn’t look that old, but she couldn’t see her face because of the hair. Maybe she was dead? Maybe just passed-out? Had she come from the club? Had someone brought her here? Jillian’s mind began frantically piecing a story together for the woman. She was around Jillian’s age, a drugged up- no a hooker. She was a dancer at the club that went out the door with the wrong guy. She had no money, at least not after the guy stole her wad of ones. Were could she have put the cash though? Her dress was skimpy. It didn’t have any pockets. Maybe she stuffed it in her bra? He had killed her for the cash, no just knocked her unconscious, she couldn’t have been worth jail time. Maybe she had it coming? Maybe she knew better than to go out the door with the creep. Maybe she had wanted to kill him?
Jillian sucked in her breath sharply as the woman on the ground twitched. Her head jerked back to reveal a young face. Focusing on Jillian she too sucked in a breath. “Get away from me slut,” She spat. “Were you trying to rob me or something?” Jillian looked down at the shirt skirt and slinky top she always wore to the club. “Uh nuh,” she mumbled running toward the club and away from the gaze of the woman that accused her of crimes even without knowing a thing about her.
Shivering in the chill air blown down the alley she thought about calling for help. The woman’s body didn’t look that old, but she couldn’t see her face because of the hair. Maybe she was dead? Maybe just passed-out? Had she come from the club? Had someone brought her here? Jillian’s mind began frantically piecing a story together for the woman. She was around Jillian’s age, a drugged up- no a hooker. She was a dancer at the club that went out the door with the wrong guy. She had no money, at least not after the guy stole her wad of ones. Were could she have put the cash though? Her dress was skimpy. It didn’t have any pockets. Maybe she stuffed it in her bra? He had killed her for the cash, no just knocked her unconscious, she couldn’t have been worth jail time. Maybe she had it coming? Maybe she knew better than to go out the door with the creep. Maybe she had wanted to kill him?
Jillian sucked in her breath sharply as the woman on the ground twitched. Her head jerked back to reveal a young face. Focusing on Jillian she too sucked in a breath. “Get away from me slut,” She spat. “Were you trying to rob me or something?” Jillian looked down at the shirt skirt and slinky top she always wore to the club. “Uh nuh,” she mumbled running toward the club and away from the gaze of the woman that accused her of crimes even without knowing a thing about her.
My Story
It was a Monday night. Through the first-floor window of a large colonial home stood a mother, hands gesticulating wildly, hurling, spitting syllables at the girl who stood before her. The daughter looked on her mother with shoulders hunched, a somber and exhausted glare darkening her face. Encouraged by her daughter's discouraged countenance, the mother indulged further in her irrational fury as she claimed what she knew was true, and that was that her daughter had been doing something behind her back, and that something was what only "white trash girls" did. The mother's eyes widened further and flashed with a demented fervor. Her sense of righteousness could not cool her ranting now. Finally, in an exasperated gesture, the mother's frantic energy seemed to dissipate, and she was almost satisfied. She stood propped against a table corner, hand pressed palm-down across her forehead in a false expression of pitying remorse. She mouthed a few more words, and a pair of incredibly strong arms wrenched the girl backward out of view, so that she could await her fate. Her mother had to think of a way to make an example of her. The girl was maybe seventeen.
A few weeks later I walk by the same house. The lights are on; no one appears at the window. The quiet suburban street seethes a summery sedative. I breath in the thick, humid air and admire a street light's soft beam falling onto...a figure lying partially in the road. I approach with heart thumping but without anticipation or surprise. The girl lies slumped awkwardly on her knees. The ropes which had bound her to the lamp post curl furled around her, having been eroded by weather. One fair cheek lies pressed against the pavement, one intelligent eye stares outward, thoughtfully, down the street. The girl had to be made an example of. And no one from the rows of houses on either side had dared to unbind her.
A few weeks later I walk by the same house. The lights are on; no one appears at the window. The quiet suburban street seethes a summery sedative. I breath in the thick, humid air and admire a street light's soft beam falling onto...a figure lying partially in the road. I approach with heart thumping but without anticipation or surprise. The girl lies slumped awkwardly on her knees. The ropes which had bound her to the lamp post curl furled around her, having been eroded by weather. One fair cheek lies pressed against the pavement, one intelligent eye stares outward, thoughtfully, down the street. The girl had to be made an example of. And no one from the rows of houses on either side had dared to unbind her.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Kristen:
I knew that I should have stayed home that morning. As soon as I woke up, I was overcome with a feeling of dread. I dismissed that feeling though, thinking it was only the usual feeling of dread I woke up with every morning when I thought about the day ahead. Turns out I should have listened to my instincts. That was going to be the worst day of my life. Sitting here in my hospital bed, I'm thankful to be alive. Let me backtrack and tell you how that day unfolded to leave me laying here, grateful to be alive.
My son woke me up that morning. He usually has to be the one to wake me up so I can get ready to bring him to school. His insistent cries to wake me up that morning were more urgent than usual. After dragging myself out of bed I finally woke up enough to understand what he was saying to me: "Mom! You have to get up now, there's a man at the door who is asking for you!" he yelled. I had no idea who it could have been, we lived a secluded life without much interaction with neighbors or friends. As I threw on a bathrobe over my pajamas, sidestepped the old bottles on the floor, and made my way to the door I ran through a list of the possible people it could be, but nothing prepared me for the man who stood before me. "Hello Kristen," Said the man standing at the door. I was so speechless that I couldn't react. I hadn't seen him for over eight years, right before James was born. "I thought that I would drop in on you. It's been too long and I wanted to see my son." Prior to this day, Ben had not shown any interest in his son or me and I could not believe that he picked today to show up on our doorstep. "I thought that the three of us could take a little ride." I was confused by this and told him so. "I don't think so Ben, James has school and I have to be at work in an hour." He wouldn't listen though and became aggressive, forcing the two of us into his car. He seemed to know where we were going, although I didn't recognize the area. "Mom, what's happening?" James asked me repeatedly. "I don't know honey, we'll be fine though, just stay close to me."
The car started to slow as we pulled into a gas station and parked next to a dark car with a woman sitting in the drivers seat. "Get out of the car, James" said Ben. "Mom, what's going on? what's happening?" Ben screamed at him to get out of the car and told me that if I tried to stop him we would both be in trouble. "It's for your own good James, trust me! Your mother is no longer the best one to care for you. Please get in the other car." James was afraid and so he listened to him and got into the car with that other woman. First Ben shows up to disrupt our life and then my son betrays me by going along along with it. After James got in the car, Ben came to back to our car and got into it, turning the key and pulling back onto the street. He brought me back home, telling me that this wouldn't be the last that he heard from me. I was so shaken that I could not put up any argument. I crawled into bed hoping that when I woke up everything would be better.
--------------------------------
Ben:
Getting the phone call from child services saying that they had been called to investigate a possible case of neglect that involved my son shook me to my core. I had no idea that I had a son, less so that he was being neglected. His mother never told me that she was pregnant. I met her one night in a bar and didn't think that it was anything more than a one night stand. I could tell from a mile away that she had serious problems. She was obviously a heavy drinker and had more pill bottles in her purse than I could count. I never would have had a child with a woman like that on purpose. After I got that phone call I was shocked and could only think of one thing: getting my child out of that situation. I was able to get her address from child services and drove to her house immediately. I don't know if you could even call it a house. The yard was a disaster and I could hear my son yelling for her to wake up after I knocked on the door. He yelled for a while, it must have taken a lot for her to shake off the hangover and drag herself out of bed. When she opened the front door I saw all the empty beer bottles lying on the ground, with my son standing behind her, looking disheveled and underfed. I went into autopilot upoon seeing the situation and forced the two of them into the car. I called my girlfriend and had her meet me somewhere safe that I could leave James. Looking back on the situation, I know that it was not the best way to handle the situation but at the time I didn't see any other options.
------------------------
Kristen:
When I woke up at first I couldn't remember what had happened that day. It slowly came back to me and it hit me hard that my son had been taken from me. I didn't know how to react to losing him and decided to have a beer to help me collect my thoughts. One beer turned into five and I kept drinking because I couldn't handle what had happened that day. At some point the beers weren't doing it for me and I needed something stronger. I went out to my usual spot where I never had a problem getting the high that I needed. That night it was different. My usual dealer wasnt there so I approached another guy that I thought could help me. He took one look at me and I saw the rage in his eyes. He knocked me to the ground and took the money I had brought to buy the drugs. After he took the money he kept hitting me, and then...That's all I can remember. The next thing I knew I was lying here in the hospital. My son is gone and i am bruised and broken. I have a feeling that this horrible day will turn out to be for the better though. Maybe I can get my life back on track and give my son the kind of home that he deserves.
I knew that I should have stayed home that morning. As soon as I woke up, I was overcome with a feeling of dread. I dismissed that feeling though, thinking it was only the usual feeling of dread I woke up with every morning when I thought about the day ahead. Turns out I should have listened to my instincts. That was going to be the worst day of my life. Sitting here in my hospital bed, I'm thankful to be alive. Let me backtrack and tell you how that day unfolded to leave me laying here, grateful to be alive.
My son woke me up that morning. He usually has to be the one to wake me up so I can get ready to bring him to school. His insistent cries to wake me up that morning were more urgent than usual. After dragging myself out of bed I finally woke up enough to understand what he was saying to me: "Mom! You have to get up now, there's a man at the door who is asking for you!" he yelled. I had no idea who it could have been, we lived a secluded life without much interaction with neighbors or friends. As I threw on a bathrobe over my pajamas, sidestepped the old bottles on the floor, and made my way to the door I ran through a list of the possible people it could be, but nothing prepared me for the man who stood before me. "Hello Kristen," Said the man standing at the door. I was so speechless that I couldn't react. I hadn't seen him for over eight years, right before James was born. "I thought that I would drop in on you. It's been too long and I wanted to see my son." Prior to this day, Ben had not shown any interest in his son or me and I could not believe that he picked today to show up on our doorstep. "I thought that the three of us could take a little ride." I was confused by this and told him so. "I don't think so Ben, James has school and I have to be at work in an hour." He wouldn't listen though and became aggressive, forcing the two of us into his car. He seemed to know where we were going, although I didn't recognize the area. "Mom, what's happening?" James asked me repeatedly. "I don't know honey, we'll be fine though, just stay close to me."
The car started to slow as we pulled into a gas station and parked next to a dark car with a woman sitting in the drivers seat. "Get out of the car, James" said Ben. "Mom, what's going on? what's happening?" Ben screamed at him to get out of the car and told me that if I tried to stop him we would both be in trouble. "It's for your own good James, trust me! Your mother is no longer the best one to care for you. Please get in the other car." James was afraid and so he listened to him and got into the car with that other woman. First Ben shows up to disrupt our life and then my son betrays me by going along along with it. After James got in the car, Ben came to back to our car and got into it, turning the key and pulling back onto the street. He brought me back home, telling me that this wouldn't be the last that he heard from me. I was so shaken that I could not put up any argument. I crawled into bed hoping that when I woke up everything would be better.
--------------------------------
Ben:
Getting the phone call from child services saying that they had been called to investigate a possible case of neglect that involved my son shook me to my core. I had no idea that I had a son, less so that he was being neglected. His mother never told me that she was pregnant. I met her one night in a bar and didn't think that it was anything more than a one night stand. I could tell from a mile away that she had serious problems. She was obviously a heavy drinker and had more pill bottles in her purse than I could count. I never would have had a child with a woman like that on purpose. After I got that phone call I was shocked and could only think of one thing: getting my child out of that situation. I was able to get her address from child services and drove to her house immediately. I don't know if you could even call it a house. The yard was a disaster and I could hear my son yelling for her to wake up after I knocked on the door. He yelled for a while, it must have taken a lot for her to shake off the hangover and drag herself out of bed. When she opened the front door I saw all the empty beer bottles lying on the ground, with my son standing behind her, looking disheveled and underfed. I went into autopilot upoon seeing the situation and forced the two of them into the car. I called my girlfriend and had her meet me somewhere safe that I could leave James. Looking back on the situation, I know that it was not the best way to handle the situation but at the time I didn't see any other options.
------------------------
Kristen:
When I woke up at first I couldn't remember what had happened that day. It slowly came back to me and it hit me hard that my son had been taken from me. I didn't know how to react to losing him and decided to have a beer to help me collect my thoughts. One beer turned into five and I kept drinking because I couldn't handle what had happened that day. At some point the beers weren't doing it for me and I needed something stronger. I went out to my usual spot where I never had a problem getting the high that I needed. That night it was different. My usual dealer wasnt there so I approached another guy that I thought could help me. He took one look at me and I saw the rage in his eyes. He knocked me to the ground and took the money I had brought to buy the drugs. After he took the money he kept hitting me, and then...That's all I can remember. The next thing I knew I was lying here in the hospital. My son is gone and i am bruised and broken. I have a feeling that this horrible day will turn out to be for the better though. Maybe I can get my life back on track and give my son the kind of home that he deserves.
One Snowy Day
In the small sleepy town of Wrentham, Massachusetts, tucked beneath trees and new fallen snow, a girl named Lauren hurried down an empty street to the comfort and warmth of her own home. She was returning from a long day sledding at her friends house. As she was rounding the corner at the bottom of the hill that marked the top of her street, she noticed a young boy laying in a snowbank on the side of the road, he was not moving and appeared to be unconscious. Lauren frantically tried to wake him by shaking him gently. Finally, startled and confused , the boy opened his eyes to look at her. Peering at her nervously, he opened his mouth to speak, "who are you and where am I?" he asked. Lauren replied and tried to calm him down, "my name is Lauren and this is Dana Drive, do you remember how you got here?" The boy finally started to relax and sat still in the snow, thinking. Finally after a few minutes he turned to face her and told her that he lived in her neighborhood, just down the street on Jennifer Drive. Lauren, still trying to figure out how he had wound up unconscious on the side of the road, continued to pry his memory and see if he remembered. "Do you remember what you were doing on this street? or how you got knocked out?" As the boy was trying to remember, a snow plow drove by. "Thats it!" he exclaimed, "a huge piece of ice came up from the a plow's wheel and hit my head... thats the only thing I remember" a few seconds passed by and then he turned to her to speak again, "Wait, I was out here walking by dog, you haven't seen him have you?" Before he could even ask her another question, a dog came running towards them, barking frantically. Behind him was a woman, who appeared to be the boy's worried mother, who ran fast as she saw them. When she arrived at the snowbank she asked the boy what had happened. When he had explained to her the story of the plow, and how Lauren had found him here, she was nearly brought to tears. The mother was so happy that her little boy was okay, and that their dog had led her to them. "I was so worried" she said to him and appeared to relieved when she held him in her arms. His mother was so thankful to Lauren that she invited her over for hot chocolate and cookies. Lauren ended her day by the warmth of a fireplace, eating cookies, drinking hot chocolate, and sharing stories or her own childhood scares with this little boy and his mother, while they laughed and laughed, happy that he was home safe and sound.
The Reunion
Life sometimes comes back to me in sharp flashes of memory. Like the montage of images in a disjointed dream, stitched together in a colorful crazy-quilt, the flashes melt down to something simple, to something meaningful. I realized only later that the first flash was not a memory at all, but an observation that I had been actively making as I stood before you. For at least five minutes, I stood staring at you laying there on the ground. Yet I saw you only for an instant; you were but one of the many momentary flashes. Seeing, recognizing, remembering, and trying to piece you together as you lay dismembered on the marble floor had over-stimulated my mind and, as if to shield my body from the pain that now burdens me, it edited the duration of my mind’s motion picture down to one simple cut.
I don’t know how I recognized you. You barely resembled yourself, or at least you barely matched the memory of yourself which I had neatly tucked away for years. The next flash was the Angela my mind had retrieved from the mental file labeled ‘Do Not Touch’ and, as if conjured magically, you reappear more vividly than ever. You were a healthy 109 pounds (okay, maybe not healthy, but compared to now?), with hair like ebony silk that ran along your slender frame down to your waist, and chocolate eyes that read like books. It was through your eyes, which told so much as you spoke (and you rarely stopped), that I, before even you, knew something was wrong.
As telling as your eyes were, in them was never the rhyme nor the reason for the things that you did- only how you felt when you did them. When we first met, I admired you despite being unable to understand you. Perhaps I admired you because I could not understand you. We were schoolmates; I was lonely and had no friends; you had many friends and you too were lonely. I still do not understand why you, popular and beautiful, chose me. But you did, and we became confidantes.
Despite your beautiful exterior, you were, for lack of better words, damaged goods. Abused by your father for years, and forced to store your “sick, perverted story” in the family closet by your envious and pain-stricken mother, your life was not the Brady Bunch episode that our teachers, coaches, and school principal conceived it to be. Maybe that’s why no one noticed when your body began to waste away. Why should they? They hadn’t noticed when it had begun to round about your belly.
I think it was after your abortion that I tried to reach out to you. And maybe it was too soon, because you very quickly pushed me away. I knew that you were depressed. I knew from your eyes. Why shouldn’t you be? You turned my help away- you turned me down for newer friends, more dangerous ones, with names like ecstasy and cocaine, “crystal” and “bliss.” You stopped eating. We used to get icecream after softball games every Friday afternoon. But you stopped playing softball. And you didn’t like icecream anymore. And then we graduated. Naturally, we lost touch.
Six years later, and the images that flash from years ago are more vivid than the one that my brain processed ten minutes ago. I know I am a little tipsy. I found you while I was out with friends. We are having drinks to celebrate the success of a peer’s final thesis. I found you in the Lucky Star Nightclub. You were lying on the bathroom floor. You were no longer tipsy, but barely responding. I know it is you because you still have your long ebony hair. It’s not silky anymore, but tangled like the frayed ends of your cutoff jean skirt. Your legs are like sticks, and you’ve clearly lost far too much weight. On your arms are the story of your last six years, of your continued drug use, and of your spiral away from real life. I wonder if when you think (or thought) about life, if you see in real life, or like me, you see mostly in images.
Because I was once your confidante, I didn’t want them to see you like this. Your yellow blouse had been unbuttoned, exposing your barely-there breasts and concave chest. Your legs are tucked up beside you as if you had tried to curl into a fetal position, but lost your will half-way. Your arms are spread open and up in each direction, and though you once told me that God was a lie, I think that you look like Jesus with your arms and scrapes and wounds. On my cell phone, I dial 911. I know that technically I am not supposed to touch you, but I button up your blouse, and I fold your arms across your chest. And as I gently stroke your ebony hair, I do not look at the person dying before me, but I shut my moistened eyes and see you as you appear in the stream of ancient flashes.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Karate Lessons
"The victim didn't even have a chance."
"It's sad really how these things happen. Someone gets stupid, forgets their limits and we've got another rape attempt."
"Yep here we are two police officers trying to figure out why Mr. or Mrs. So and So is left dead in the gutter. Like I don't have more important things to do with my time than figure out this kid's whole back story. You would think people in this world would learn. Don't they have parents? Don't they have role models?"
"Guess they don't have anyone like you or me to be the fine upstanding citizen to model their lives after. Well anyways I suppose if they learned their lesson and their were no more dead bodies on these fine Chicago streets we would be out of a job (both laugh). And you have got to admit, this case is not like any I have ever seen."
"You are certainly right there. And dead with one blow its like something out of a movie or something!"
"Ya the movies, right. Well let's go see if the other officers are done questioning our Jackie Chan so we can get out of here and I can go to bed."
-----------------------------------
Before giving away the ending this story begins a little future back. Try six months ago, in the happy little small town of Monroe Connecticut. Like many stories that end with some poor soul in the gutter, I would have done so many things different. But despite the circumstances of the seemingly tragic end, my story starts with one girl escaping that oppressively mundane state called Connecticut.
This was finally it. I was eighteen, I was grown up and I could finally leave white suburbia forever. Don't get me wrong I lived a perfectly happy life enjoying ever soccer practice, school play and karate lesson I went to. But I was leaving and there was nothing my overbearing, crazily protective mother could do about it. I could just hear her now going on in her sunflower apron, the sunflower apron that she wore every Sunday in order to "prepare for company" as she called it. Which really just meant she was putting eight packets of Ramen noodles into the pot instead of six. She really went all out when her parents came over. All it meant for me was that there would be three people nagging me instead of one. "Don't you know Chicago is dangerous" one would say. "People die in Chicago" another would blurt. And if I just didn't seem to get their point for effect mother would add "Do you want to end up dead in the gutter with no family around?" To that I always wanted to response "Around for what? To neatly clean up the body." But with ever restraint in me I just smiled, because I was going to Northwestern in the fall and there was nothing the three of them could do about it. And it killed them.
After the Last Supper, as I secretly liked to call the very last time I would have to tolerate spending the whole day with my mother, grandparents and that sunflower apron. I ran over to Liz's house, because there was no way a girl who has spent her whole life in small town Connecticut could handle this.
"Ok Liz, so I got in, I'm going to Chicago. But despite my best attempt to not give in an inch to my mother, what the hell am I doing!? I mean this is what I know, small town, soccer moms, blah blah slept with blah blah after home coming. I am assuming they don't care what color Mrs. Jacobs painted her shutters last week in Chicago."
Liz continued to snap her gum and thumb through last months Cosmo hoping something she owned even remotely resembled the shinny pictures . with their equally shining promises. "Don't worry about it kid. I mean what is the worst that could happen? You go, you study, you meat a hot guy and live happily ever after. I mean look at me, I am stuck in this place, no hopes of escape and you're leaving me."
Despite Liz's best attempts to guilt me with her overly made up puppy dog eyes, in her own perverted way Liz's plea only made me more ready to get out of this place and see what the rest of the world had in store. Any thing was better than this.
For the next six months I lived as happy as any college freshman with wavering interests could be. As an English major, or history I still hadn't decided, I attended every journalist club, poetry reading, civil war documentary and political luncheon that I could find. There was not way I was going to waste one moment of my freedom. I was determined to prove to my mother that a girl from the depths of suburbia could survive and possibly even thrive in the big city.
Luckily my favorite partner in crime that never seemed to fail me in times of late night dancing or heavy drinking was my roommate. Corey who hailed a whooping twenty minutes outside of Chicago acted as my guide. She was amazed that there were still people in this world that haven't experienced the seedy jazz clubs and all night dance clubs that Chicago had to offer. And I suspect she liked having an attentive student that was eager to absorb as much information as I could.
"C'mon we are only here for any other week and they you are back off to the family just in time for the the part of year where families get the most "jump off the roof would rather kill myself" insane. That's why we are going out tonight. I don't care whose final you have, or what paper you still have to finish. This is our last time to celebrate the end of our first semester of college"
She was always doing that. Every night seemed to be the last opportunity to celebrate the first time of whatever. And despite my ability to look back and see through her fake special occasions, it worked just like it had always worked. Normally we go out to the college scene, hit a few local bars with the rest of the Northwestern freshman, all of who know which bars conveniently didn't card underage students. But since tonight was such a big occasion, the first last time to whatever, Corey had something special in mind. She had been seeing a guy for two weeks now, big stuff from where Corey's relationship history had come from. Not that she was easy, but the only time she hung out with guys were between the hours of 11pm and 3am. Not exactley prime relationship material. But anyways, "Mr. Right" wanted to take her and me down town to a new club that was opening up. Apparently as "Mr. Right" was a prime 27 and knew people that knew people it wouldn't be a problem to get two eighteen year olds in. And again if you are thinking Corey is easy she makes it a rule not to talk to men who, as she says "accede my age by double digits." After hours of picking out the right outfit for Corey, and far less time figuring out what of Corey's she would let me borrow so I would be presentable for Chicago's "in scene" we gathered whatever money we had laying around and called a cab. Twenty minutes later, which in Chicago late night traffic, is really thirty five we reached it. Despite the promising description the areas looked particularly seedy and the only light was from a neon sign of two palm trees, with words in the middle that I assumed said "The Tiki Lounge." I say I assumed because the K in Tiki was missing as were the last three letter in lounge. And I assumed they wouldn't name a club after the Lou. But anyways, after finding Mr. Right who was waiting for us at the door we made our way into the club. Despite its less than promising exterior the inside looked like every other bar with a dance floor she had been too. After a few too many hours of drinking and doing something I attempt to pass for dancing our twenty dollar Target shoes hurt and it was time to go home. I think Mr. Right agreed, especially after he had to wipe off drool that Corey left on his shoulder after being asleep for the past ten minutes.
On the way out I regretted not brining a coat, but wouldn't even admit it to myself because it was something my mother and her sunflower apron would have nagged me about. As me, Mr. Right and the half unconscious Corey were leaving out the side exit Corey, emerging from her drunken sleep deprived slumber immediately woke up.
"Whoa, I am only wearing one shoe, and I am sure I came in here with to shoes."
I assured Mr. Right that yes, in fact Corey had come all the way down town and into the club with two shoes on her feet. Not wanting to leaving behind her twenty dollar Target pump I let Mr. Right lead her back to recover the missing shoe. Unfortunately for myself, and every person in there with a cigarette in their hands, I had the sudden realization that I had been inhaling an insane amount of smoke for the past three hours. As I opened the door to the exit, which took multiple tries, because either it was stuck or after my whooping two Smirnoff Ices I couldn't manage on the first try.
After I got outside and waited for the missing shoe to be recovered I let the cold air hit my face and travel down to my legs. I instantly regretted not borrowing something of Corey's that involved pants. But the cool air of the alley beat the stifling nature of the environment that she just came from. I let myself wander in the night air letting it fulling take over my senses. And I blame these partly occupied senses for not predicting the approaching nature ahead. After I had wandered enough I suddenly became very aware that the alley was darker than it had once been and the light from the side door was smaller and farther away than she had realized. In contrast to the previous calm I began to get the feeling someone was watching me. The more I walked toward the lit door the closer the feeling got, until that feeling was no longer just a feeling but footsteps running behind me. All of a sudden I turned around to see my attacker and before I know what was happening, before I could call for help the pursuit ended with a large unnerving WHAM, like human skin against human skin and a body dead in the gutter. Just like my mother had said.
-----------------------------------
"Haha, ya Jackie Chan, that's what we can call it if this sort of amazing thing ever happens again."
"Ya ya like next time we won't even have to explain the details of the case, we can just say 'We got ourselves another Jackie Chan case' and that will be it."
"Everyone will know that instead of the rapist actually being able to follow through with his plans, the victim karate chops his ass like in a kun-fu movie and kills him with one swift blow to the neck."
"How did a young girl from the suburbs of Connecticut be able to pull off something like this. I mean we seen hundreds of these cases each year, and they all tragically end with the victim dead in the ally, not the attacker."
"I don't know I heard her say something about thanking her mother for all those karate lessons every Sunday."
"It's sad really how these things happen. Someone gets stupid, forgets their limits and we've got another rape attempt."
"Yep here we are two police officers trying to figure out why Mr. or Mrs. So and So is left dead in the gutter. Like I don't have more important things to do with my time than figure out this kid's whole back story. You would think people in this world would learn. Don't they have parents? Don't they have role models?"
"Guess they don't have anyone like you or me to be the fine upstanding citizen to model their lives after. Well anyways I suppose if they learned their lesson and their were no more dead bodies on these fine Chicago streets we would be out of a job (both laugh). And you have got to admit, this case is not like any I have ever seen."
"You are certainly right there. And dead with one blow its like something out of a movie or something!"
"Ya the movies, right. Well let's go see if the other officers are done questioning our Jackie Chan so we can get out of here and I can go to bed."
-----------------------------------
Before giving away the ending this story begins a little future back. Try six months ago, in the happy little small town of Monroe Connecticut. Like many stories that end with some poor soul in the gutter, I would have done so many things different. But despite the circumstances of the seemingly tragic end, my story starts with one girl escaping that oppressively mundane state called Connecticut.
This was finally it. I was eighteen, I was grown up and I could finally leave white suburbia forever. Don't get me wrong I lived a perfectly happy life enjoying ever soccer practice, school play and karate lesson I went to. But I was leaving and there was nothing my overbearing, crazily protective mother could do about it. I could just hear her now going on in her sunflower apron, the sunflower apron that she wore every Sunday in order to "prepare for company" as she called it. Which really just meant she was putting eight packets of Ramen noodles into the pot instead of six. She really went all out when her parents came over. All it meant for me was that there would be three people nagging me instead of one. "Don't you know Chicago is dangerous" one would say. "People die in Chicago" another would blurt. And if I just didn't seem to get their point for effect mother would add "Do you want to end up dead in the gutter with no family around?" To that I always wanted to response "Around for what? To neatly clean up the body." But with ever restraint in me I just smiled, because I was going to Northwestern in the fall and there was nothing the three of them could do about it. And it killed them.
After the Last Supper, as I secretly liked to call the very last time I would have to tolerate spending the whole day with my mother, grandparents and that sunflower apron. I ran over to Liz's house, because there was no way a girl who has spent her whole life in small town Connecticut could handle this.
"Ok Liz, so I got in, I'm going to Chicago. But despite my best attempt to not give in an inch to my mother, what the hell am I doing!? I mean this is what I know, small town, soccer moms, blah blah slept with blah blah after home coming. I am assuming they don't care what color Mrs. Jacobs painted her shutters last week in Chicago."
Liz continued to snap her gum and thumb through last months Cosmo hoping something she owned even remotely resembled the shinny pictures . with their equally shining promises. "Don't worry about it kid. I mean what is the worst that could happen? You go, you study, you meat a hot guy and live happily ever after. I mean look at me, I am stuck in this place, no hopes of escape and you're leaving me."
Despite Liz's best attempts to guilt me with her overly made up puppy dog eyes, in her own perverted way Liz's plea only made me more ready to get out of this place and see what the rest of the world had in store. Any thing was better than this.
For the next six months I lived as happy as any college freshman with wavering interests could be. As an English major, or history I still hadn't decided, I attended every journalist club, poetry reading, civil war documentary and political luncheon that I could find. There was not way I was going to waste one moment of my freedom. I was determined to prove to my mother that a girl from the depths of suburbia could survive and possibly even thrive in the big city.
Luckily my favorite partner in crime that never seemed to fail me in times of late night dancing or heavy drinking was my roommate. Corey who hailed a whooping twenty minutes outside of Chicago acted as my guide. She was amazed that there were still people in this world that haven't experienced the seedy jazz clubs and all night dance clubs that Chicago had to offer. And I suspect she liked having an attentive student that was eager to absorb as much information as I could.
"C'mon we are only here for any other week and they you are back off to the family just in time for the the part of year where families get the most "jump off the roof would rather kill myself" insane. That's why we are going out tonight. I don't care whose final you have, or what paper you still have to finish. This is our last time to celebrate the end of our first semester of college"
She was always doing that. Every night seemed to be the last opportunity to celebrate the first time of whatever. And despite my ability to look back and see through her fake special occasions, it worked just like it had always worked. Normally we go out to the college scene, hit a few local bars with the rest of the Northwestern freshman, all of who know which bars conveniently didn't card underage students. But since tonight was such a big occasion, the first last time to whatever, Corey had something special in mind. She had been seeing a guy for two weeks now, big stuff from where Corey's relationship history had come from. Not that she was easy, but the only time she hung out with guys were between the hours of 11pm and 3am. Not exactley prime relationship material. But anyways, "Mr. Right" wanted to take her and me down town to a new club that was opening up. Apparently as "Mr. Right" was a prime 27 and knew people that knew people it wouldn't be a problem to get two eighteen year olds in. And again if you are thinking Corey is easy she makes it a rule not to talk to men who, as she says "accede my age by double digits." After hours of picking out the right outfit for Corey, and far less time figuring out what of Corey's she would let me borrow so I would be presentable for Chicago's "in scene" we gathered whatever money we had laying around and called a cab. Twenty minutes later, which in Chicago late night traffic, is really thirty five we reached it. Despite the promising description the areas looked particularly seedy and the only light was from a neon sign of two palm trees, with words in the middle that I assumed said "The Tiki Lounge." I say I assumed because the K in Tiki was missing as were the last three letter in lounge. And I assumed they wouldn't name a club after the Lou. But anyways, after finding Mr. Right who was waiting for us at the door we made our way into the club. Despite its less than promising exterior the inside looked like every other bar with a dance floor she had been too. After a few too many hours of drinking and doing something I attempt to pass for dancing our twenty dollar Target shoes hurt and it was time to go home. I think Mr. Right agreed, especially after he had to wipe off drool that Corey left on his shoulder after being asleep for the past ten minutes.
On the way out I regretted not brining a coat, but wouldn't even admit it to myself because it was something my mother and her sunflower apron would have nagged me about. As me, Mr. Right and the half unconscious Corey were leaving out the side exit Corey, emerging from her drunken sleep deprived slumber immediately woke up.
"Whoa, I am only wearing one shoe, and I am sure I came in here with to shoes."
I assured Mr. Right that yes, in fact Corey had come all the way down town and into the club with two shoes on her feet. Not wanting to leaving behind her twenty dollar Target pump I let Mr. Right lead her back to recover the missing shoe. Unfortunately for myself, and every person in there with a cigarette in their hands, I had the sudden realization that I had been inhaling an insane amount of smoke for the past three hours. As I opened the door to the exit, which took multiple tries, because either it was stuck or after my whooping two Smirnoff Ices I couldn't manage on the first try.
After I got outside and waited for the missing shoe to be recovered I let the cold air hit my face and travel down to my legs. I instantly regretted not borrowing something of Corey's that involved pants. But the cool air of the alley beat the stifling nature of the environment that she just came from. I let myself wander in the night air letting it fulling take over my senses. And I blame these partly occupied senses for not predicting the approaching nature ahead. After I had wandered enough I suddenly became very aware that the alley was darker than it had once been and the light from the side door was smaller and farther away than she had realized. In contrast to the previous calm I began to get the feeling someone was watching me. The more I walked toward the lit door the closer the feeling got, until that feeling was no longer just a feeling but footsteps running behind me. All of a sudden I turned around to see my attacker and before I know what was happening, before I could call for help the pursuit ended with a large unnerving WHAM, like human skin against human skin and a body dead in the gutter. Just like my mother had said.
-----------------------------------
"Haha, ya Jackie Chan, that's what we can call it if this sort of amazing thing ever happens again."
"Ya ya like next time we won't even have to explain the details of the case, we can just say 'We got ourselves another Jackie Chan case' and that will be it."
"Everyone will know that instead of the rapist actually being able to follow through with his plans, the victim karate chops his ass like in a kun-fu movie and kills him with one swift blow to the neck."
"How did a young girl from the suburbs of Connecticut be able to pull off something like this. I mean we seen hundreds of these cases each year, and they all tragically end with the victim dead in the ally, not the attacker."
"I don't know I heard her say something about thanking her mother for all those karate lessons every Sunday."
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Seventeen Heroes
It’s 1957. It’s been five years since it happened. We were young and stupid, and had no clue what lay ahead of us. We had golden futures with promises of fame and fortune. But a promise only comes true if you fight for it. A promise can be destroyed.
***********************************************
It was Friday night. We won the big game. Of course we were going out to party. What else would we do, stay home and celebrate with our families?
Jason was the ringleader, so we waited for him to give the call and tell us where we were going. And yes, he was the quarterback. What did you expect him to be, a lineman? The quarterback always calls the plays.
We were standing outside the Whirlpool, the most happening club around. It was right outside of town, the only club within forty miles of our small West Pennsylvanian town. It was 21+, but that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter the year before when we won State. People knew us there. They loved us. Who wouldn’t love a champion?
The night was great, wild as usual. We threw money around like crazy and downed beers like it was our job. That night it was. And we were working overtime.
Jessie wasn’t having such a good time though. He said he wasn’t feeling well, had severe stomach cramps. I kind of figured that’s what it was. I mean he didn’t make a move on any girls all night. And with guys like us, it doesn’t take much to ring in the ladies.
So Jessie took off. We all felt bad that he couldn’t party, but that didn’t stop us. We rocked it even harder. The boys were calling out for shots every other minute. It was almost too much.
The party came to an end when Nick puked all over the bar. It was an accident, but the bartender didn’t take too kindly to it. But because we spent so much money there, they asked us kindly to leave.
Nick stumbled out of the club with the grace of a blind toad. We weren’t much better. We were a pack of hyenas, ready to feast upon the town. Although it felt like the town fed on us; our wallets were empty and our stomachs were growling. We hadn’t eaten since after the game.
“Let’s get some fooooood,” Brian groaned. The glazed stare in his red eyes suggested that alcohol wasn’t the only thing he put into his body tonight.
“Yeah,” Robby shouted. “Let’s do it!”
I had never seen anyone get that excited about eating food before. Other than my drunk dead-beat for a father. All he does is eat food. He sits on his ass, watches the game, and shoves garbage down his throat like a damn coon. Nothing good has ever come from him. Nothing.
“Hey Billy, you coming?” Robby’s voice echoed in the still dead of night.
“Yeah, hold up,” I picked up my feet and caught up with the rest of the guys. “Where we going?”
“There’s this great place called…” Jason’s voice trailed off in the dark.
“What?” I looked ahead. “What’s up?”
I turned the corner and saw two men in the alley going at each other. And no, it’s not what you think. They weren’t fighting. They were loving.
“Damn homos!” Jason ran at them, knocking one in the back of the head with his great fist. The others followed his lead and charged at the other man, hollering hateful words as loud as they could. Their actions spoke intolerance, and I despised them for it. But I didn’t do a damn thing to stop them.
I looked on in horror as the entire team, my friends, beat down on these two men. They stomped on their backs and kicked them hard in the stomach. They were a bunch of animals; fifteen ravenous wolves tearing apart two unsuspecting deer.
It was terrible. Every second of that moment I hoped it would end, but it kept going on. These men, who we didn’t even know, were being beaten down without mercy or meaning. And these other men, whom I have grown up with, they were disgusting. To this day, it sickens me to think that I hugged these vile creatures. These…these beasts, were my best friends.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Robby screamed as police sirens wailed in the distance. I would’ve thanked God that they came, but it was too late. Two bodies laid still, facedown in their own fluids. I stared down at them, emotionless, careless.
Behind all the blood and bruises, I could make out one of their faces. I looked closer and studied its features. It was Jessie. We just killed Jessie. Twelve years of friendship and now…I murdered my best friend.
*******************************
I lay awake at night thinking about what happened. I can still hear their screams. They begged us to stop. They said please. Please stop. Jessie told us to stop. And we killed him. We were a team. We fought for each other. We’d die for each other. Never a day went by where we weren’t together. We were seventeen heroes with seventeen dreams of stars. And now…sixteen men are locked in cells, all alone, and one is buried underground, all alone. We are all alone.
***********************************************
It was Friday night. We won the big game. Of course we were going out to party. What else would we do, stay home and celebrate with our families?
Jason was the ringleader, so we waited for him to give the call and tell us where we were going. And yes, he was the quarterback. What did you expect him to be, a lineman? The quarterback always calls the plays.
We were standing outside the Whirlpool, the most happening club around. It was right outside of town, the only club within forty miles of our small West Pennsylvanian town. It was 21+, but that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter the year before when we won State. People knew us there. They loved us. Who wouldn’t love a champion?
The night was great, wild as usual. We threw money around like crazy and downed beers like it was our job. That night it was. And we were working overtime.
Jessie wasn’t having such a good time though. He said he wasn’t feeling well, had severe stomach cramps. I kind of figured that’s what it was. I mean he didn’t make a move on any girls all night. And with guys like us, it doesn’t take much to ring in the ladies.
So Jessie took off. We all felt bad that he couldn’t party, but that didn’t stop us. We rocked it even harder. The boys were calling out for shots every other minute. It was almost too much.
The party came to an end when Nick puked all over the bar. It was an accident, but the bartender didn’t take too kindly to it. But because we spent so much money there, they asked us kindly to leave.
Nick stumbled out of the club with the grace of a blind toad. We weren’t much better. We were a pack of hyenas, ready to feast upon the town. Although it felt like the town fed on us; our wallets were empty and our stomachs were growling. We hadn’t eaten since after the game.
“Let’s get some fooooood,” Brian groaned. The glazed stare in his red eyes suggested that alcohol wasn’t the only thing he put into his body tonight.
“Yeah,” Robby shouted. “Let’s do it!”
I had never seen anyone get that excited about eating food before. Other than my drunk dead-beat for a father. All he does is eat food. He sits on his ass, watches the game, and shoves garbage down his throat like a damn coon. Nothing good has ever come from him. Nothing.
“Hey Billy, you coming?” Robby’s voice echoed in the still dead of night.
“Yeah, hold up,” I picked up my feet and caught up with the rest of the guys. “Where we going?”
“There’s this great place called…” Jason’s voice trailed off in the dark.
“What?” I looked ahead. “What’s up?”
I turned the corner and saw two men in the alley going at each other. And no, it’s not what you think. They weren’t fighting. They were loving.
“Damn homos!” Jason ran at them, knocking one in the back of the head with his great fist. The others followed his lead and charged at the other man, hollering hateful words as loud as they could. Their actions spoke intolerance, and I despised them for it. But I didn’t do a damn thing to stop them.
I looked on in horror as the entire team, my friends, beat down on these two men. They stomped on their backs and kicked them hard in the stomach. They were a bunch of animals; fifteen ravenous wolves tearing apart two unsuspecting deer.
It was terrible. Every second of that moment I hoped it would end, but it kept going on. These men, who we didn’t even know, were being beaten down without mercy or meaning. And these other men, whom I have grown up with, they were disgusting. To this day, it sickens me to think that I hugged these vile creatures. These…these beasts, were my best friends.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Robby screamed as police sirens wailed in the distance. I would’ve thanked God that they came, but it was too late. Two bodies laid still, facedown in their own fluids. I stared down at them, emotionless, careless.
Behind all the blood and bruises, I could make out one of their faces. I looked closer and studied its features. It was Jessie. We just killed Jessie. Twelve years of friendship and now…I murdered my best friend.
*******************************
I lay awake at night thinking about what happened. I can still hear their screams. They begged us to stop. They said please. Please stop. Jessie told us to stop. And we killed him. We were a team. We fought for each other. We’d die for each other. Never a day went by where we weren’t together. We were seventeen heroes with seventeen dreams of stars. And now…sixteen men are locked in cells, all alone, and one is buried underground, all alone. We are all alone.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Alley of the Shadow of Death
She wanted to find herself. Desperately so, she escaped her comfortable lifestyle, seeking what more life had to offer. She planned to become a writer one day, but writing requires experience. Her previous experiences not worth recounting, she decided to separate herself from everything she knew.
Inspired by Thoreau, she sought isolation. Rather than displacing herself in the woods, she entered the wild world of New York City, where good is bad and bad is good. It was truly no place like home. She quickly embraced the life of sex, drugs, and rock n roll. She heard music could save her soul.
She met a boy who set her heart on fire. Her period of solitude ended. Life seemed right. She no longer lived for herself, she lived for him. Putting her dreams on hold, she welcomed all the debauchery he introduced. She was on a roller coaster ride that never stopped. The world was spinning, but thats how she liked it.
Her life became his. He was her drug of choice. She functioned only on uppers and lost complete awareness of her self. She grew more dependent on him until he broke her heart. He broke her heart, and she lost the pieces. She felt numb; he just moved on. The numbness haunted her until she made a new friend, who gave her a rush and made her heart skip a beat. This friend was constant and never failed to amuse, but the good times didn't last forever.
Life spun out of control, and no longer in the way she enjoyed. She was riding a roller coaster destined to crash, and there was not a thing she could do to stop it. She went out for a good time. She indulged in everything the night life had to offer. She was having the time of her life until her time stopped.
She lied in an alley, her veins cold and sweat dripping down her back. Her body appeared lifeless. Her friend had abandoned her, although still present in spirit. Steam began to rise from the hot asphalt as the rain began. She told me where she would be that night. I felt something wrong. I felt it at my core. I grew panicky.
I looked for over an hour, and there she was. I knelt next to her body, which appeared to be a skeletal version of myself. She was always the thinner one, but I never saw her like this. Mascara ran all the way down to her chin. I thought she was dead so I just held her close to me, as if my body heat could raise her body temperature. I felt the tears streaming down my cheeks even with the pellets of rain attacking my skin. I remember feeling like half of me died that night. That is until she opened her eyes slightly, as if offended by the light coming from the street. She didn't move just looked up at me and said, "I knew you'd come."
Inspired by Thoreau, she sought isolation. Rather than displacing herself in the woods, she entered the wild world of New York City, where good is bad and bad is good. It was truly no place like home. She quickly embraced the life of sex, drugs, and rock n roll. She heard music could save her soul.
She met a boy who set her heart on fire. Her period of solitude ended. Life seemed right. She no longer lived for herself, she lived for him. Putting her dreams on hold, she welcomed all the debauchery he introduced. She was on a roller coaster ride that never stopped. The world was spinning, but thats how she liked it.
Her life became his. He was her drug of choice. She functioned only on uppers and lost complete awareness of her self. She grew more dependent on him until he broke her heart. He broke her heart, and she lost the pieces. She felt numb; he just moved on. The numbness haunted her until she made a new friend, who gave her a rush and made her heart skip a beat. This friend was constant and never failed to amuse, but the good times didn't last forever.
Life spun out of control, and no longer in the way she enjoyed. She was riding a roller coaster destined to crash, and there was not a thing she could do to stop it. She went out for a good time. She indulged in everything the night life had to offer. She was having the time of her life until her time stopped.
She lied in an alley, her veins cold and sweat dripping down her back. Her body appeared lifeless. Her friend had abandoned her, although still present in spirit. Steam began to rise from the hot asphalt as the rain began. She told me where she would be that night. I felt something wrong. I felt it at my core. I grew panicky.
I looked for over an hour, and there she was. I knelt next to her body, which appeared to be a skeletal version of myself. She was always the thinner one, but I never saw her like this. Mascara ran all the way down to her chin. I thought she was dead so I just held her close to me, as if my body heat could raise her body temperature. I felt the tears streaming down my cheeks even with the pellets of rain attacking my skin. I remember feeling like half of me died that night. That is until she opened her eyes slightly, as if offended by the light coming from the street. She didn't move just looked up at me and said, "I knew you'd come."
Thursday, May 1, 2008
As did many of the people who have posted before me, I also chose to focus on "The Girl Who Can." More so, I found Drew's interpretation of the story to be quite interesting. I liked his little league example to show how actions speak louder than words. Just as Kaya learns that words are just words and action is what matters, I too have found that in my own life.
In life everyone has a perceived notion of themselves. Everyone believes that they are a certain type of person with specific values, morals, and personality. We choose words to describe these perceived traits and tend to define ourselves by them. However as Drew has pointed out, words are just words.
The great existentialist thinker Jean-Paul Sartre once was quotes to say, "man is nothing but what he makes of himself." I find that this quote relates very well to the story at hand as well as Drew's example. We can compile list after list of words that we feel accurately describe ourselves but at the end of the day it is our actions that define us. A word is meaningless without an action to prove it. Just as this was shown through the story of "The Girl Who Can" so too is it shown in our everyday lives.
In life everyone has a perceived notion of themselves. Everyone believes that they are a certain type of person with specific values, morals, and personality. We choose words to describe these perceived traits and tend to define ourselves by them. However as Drew has pointed out, words are just words.
The great existentialist thinker Jean-Paul Sartre once was quotes to say, "man is nothing but what he makes of himself." I find that this quote relates very well to the story at hand as well as Drew's example. We can compile list after list of words that we feel accurately describe ourselves but at the end of the day it is our actions that define us. A word is meaningless without an action to prove it. Just as this was shown through the story of "The Girl Who Can" so too is it shown in our everyday lives.
Actions Speak Louder Than Words
In the first story of Vera’s text, “The Girl Who Can” by Aidoo, Adjoa is a young girl who is frustrated with her communication with adults. She gives an example of how when she says something to a grown-up that she’s thought hard about, it backfires and ends up making the grown-up laugh hysterically or forces the adult to admonish Adjoa for what she said. She realizes that it’s useless to do such things, since “neither way of hearing [her] out can encourage [her] to express [her] thoughts too often” (p. 8).
Adjoa seems to be “afflicted” with thin legs. To most people, this doesn’t seem to be a problem, but it always seems to bother her grandmother. To her, thin legs signify infertility and weakness until she realizes that Adjoa is an excellent and fast runner. Adjoa’s grandmother finally realizes that thin legs do have a use and can be seen as a symbol of strength. Further, Adjoa realizes that people “should be able to do other things with legs as well as have them because they can support hips that make babies” (p. 13). She wants to express this to her grandmother, but is “afraid of saying that sort of thing aloud” (p. 13). She finally appreciates the fact that it is better to have acted it out to show them than to have said it aloud.
This sort of story reminds me of the saying “actions speak louder than words” and is something that I’m sure many people try to live by. I’ve run into many situations where acting would have been so much more useful than saying something. I can remember playing little league as a kid and always hearing my friends say how much they were going to beat my team by, not believing that my team was just as good. Instead of returning the trash talk, I simply went out on the field with my teammates and showed my opponents how good we were - good enough to win the city championship that year. This instance and many others have taught me that action in life is much more prosperous than words, and I’m sure Kaya learned something similar in her situation.
Adjoa seems to be “afflicted” with thin legs. To most people, this doesn’t seem to be a problem, but it always seems to bother her grandmother. To her, thin legs signify infertility and weakness until she realizes that Adjoa is an excellent and fast runner. Adjoa’s grandmother finally realizes that thin legs do have a use and can be seen as a symbol of strength. Further, Adjoa realizes that people “should be able to do other things with legs as well as have them because they can support hips that make babies” (p. 13). She wants to express this to her grandmother, but is “afraid of saying that sort of thing aloud” (p. 13). She finally appreciates the fact that it is better to have acted it out to show them than to have said it aloud.
This sort of story reminds me of the saying “actions speak louder than words” and is something that I’m sure many people try to live by. I’ve run into many situations where acting would have been so much more useful than saying something. I can remember playing little league as a kid and always hearing my friends say how much they were going to beat my team by, not believing that my team was just as good. Instead of returning the trash talk, I simply went out on the field with my teammates and showed my opponents how good we were - good enough to win the city championship that year. This instance and many others have taught me that action in life is much more prosperous than words, and I’m sure Kaya learned something similar in her situation.
"Stress"
This story by Lilia Momple shows the unforeseen consequences that actions can have. The characters all seem to be unknowingly linked. It is interesting how one chain of events can set off something entirely different and the motives of the characters are often unknown or misinterpreted. The major-general's lover who is never actually named is content with her flat but yearns for the attention of the teacher who lives in a crowded apartment across from her. In fact she gets dressed up and sits outside her verandah hoping that he will notice her. To her this is only a simple game created out of boredom however his lack of attention deeply frustrates her. The teacher's life was basically a continual struggle against poverty while retaining some of his dignity. Listening to football and drinking beer on Sunday afternoons is his only oasis from his stressful life. The major-general's lover has no idea how difficult and cruel the teacher's life is and the teacher has no idea how much distress he is causing her.
It is ironic that they can both live next door to each other yet their lives are so different. However, they are both unhappy but they suffer in different ways. The descriptions of the major-general and the teacher are vastly different. The major-general has given way to an unbridled desire to experience the finer things in life and has become rather large. He has a dull coldness about him. The teacher has thin nervous hands and look of melancholy that permeates from his face. The major general represents european imperialism and his mulatto lover is beholdened to him. However, she longs for the affections of the African teacher.
The ending of this story is very shocking. The teacher kills his wife in cold blood and says that he is unable to live anymore. The chilling matter in which he kills his wife is appalling but to the teacher it makes sense. His life had become so bad that he did not care anymore. It is as if the teacher has regressed to a very simplistic state because he cannot tolerate the realities of his world.
It is ironic that they can both live next door to each other yet their lives are so different. However, they are both unhappy but they suffer in different ways. The descriptions of the major-general and the teacher are vastly different. The major-general has given way to an unbridled desire to experience the finer things in life and has become rather large. He has a dull coldness about him. The teacher has thin nervous hands and look of melancholy that permeates from his face. The major general represents european imperialism and his mulatto lover is beholdened to him. However, she longs for the affections of the African teacher.
The ending of this story is very shocking. The teacher kills his wife in cold blood and says that he is unable to live anymore. The chilling matter in which he kills his wife is appalling but to the teacher it makes sense. His life had become so bad that he did not care anymore. It is as if the teacher has regressed to a very simplistic state because he cannot tolerate the realities of his world.
The Girl Who Can
Like Meg and Jess I want to focus on "The Girl Who Can". I found the child narrator to be far more insightful than the other characters throughout the story. Jess definitely brought me back to the days of critical theory in mentioning Foucault (forgive my spelling). After reading her post I too was reminded of his theory regarding child sexuality.
I think, however, Ama Ata Aidoo challenges this stereotype perpetuated by her grandmother. Although her legs are seen through the grandmother's eyes as symbols relating to child birth - supposedly a woman's main and, sometimes, only, function, Ama can do more with them.
This child-like awareness, which I believe Meg also mentioned, is an astute commentary. Thinking back to my own childhood I realize that I was probably also more aware of things than my parents realized. It reminded me of a story where a mother was spelling out something to an older child trying to conceal it from the younger. Unbeknownst to the mother, however, the younger child was able to discern the surprise through spelling. It seems silly, but its just a small anecdote proving that children are often underestimated in their intuition.
I, like Meg, do see the connection between childhood influences and later outcomes. I took Ama's story in a broader context, though, and thought of not just her grandmother's comments about her legs, but, in general, children's retention of events from childhood. This deals more with psychology to me so I won't go in more detail. But, overall, I found this story extremely engaging on multiple levels.
I think, however, Ama Ata Aidoo challenges this stereotype perpetuated by her grandmother. Although her legs are seen through the grandmother's eyes as symbols relating to child birth - supposedly a woman's main and, sometimes, only, function, Ama can do more with them.
This child-like awareness, which I believe Meg also mentioned, is an astute commentary. Thinking back to my own childhood I realize that I was probably also more aware of things than my parents realized. It reminded me of a story where a mother was spelling out something to an older child trying to conceal it from the younger. Unbeknownst to the mother, however, the younger child was able to discern the surprise through spelling. It seems silly, but its just a small anecdote proving that children are often underestimated in their intuition.
I, like Meg, do see the connection between childhood influences and later outcomes. I took Ama's story in a broader context, though, and thought of not just her grandmother's comments about her legs, but, in general, children's retention of events from childhood. This deals more with psychology to me so I won't go in more detail. But, overall, I found this story extremely engaging on multiple levels.
The Girl Who Can
I believe that The Girl Who Can portrays many lessons that are useful to one at any age. In the beginning Adjoa is laughed at or stared at when she finally is able to express her thoughts. I believe that this happens to everyone when they are a child, and when they feel they have said something important or are genuinely interested in something, an older person shoots them down and makes them feel that what they have said is useless. Also this situation continues to happen many times throughout our childhood and adulthood, in which we have thoughts in our head but have trouble expressing them. I also feel that the most important lesson Ada teaches us in her short story, is that anyone of any age can teach someone else a lesson. Adoja's mother and grandmother thought they knew everything about Adjoa and how useless her legs were, but Adjoa proved them wrong by running and winning races, and teaches them that legs are not just useful for one purpose. I believe this is important because many adults feel that they know everything, and disregard things they believe to be wrong, but in reality can be taught a lesson by someone of any age. I believe adults should keep their eyes and mind open to experiences of younger adults or children, and see what they can learn from them.
The Girl Who Can
I liked all of the short stories that we read from the modern African writers, but I thought that the first story, by Ama Ata Aidoo was the one that was most interesting. I thought that the way that she wrote was really relatable because she focused on describing exactly how someone would actually feel and talk if they were the girl in the story. When the girl talked about how confused she was about what she should say and what she shouldn't for fear of getting yelled or laughed at, I thought that was a good insight, because I think thats how a child would really feel in the situation. The dialogue between the mother and the grandmother was really interesting too, and i like how she included in the story that the girl could understand the tension between her grandmother and her mother even if she didn't really know what they were talking about. I think that a lot of the time people forget how much kids can actually pick up on and that could lead to a lot of problems. Kids are a lot more aware of whats going on around them than adults give them credit for, I thought that the author of Geographies of Home really showed this too when she was talking about Iliana as a child.
What I liked most about the story was how the girl was able to find something that she was really good at from what other people might have viewed as a flaw. While her grandmother only saw her legs as a sign that she wouldn't be able to bear children well, other people recognized the talent that she could have as a runner because of this perceived deficiency. I thought that was a really good message, and it made me think of how many opportunities people must lose because they might be discouraged from doing something when they are younger because people don't think its acceptable or good for them to do. The fact that the girl in the story was so young and naive but could still understand how at first how disparaging her grandmother was of her legs and then at the end how proud she was of them shows how something so small can really influence somebody when they are young.
What I liked most about the story was how the girl was able to find something that she was really good at from what other people might have viewed as a flaw. While her grandmother only saw her legs as a sign that she wouldn't be able to bear children well, other people recognized the talent that she could have as a runner because of this perceived deficiency. I thought that was a really good message, and it made me think of how many opportunities people must lose because they might be discouraged from doing something when they are younger because people don't think its acceptable or good for them to do. The fact that the girl in the story was so young and naive but could still understand how at first how disparaging her grandmother was of her legs and then at the end how proud she was of them shows how something so small can really influence somebody when they are young.
A Different Sort of Stress
I too chose to write about "Stress" although when I initially read it I did not necessarily focus on the palpable stress experienced by the characters mentioned by the narrator. To me the stress of the narrative seemed to emanate from the Major General's lover through her every compensating ritual that is described. Although the short story describes the flat in which she lives in great detail, the ornate and expensive finishings, furniture, and foods, I think that the major general's lover is truly not happy when she looks upon the room "that is composed solely of objects that belong to her." To me the lover is fully aware of the fact that the General has a whole other life and that she is merely an object of his sexual desire and is only kept in a nice apartment such that she can be ready for him whenever he likes. Her careful attention to making herself up, putting on nice clothes, and donning perfume, is just a way to delude herself into believing that she is in fact seperate from the atrocities that surround her. Interestingly enough, none of the elements mentioned by the narrator can truly be said to belong to the major general's lover because the tumultuous society described by the narrative dictates that all of those possessions are transitive. Despite being involved with his mistress for a number of years, the Major General could easily move on and find someone else, not to mention be stripped of his military rank and power at any time due to the society's instability.
The setting itself was enough to make me antsy and slightly stressed as I read through the short story. The notion that perhaps millions of people are constantly at risk of being murdered, raped, and mutilated at any time seems unreal. The instance of an old man who was decapitated just because he could not respond quickly enough to a demand for food is simply tragic. The stress then becomes inherent within the lifestyles of all people who live in unstable areas of the world. The elderly, women, and children are not even spared by the vicious appetites of those seeking power through violence and oppression.
To be honest it is hard to think about a situation where I will ever truly feel proud of humanity in general, even in the modern age because horrible events like that unfold every day and not just in Africa. While not as severe as the decapitation of an old and innocent man the stress felt by the teacher observed by the Major General's lover is even more prevalent, where you have a relatively young person with the weight of an entire family upon his shoulders. It really puts things in perspective to think about familial responsibilities in my own life, such as thinking about the care and love that my parents will someday need from my brothers and I. This sort of care is something people usually regard as a heavy load or a grave responsibility. Here I sit in college as a 22 year old person and my parents are still supporting me in every conceivable way, let alone someone like me having to provide for 2o + individuals. Although I would never condone any sort of violence against any other human, its not hard to see how that sort of stress could lead some people to feel hopeless and unstable.
-CK
The setting itself was enough to make me antsy and slightly stressed as I read through the short story. The notion that perhaps millions of people are constantly at risk of being murdered, raped, and mutilated at any time seems unreal. The instance of an old man who was decapitated just because he could not respond quickly enough to a demand for food is simply tragic. The stress then becomes inherent within the lifestyles of all people who live in unstable areas of the world. The elderly, women, and children are not even spared by the vicious appetites of those seeking power through violence and oppression.
To be honest it is hard to think about a situation where I will ever truly feel proud of humanity in general, even in the modern age because horrible events like that unfold every day and not just in Africa. While not as severe as the decapitation of an old and innocent man the stress felt by the teacher observed by the Major General's lover is even more prevalent, where you have a relatively young person with the weight of an entire family upon his shoulders. It really puts things in perspective to think about familial responsibilities in my own life, such as thinking about the care and love that my parents will someday need from my brothers and I. This sort of care is something people usually regard as a heavy load or a grave responsibility. Here I sit in college as a 22 year old person and my parents are still supporting me in every conceivable way, let alone someone like me having to provide for 2o + individuals. Although I would never condone any sort of violence against any other human, its not hard to see how that sort of stress could lead some people to feel hopeless and unstable.
-CK
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