Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Misc. Post 8
I wonder if I can write two hundred and fifty words in four minutes. I highly doubt it, and it is evident that I'm going to fail this assignment anyway, but one extra point can't do any harm. So here goes. My name is Pat Loup. I was born in Baton Rouge, Louisiana on Sunday, November eighth, nineteen hundred and ninety two. I grew up in the suburbs of Baton Rouge and in the country outside the city. I split time growing up between my grandparents' house and the house that my parents lived in in the country. When I was six years old, I moved to Lima, Ohio for the first time. I then moved all over Ohio before moving back to Baton Rouge and then to Hurley, Mississippi. I moved back to Lima again, and then back to Baton Rouge. Eventually, after moving several more times, I moved back to Lima and stayed throughout high school before moving to coastal Mississippi for college and then back to Lima after a year of college. Now I attend class at Rhodes State College.
The Secondhand Bookseller Reader Response
<p> This passage from Marina Nemat's book Prisoner of Tehran dealt with a young girl finding a new world literary enjoyment. The story opened well and started strong with the help of the introduction.
<p> I felt that the story that Nemat told was very engaging and full of feeling. Her description of things such as the used bookstore and the bookseller himself added greatly to the story. The way she presented her home life and the way her parents interacted with her added to her personal character development. She could have simply told us what it was like growing up as a bookish girl in Tehran but she instead made an effort and showed us what it was like.
I found the story entertaining and somewhat sad. It reminded me of the Kite Runner both in setting and mood. The introduction added a foreboding feeling knowing that the author would be sentenced to prison for speaking out against government ideas.
Her use of dialogue also added to the story and, thanks to her description of the book seller, was very powerful.
<p> I felt that the story that Nemat told was very engaging and full of feeling. Her description of things such as the used bookstore and the bookseller himself added greatly to the story. The way she presented her home life and the way her parents interacted with her added to her personal character development. She could have simply told us what it was like growing up as a bookish girl in Tehran but she instead made an effort and showed us what it was like.
I found the story entertaining and somewhat sad. It reminded me of the Kite Runner both in setting and mood. The introduction added a foreboding feeling knowing that the author would be sentenced to prison for speaking out against government ideas.
Her use of dialogue also added to the story and, thanks to her description of the book seller, was very powerful.
Miscellaneous Post 7
This story has not been completed. It is a work in progress that I began after taking a break from the single-character story. I began writing stories with many characters and then took a break from that to get back to my roots by writing a character with one main character.
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Lost
We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through
our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're
not alone.
- Orson Welles
She was
invisible, curled up beneath a pile of leaves. Only the seldom passing animal
may have caught the scent of something out of the ordinary. As if to signify
change, a stiff breeze blew over the leaves, uncovering her position. In her
sleep, she shivered. It would be nightfall again before she woke up.
The woods
around her were all black. She opened her eyes while still lying down and saw a
tilted view of the land around her. She righted herself and immediately
realized she was somewhere unfamiliar. She turned her head, looking around for
something recognizable but saw only blackness. The pale moonlight was the only
thing that afforded her a faint glimpse of the trees very nearby. Slowly, she
stood, the leaves crackling under her. In the distance, she thought she saw a
shimmer in the moonlight though it was gone as soon as she saw it. From her
leafy indentation in the ground, she went straight forward. After she had
walked five hundred feet, she again thought she saw a shimmer in the distance. Following
the direction she thought it went, she turned to the right and saw a faint
yellow light far off in the distance. She followed it, drawing slowly closer
only to watch it grow smaller and then move further to the right. She turned
again to follow it. As she was almost close enough to touch it, it again changed
places and distances. Determined to catch it, she took off running.
Condensation puffs were coming out of her mouth, and until then she hadn’t
realized how cold it was. She could see the yellow spot. It was close; close
enough to touch. She dove at it but it disappeared and she hit the ground on
her stomach, sliding into the indentation that she had woken up in. As her body
cooled down after she had stopped running, she began shivering. She pulled her
brown jacket closer around her but it was too thin to repel the cold forest
air. She crawled back into the indentation and pulled the leaves on top of her.
She looked up into the tree that stood behind the indentation and again saw the
barely visible shimmer. She closed her eyes and noticed the deep earthy smell
of the leaves and ground around her. As she was nearing sleep, she felt
something fall on top of her – something heavy. She jumped up and scrambled,
shedding away any tired feelings she may have had. She couldn’t see what had
fallen on her but in the distance, she heard a voice. It was barely audible but
she did hear it.
“It’s okay. It’s safe to go back over, I assure you.”
She began to frantically look around, seeking out the origin
of the voice. A vestigial part of her brain told her the sound was coming from
behind her. She turned around only to see a large tree. She looked around it
only to see dark endless forest.
“I’m sorry to say that you won’t find me, but I mean you no
harm. Go on, back to your spot. There’s something there you’ll want.”
She walked back over to the indentation and saw a large
brown clump lying where she had been. She poked at it with her foot and it gave
way. She picked it up, seeing in the darkness that it was a thicker dark brown
coat. She shook it off and then shrugged off her jacket to replace it with the
coat.
“There you go. Sleep now and we’ll see what tomorrow has to
give us.”
She felt tired despite having woken up just a short time
ago. She lay down and quickly drifted off to sleep.
When she
awoke, the sun was just coming up. She looked around again and saw that she was
still in the forest. It was much thicker and deeper than she had thought the
night before. Again, the voice spoke to her from nowhere.
“I see you’re up. Good. Time to get going; it’s going to get
very cold here soon.”
She stood up and immediately felt a stiff breeze blow
against her.
“You’re going to want to follow the wind. It will show you
the way.”
She turned and started walking with the wind to her back as
she buttoned the coat. As she was walking, she saw that the forest seemed to go
on forever. There was no visible thinning out of the trees. She stopped walking
and began looking around. She couldn’t see anyone, not even the shimmer she had
seen in the forest the night before. The wind was still blowing and seemed to
get stronger the longer she stood there, to the point that she was almost
buckling under its force. The voice was as clear as it had been back by the
indentation in the ground.
“Come on. I had told you it was going to get worse if we
stayed.”
She turned to face the voice. Her voice was almost
completely lost to the wind.
“Who are you? Wh-where are you? Where am I?”
The wind changed direction, blowing with the same strength
into her back.
“So you do have a voice. Use the strength it took to speak
to me and keep moving. Go on, same way you’ve been going.”
She stood with her back to the wind, placing a foot in front
of her and bracing herself.
“I won’t move until you tell me something.”
“Hmm…I can tell you that it’s snowing.”
She looked around to see specks of white whipping past her.
“It’s only going to get worse the longer you stand here. The
snow will only get heavier, the winds will only get harsher, and the
temperature will continue to drop. Think of how much time you’ve already
wasted.”
She put her head down and stamped her foot onto the ground
to get a better footing.
“NO! Tell me what I asked! Where am I? Who are you?”
She had yelled, and with her back to the wind her voice was
much clearer.
The voice that had been talking to her changed. It was no
longer stern and emotionless but instead warm and hearty.
“Now, now, I can provide you with these answers and more
when you get to where you need to be. That place you need to be is down off of
this mountain and out of the snowstorm that’s about to hit. You don’t want to
be up here when the snow really starts falling.”
She looked around again, looking for the shimmer but saw
nothing but driving snow and bending trees.
She turned
around and continued walking in the direction she had been going. The wind
seemed to have let up slightly but the snow kept falling. It had created a ring
of glare around the sun which she could see a small bit more of through the
trees. The forest was thinning out with every dozen steps. She could see bright
sunlight and blue sky far from where she stood at what appeared to be the end
of the woods. She tried to run but the wind pushed her back as she lifted her
feet off the ground. She pushed harder as she walked and sped up. When she
could finally see the light through the trees, she looked out to see low
ground. As she got to the end of the forest, she looked out at low grassland
covered in yellow flowers just below a two hundred foot drop.
She heard the voice again, the warm
voice that made her feel strangely comfortable.
“You’re going to have to slide.”
The drop wasn’t vertical and it was also snow-covered. She
looked down at the steep white incline and looked behind her. The view behind
her receded back into dark forest slowly being taken over by snow. She again
looked down to the bottom of the drop. The snow ended and turned to hill. She
would have to tuck and roll upon hitting the grass hillside. She took one last
look into the forest before jumping. She hit the snow that covered the hillside
and slid halfway down before abruptly going onto the grass. It wasn’t as smooth
as the snow had been and she quickly shifted sideways before tumbling the rest
of the way down. As the terrain leveled out, she bounced harshly upward before
coming to rest by a small stream. She looked around for only a moment before
blacking out.
Miscellaneous Post 6
I wrote this short story this summer. The idea came to me when I thought about what it would be like if the characters I created came into the real world.
Between the Pages
Tomas stepped into the eerily quiet apartment, alert to
intruders. The door had been kicked in and the desk just inside the door had
been gone through. From the kitchen, a small tomato rolled through the archway.
Tomas grabbed the candlestick which had been knocked over on the desk and was
about to mount the stairs when he heard the shot. It was a pistol, from the
upstairs bedroom; Clara, his daughter. Tomas raced up the stairs and barreled
through Clara’s door. Over her lifeless body stood a man. He immediately looked
up to see Tomas holding the candlestick. The man raised the pistol and aimed it
at Tomas. The hammer was back. He pulled the trigger.
I stopped typing. A noise had startled me from my authorial haze, that feeling a writer gets when so engrossed in whatever it is they’re writing. A thud had came from the kitchen, as if a large sack of flour had been dropped from a short height. A rolled away from my computer and went to investigate. There was nobody home and I wasn’t expecting anyone. When I stepped into the kitchen doorway, it was then that I saw him leaning over the sink. He was about six feet tall with combed back dark brown hair. He was dressed in a nice grey overcoat and black dress pants. I noticed something red dripping down the counter. It was a dark crimson color; blood. I asked the obvious question, the only thing I could think to ask,
“Who are you? Where did you come from?”
He turned and faced me. His white oxford shirt was brilliant save for the spreading dark red stain on the right side of his abdomen. He had been drained of most of his color. He managed only three and a half words before collapsing onto the floor,
“My name is To...”
I struggled getting him into a fireman’s carry but when I finally succeeded, I rushed him out to my car. He came to slightly in the car, enough to ask where we were. After that, he passed out again.
At the hospital, I waved down an emergency nurse who ran hurried to get us a wheelchair. At registration, they asked him for his identification. He pulled his wallet out of his left coat pocket and handed it to them. The nurse at the desk opened it and asked him
“This is a French driver’s license. Your name is Tomas Rougir?”
My mind stopped. This was a dream. I had been writing all day, since morning. It must have been six o’clock in the evening. I had fallen asleep at my desk and this was all a dream. I had been so engrossed in Tomas’ story that I had begun dreaming about it. This wasn’t possible. I turned to walk out of the emergency waiting room. I heard somebody yell ‘Stop him!’ and an armed security guard grabbed my arm. I shrugged it off, assured that it was a dream. The guard wrestled me to the ground and drew his pistol, pointing it at me. I went again to stand and walk out. Another guard struck me in the stomach with his baton and I hit the floor. I wasn’t dreaming.
The police were called since Tomas had a gunshot wound. I told them that I didn’t own a gun but all they could get from Tomas was that his daughter had been murdered. Clara. She had been shot by a burglar who I created. She was as much my daughter as she was Tomas’ daughter and I had allowed her to be killed. Tomas had been hit by a bullet that I created fired from a gun I penned. When they finally got through to him enough to ask if it was me who shot him, he said it wasn’t. He said that the man who did was still in Paris, probably selling whatever he stole from the apartment. The doctors and police wondered how a man with a gunshot wound which had bled as much as it did made it from Paris to Washington without dying. It was improbable. I couldn’t tell them the truth. With the bleeding stopped and Tomas stitched and bandaged, they tried to find out more about him. He had no passport and no record with the French government. Tomas Rougir did not exist. His drivers license was a very well-made fake. With no real and verifiable identity to speak of, nothing could be done with him. He was turned loose as he persistently said that it was not me that shot him. He shambled back to the car. It was then he asked me,
“Who are you?”
I could either tell him who I was and with that, every last detail of his entire life, essentially rendering his pseudo-existence meaningless and me his ultimate creator, or I could lie. I lied.
“I’m Michael Wolf. I’m a writer. You’re...Tomas?”
I knew everything there was to know about Tomas. When I had first written him, he was 17 and a kid without a care. At 22, he married a beautiful girl with dark hair and grey eyes but her lack of care for the relationship was what finally drove it apart after two years. Out of the tumultuous relationship came Tomas’ one reason for living; Clara. And Clara was beautiful. From her mother, she got her dark hair and fair skin. From her father she received her love of reading and an ability to connect with people. Through the occasional unpredictability of genetics, she got violet eyes.
Tomas had graduated from the University of Paris with a Master’s degree in history, though he had never really done anything with it. He came from a fairly well-off family and had been coasting on a family trust since he turned 18. He picked up substitute teaching jobs now and again but was content to stay home with Clara more often. He and Clara had been together since he received custody of her when she was two years old. That was twelve years ago.
Tomas replied to the question I already knew the answer to,
“Yes. My name is Tomas Rougir. How did I end up in your kitchen?”
“I’m not sure. I was writing when I heard a thud in my kitchen. I went to investigate and found you there bleeding.”
I made the mistake of asking the next question.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
Tomas’ breathing changed. His breath became shallow and spread out.
“I came home. The apartment had been ransacked and...Clara. She was upstairs. That was when I heard the shot. I ran up and burst into her room. That was...when I saw him. Standing over her with the gun. There was blood on the bed and wall and...”
Until then, I hadn’t seen things through Tomas’ eyes. I had envisioned what would make a good story, what would be compelling, not what the result would be if my character was presented to me in living and breathing reality. Tomas continued.
“He turned to me, standing there with a candlestick in my hand, and pointed the gun at me. After that, I barely remember the shot. And then I was in your house.”
Clara was dead. Tomas was not. We had arrived back at the house.
Tomas sat down on the sofa and took his wallet out of his pocket. In it was a small photograph of a girl with a hair the color of black coffee in a pixie cut and eyes like morning glories. He sat staring at the photograph, trembling. I went to the kitchen and used a wet rag on the blood, though there wasn’t much. I pulled a porkchop from the refrigerator and put in in the microwave for a handful of seconds. I went to take it to Tomas but he wasn’t sitting on the sofa anymore. I walked down the hall and checked the bathroom and both guest bedrooms. The last room I checked, the one room I hoped he wouldn’t enter, was where I found him; my office. I hadn’t minimized my work. All the stories about Tomas were in one file, which was still open. Tomas was reading the last line of the latest story:
The man raised the pistol and aimed it at Tomas.
Tomas looked at me. He had read snippets of the other stories. He had read things that only he would know. He knew this because I knew this. Tomas realized who he was, that he was a figment of my imagination. It was the only explanation, logical or not. Tomas had never met me before and I had never met him because he was a literary character.
“You took everything from me.”
I took a notepad and pen from my pocket and wrote:
‘Before the two men, a young girl with short hair and violet eyes materialized. She stood alive and full of health with the sweetest of smiles upon her face. Clara.’
I looked at the floor between us. Nothing happened. Clara didn’t appear. Tomas asked what I was doing and I handed him the notepad.
“I tried...I’m sorry.”
Tomas threw down the notepad and it fluttered to a page where I had drawn a sketch of a daffodil.
“You tried and succeeded at fabricating the existence of a now-very real human being. You tried and succeeded at killing my daughter. Get to your computer and set to rendering me lifeless. Drop me off on the surface of the sun. Whatever it takes, writer, just end my suffering.”
It dawned on me that Tomas was feeling like less than nothing. I had created and destroyed his entire world in a handful of keystrokes.
Tomas stood and walked out of the room. I heard the front door open and close. I looked down at the notepad, open to the doodle of the daffodil. I sat down at my computer and thought of the various ways I could try to bring Clara back. I began typing,
‘Clara awoke, completely unharmed by the burglar. The burglar himself had since fled the apartment. Clara felt herself transported into another world; the world in which the creator of her story world resided. She appeared before him, fully aware of her once fictional life.’
I looked beside myself, awaiting the familiar thud of her arrival. Nothing happened. I went to get Tomas. He was outside, standing beneath a tree in my backyard looking up through the branches at the sky.
“How many stories have you written about me alone? I saw the books on your bookshelf. All of them had to do with me. ‘The Violet Child’ was all about Clara. A New York Times bestseller too. I suppose I should be proud of her but it’s your work. How many other lives have you created? How many people have you killed?”
“I tried again to bring her back but nothing happened. Don’t make it seem like I don’t care. I never expected any of this to happen. This isn’t even possible but look where we are. I feel just as bad as you. In a way, Clara was my daughter too. Read ‘The Violet Child’ and you’ll see. I poured a year and a half into making her the sweetest person on earth and three hundred million people fell in love with her.”
Tomas looked at me with what almost looked like a smile.
“That’s not what I asked you writer. I asked you how many people you’ve killed.”
I didn’t want to answer. A lot of the stories I had written in my free time, just for fun involved nuclear war and the earth being destroyed by alien lifeforms. I couldn’t tell him an exact number and I didn’t want to give him an estimate.
“B-billions. If every single person in your world was alive then...”
“They were. Adalbert Grumman was a brilliant man until he was assassinated.”
Adalbert Grumman was a college professor turned senate candidate. He had taught at the University of Paris when Tomas was there, but in none of my stories had they ever interacted, they merely existed in the same fictional universe.
“So billions. How many of them that you killed did you give consideration to, like you did Clara and Adalbert? How was I going to die?”
I had never planned to kill Tomas. He was my flagship character though in a number of occasions he had faced death.
“Several. Maybe six counting Adalbert and Clara. And you. Remember when the building collapsed with you in it? And you made it out alright.”
“I made it out alright but twelve other people didn’t. Twelve people died. And my ex wife. What about her? Were you going to kill her too?”
Compared to Clara and Tomas, Fabienne received little development. Hardly any really; she was only in one book and that began with her and Tomas meeting and ended with their divorce. She was apparently still alive.
“No. Her part in the story ended and...”
“Did it? Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Clara would have liked to see her mother? That she may have wanted to spend more time with her? It didn’t because if I were just some regular family man, my life wouldn’t have made you rich, would it?”
Tomas picked up a piece of a tree branch which had broken into an eight-inch piece and threw it at me. I was absorbing what he had said when one of its ends hit me in the chest. It knocked me back, and as I realized what had happened, Tomas had the front of my shirt in his hands. He had lifted me eight inches in the air and threw me to the ground. His voice lost its sadness and gained in anger.
“Your wordcraft has real-world implications, writer. Do something about it.”
It was then that Tomas grabbed his abdomen where he had been shot. His stitches ripped and a new patch of red was spreading on his shirt. I stood up and held my hand out to him, wanting to guide him back to the car and hospital. He at first refused, but then looked down at his wound and took my hand. We walked through the side yard and down the hill to the car. Tomas was still wearing the blood-stained shirt he arrived in.
When we arrived at the hospital, they were quick to stitch Tomas back up. I again handed the financial spokesperson my credit card and signed away some bewildering amount of money. Tomas hadn’t seen me do this the first time but he saw it this time.
“You just...why?”
Even in his story world, he was aware that American healthcare costs were high. That may or may not have been in one of the stories, I can’t recall.
“You’re what’s kept me alive for the past sixteen years. If you die, I die. It’s only fair.”
That was true as well. The advances and royalties I had received for the books I’d written about Tomas were what had put me in the economic standing I was currently in. What I had told Tomas about Clara was true. Her feature book, The Violet Child, had spent 14 weeks atop the New York Times bestseller list and sold something like 250 million copies. It flew off of the shelves and got passed around among friends. An hour in an emergency room and Tomas was re-stitched and bandaged. I looked at him. He was a wreck. His once-stark white shirt had a roughly circular bloodstain on it that, if he were to lay the shirt flat, would have been two feet in diameter. His overcoat had a similar stain though not as dark or wide. His slacks also had lines of stained blood on them as well. His dark hair had become tousled from its original combed-back style.
We drove back toward the house but instead of going back home, I pulled into the mall. Tomas at first refused to go in, citing his dirty appearance, but he relented and followed me in. It was then I realized it was essentially me who had dressed him since his creation. He had always been wearing smart clothing: button-down shirts, nice slacks, and good shoes. Inside one of the clothing stores, he saw theme t-shirts and jeans. He looked down at his attire.
“Oxfords and khakis. That’s all I’ve ever worn isn’t it? And these shoes. These incredibly uncomfortable shoes.”
It was all he had ever worn. It never occurred to me to change his appearance every so often but now I knew how he felt. He took a dark purple shirt with a white screen-printed dragon on the front off of a rack and handed it to me. Then he went to the wall of jeans and took a pair of faded stonewashed down. He then walked over to a table full of shoes. He looked down at his faded and worn black leather dress shoes. They looked as if they were fifteen years old by the wear on the soles, though the uppers were still in fair condition. He grabbed a pair of bright blue Converse All-Stars.
When we got back to the car, Tomas looked at me and then looked down and away. He turned his face back to mine and told me,
“You didn’t know. How could you have known? You were doing your job. And like you said, at least she brought joy to millions of people. It’s what she would have wanted.”
We got back to the house and Tomas made it inside before I did. I had stopped because of something I hadn’t seen when we left. In the yard by the sidewalk leading to the front door was a single daisy, the flower of purity and innocence; the flower of Clara. Inside, Tomas had settled down. He was flipping through The Violet Child. Within was most of Clara’s life and a slice-of-life view of her and her father’s daily doings. Tomas let out a soft chuckle.
I stopped typing. A noise had startled me from my authorial haze, that feeling a writer gets when so engrossed in whatever it is they’re writing. A thud had came from the kitchen, as if a large sack of flour had been dropped from a short height. A rolled away from my computer and went to investigate. There was nobody home and I wasn’t expecting anyone. When I stepped into the kitchen doorway, it was then that I saw him leaning over the sink. He was about six feet tall with combed back dark brown hair. He was dressed in a nice grey overcoat and black dress pants. I noticed something red dripping down the counter. It was a dark crimson color; blood. I asked the obvious question, the only thing I could think to ask,
“Who are you? Where did you come from?”
He turned and faced me. His white oxford shirt was brilliant save for the spreading dark red stain on the right side of his abdomen. He had been drained of most of his color. He managed only three and a half words before collapsing onto the floor,
“My name is To...”
I struggled getting him into a fireman’s carry but when I finally succeeded, I rushed him out to my car. He came to slightly in the car, enough to ask where we were. After that, he passed out again.
At the hospital, I waved down an emergency nurse who ran hurried to get us a wheelchair. At registration, they asked him for his identification. He pulled his wallet out of his left coat pocket and handed it to them. The nurse at the desk opened it and asked him
“This is a French driver’s license. Your name is Tomas Rougir?”
My mind stopped. This was a dream. I had been writing all day, since morning. It must have been six o’clock in the evening. I had fallen asleep at my desk and this was all a dream. I had been so engrossed in Tomas’ story that I had begun dreaming about it. This wasn’t possible. I turned to walk out of the emergency waiting room. I heard somebody yell ‘Stop him!’ and an armed security guard grabbed my arm. I shrugged it off, assured that it was a dream. The guard wrestled me to the ground and drew his pistol, pointing it at me. I went again to stand and walk out. Another guard struck me in the stomach with his baton and I hit the floor. I wasn’t dreaming.
The police were called since Tomas had a gunshot wound. I told them that I didn’t own a gun but all they could get from Tomas was that his daughter had been murdered. Clara. She had been shot by a burglar who I created. She was as much my daughter as she was Tomas’ daughter and I had allowed her to be killed. Tomas had been hit by a bullet that I created fired from a gun I penned. When they finally got through to him enough to ask if it was me who shot him, he said it wasn’t. He said that the man who did was still in Paris, probably selling whatever he stole from the apartment. The doctors and police wondered how a man with a gunshot wound which had bled as much as it did made it from Paris to Washington without dying. It was improbable. I couldn’t tell them the truth. With the bleeding stopped and Tomas stitched and bandaged, they tried to find out more about him. He had no passport and no record with the French government. Tomas Rougir did not exist. His drivers license was a very well-made fake. With no real and verifiable identity to speak of, nothing could be done with him. He was turned loose as he persistently said that it was not me that shot him. He shambled back to the car. It was then he asked me,
“Who are you?”
I could either tell him who I was and with that, every last detail of his entire life, essentially rendering his pseudo-existence meaningless and me his ultimate creator, or I could lie. I lied.
“I’m Michael Wolf. I’m a writer. You’re...Tomas?”
I knew everything there was to know about Tomas. When I had first written him, he was 17 and a kid without a care. At 22, he married a beautiful girl with dark hair and grey eyes but her lack of care for the relationship was what finally drove it apart after two years. Out of the tumultuous relationship came Tomas’ one reason for living; Clara. And Clara was beautiful. From her mother, she got her dark hair and fair skin. From her father she received her love of reading and an ability to connect with people. Through the occasional unpredictability of genetics, she got violet eyes.
Tomas had graduated from the University of Paris with a Master’s degree in history, though he had never really done anything with it. He came from a fairly well-off family and had been coasting on a family trust since he turned 18. He picked up substitute teaching jobs now and again but was content to stay home with Clara more often. He and Clara had been together since he received custody of her when she was two years old. That was twelve years ago.
Tomas replied to the question I already knew the answer to,
“Yes. My name is Tomas Rougir. How did I end up in your kitchen?”
“I’m not sure. I was writing when I heard a thud in my kitchen. I went to investigate and found you there bleeding.”
I made the mistake of asking the next question.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
Tomas’ breathing changed. His breath became shallow and spread out.
“I came home. The apartment had been ransacked and...Clara. She was upstairs. That was when I heard the shot. I ran up and burst into her room. That was...when I saw him. Standing over her with the gun. There was blood on the bed and wall and...”
Until then, I hadn’t seen things through Tomas’ eyes. I had envisioned what would make a good story, what would be compelling, not what the result would be if my character was presented to me in living and breathing reality. Tomas continued.
“He turned to me, standing there with a candlestick in my hand, and pointed the gun at me. After that, I barely remember the shot. And then I was in your house.”
Clara was dead. Tomas was not. We had arrived back at the house.
Tomas sat down on the sofa and took his wallet out of his pocket. In it was a small photograph of a girl with a hair the color of black coffee in a pixie cut and eyes like morning glories. He sat staring at the photograph, trembling. I went to the kitchen and used a wet rag on the blood, though there wasn’t much. I pulled a porkchop from the refrigerator and put in in the microwave for a handful of seconds. I went to take it to Tomas but he wasn’t sitting on the sofa anymore. I walked down the hall and checked the bathroom and both guest bedrooms. The last room I checked, the one room I hoped he wouldn’t enter, was where I found him; my office. I hadn’t minimized my work. All the stories about Tomas were in one file, which was still open. Tomas was reading the last line of the latest story:
The man raised the pistol and aimed it at Tomas.
Tomas looked at me. He had read snippets of the other stories. He had read things that only he would know. He knew this because I knew this. Tomas realized who he was, that he was a figment of my imagination. It was the only explanation, logical or not. Tomas had never met me before and I had never met him because he was a literary character.
“You took everything from me.”
I took a notepad and pen from my pocket and wrote:
‘Before the two men, a young girl with short hair and violet eyes materialized. She stood alive and full of health with the sweetest of smiles upon her face. Clara.’
I looked at the floor between us. Nothing happened. Clara didn’t appear. Tomas asked what I was doing and I handed him the notepad.
“I tried...I’m sorry.”
Tomas threw down the notepad and it fluttered to a page where I had drawn a sketch of a daffodil.
“You tried and succeeded at fabricating the existence of a now-very real human being. You tried and succeeded at killing my daughter. Get to your computer and set to rendering me lifeless. Drop me off on the surface of the sun. Whatever it takes, writer, just end my suffering.”
It dawned on me that Tomas was feeling like less than nothing. I had created and destroyed his entire world in a handful of keystrokes.
Tomas stood and walked out of the room. I heard the front door open and close. I looked down at the notepad, open to the doodle of the daffodil. I sat down at my computer and thought of the various ways I could try to bring Clara back. I began typing,
‘Clara awoke, completely unharmed by the burglar. The burglar himself had since fled the apartment. Clara felt herself transported into another world; the world in which the creator of her story world resided. She appeared before him, fully aware of her once fictional life.’
I looked beside myself, awaiting the familiar thud of her arrival. Nothing happened. I went to get Tomas. He was outside, standing beneath a tree in my backyard looking up through the branches at the sky.
“How many stories have you written about me alone? I saw the books on your bookshelf. All of them had to do with me. ‘The Violet Child’ was all about Clara. A New York Times bestseller too. I suppose I should be proud of her but it’s your work. How many other lives have you created? How many people have you killed?”
“I tried again to bring her back but nothing happened. Don’t make it seem like I don’t care. I never expected any of this to happen. This isn’t even possible but look where we are. I feel just as bad as you. In a way, Clara was my daughter too. Read ‘The Violet Child’ and you’ll see. I poured a year and a half into making her the sweetest person on earth and three hundred million people fell in love with her.”
Tomas looked at me with what almost looked like a smile.
“That’s not what I asked you writer. I asked you how many people you’ve killed.”
I didn’t want to answer. A lot of the stories I had written in my free time, just for fun involved nuclear war and the earth being destroyed by alien lifeforms. I couldn’t tell him an exact number and I didn’t want to give him an estimate.
“B-billions. If every single person in your world was alive then...”
“They were. Adalbert Grumman was a brilliant man until he was assassinated.”
Adalbert Grumman was a college professor turned senate candidate. He had taught at the University of Paris when Tomas was there, but in none of my stories had they ever interacted, they merely existed in the same fictional universe.
“So billions. How many of them that you killed did you give consideration to, like you did Clara and Adalbert? How was I going to die?”
I had never planned to kill Tomas. He was my flagship character though in a number of occasions he had faced death.
“Several. Maybe six counting Adalbert and Clara. And you. Remember when the building collapsed with you in it? And you made it out alright.”
“I made it out alright but twelve other people didn’t. Twelve people died. And my ex wife. What about her? Were you going to kill her too?”
Compared to Clara and Tomas, Fabienne received little development. Hardly any really; she was only in one book and that began with her and Tomas meeting and ended with their divorce. She was apparently still alive.
“No. Her part in the story ended and...”
“Did it? Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Clara would have liked to see her mother? That she may have wanted to spend more time with her? It didn’t because if I were just some regular family man, my life wouldn’t have made you rich, would it?”
Tomas picked up a piece of a tree branch which had broken into an eight-inch piece and threw it at me. I was absorbing what he had said when one of its ends hit me in the chest. It knocked me back, and as I realized what had happened, Tomas had the front of my shirt in his hands. He had lifted me eight inches in the air and threw me to the ground. His voice lost its sadness and gained in anger.
“Your wordcraft has real-world implications, writer. Do something about it.”
It was then that Tomas grabbed his abdomen where he had been shot. His stitches ripped and a new patch of red was spreading on his shirt. I stood up and held my hand out to him, wanting to guide him back to the car and hospital. He at first refused, but then looked down at his wound and took my hand. We walked through the side yard and down the hill to the car. Tomas was still wearing the blood-stained shirt he arrived in.
When we arrived at the hospital, they were quick to stitch Tomas back up. I again handed the financial spokesperson my credit card and signed away some bewildering amount of money. Tomas hadn’t seen me do this the first time but he saw it this time.
“You just...why?”
Even in his story world, he was aware that American healthcare costs were high. That may or may not have been in one of the stories, I can’t recall.
“You’re what’s kept me alive for the past sixteen years. If you die, I die. It’s only fair.”
That was true as well. The advances and royalties I had received for the books I’d written about Tomas were what had put me in the economic standing I was currently in. What I had told Tomas about Clara was true. Her feature book, The Violet Child, had spent 14 weeks atop the New York Times bestseller list and sold something like 250 million copies. It flew off of the shelves and got passed around among friends. An hour in an emergency room and Tomas was re-stitched and bandaged. I looked at him. He was a wreck. His once-stark white shirt had a roughly circular bloodstain on it that, if he were to lay the shirt flat, would have been two feet in diameter. His overcoat had a similar stain though not as dark or wide. His slacks also had lines of stained blood on them as well. His dark hair had become tousled from its original combed-back style.
We drove back toward the house but instead of going back home, I pulled into the mall. Tomas at first refused to go in, citing his dirty appearance, but he relented and followed me in. It was then I realized it was essentially me who had dressed him since his creation. He had always been wearing smart clothing: button-down shirts, nice slacks, and good shoes. Inside one of the clothing stores, he saw theme t-shirts and jeans. He looked down at his attire.
“Oxfords and khakis. That’s all I’ve ever worn isn’t it? And these shoes. These incredibly uncomfortable shoes.”
It was all he had ever worn. It never occurred to me to change his appearance every so often but now I knew how he felt. He took a dark purple shirt with a white screen-printed dragon on the front off of a rack and handed it to me. Then he went to the wall of jeans and took a pair of faded stonewashed down. He then walked over to a table full of shoes. He looked down at his faded and worn black leather dress shoes. They looked as if they were fifteen years old by the wear on the soles, though the uppers were still in fair condition. He grabbed a pair of bright blue Converse All-Stars.
When we got back to the car, Tomas looked at me and then looked down and away. He turned his face back to mine and told me,
“You didn’t know. How could you have known? You were doing your job. And like you said, at least she brought joy to millions of people. It’s what she would have wanted.”
We got back to the house and Tomas made it inside before I did. I had stopped because of something I hadn’t seen when we left. In the yard by the sidewalk leading to the front door was a single daisy, the flower of purity and innocence; the flower of Clara. Inside, Tomas had settled down. He was flipping through The Violet Child. Within was most of Clara’s life and a slice-of-life view of her and her father’s daily doings. Tomas let out a soft chuckle.
‘Clara ran to Tomas with a look of both shock and sadness
on her face. He asked her what was wrong and she replied “They stuck to the
ceiling! I’m so sorry!” Tomas smiled and knelt down to talk to her. “Now dear
Clara, what happened?” She guided him into the kitchen and pointed to the stove
which had a skillet on it and a pancake which was now cooking on its other
side. Tomas took the spatula and turned the pancake over. The other side was
also cooked to perfection. It was then that Tomas looked at the ceiling above
the stove. There he saw a circular ring of batter. Clara had tried to flip the
pancake by twitching the skillet but used too much power, flinging the pancake
batter-end up to the ceiling. Tomas smiled and poured more batter into the
skillet.
“Now watch. It’s all in the wrist.”
Tomas waited a moment for the
bottom of the second pancake to cook and then, after loosening it with the
spatula, flipped it. It made one rotation and landed batter-side down in the
skillet. They spent the rest of the morning making pancakes with Clara flipping
most of them herself.’
Tomas looked at me and smiled.
“It took the longest time to get that batter off of the ceiling. By the time we were finished making and eating them, it had dried. Those were good times, and they may not have happened without you Michael. Thank you.”
“And what little happiness I’ve found in my life wouldn’t have been possible without you either.
Tomas sat there for a while before getting up and walking down the hallway. It was then that I heard the clacking of a keyboard. I went to my office and saw him sitting at a computer, typing in a new blank word document. I only saw the bottom.
‘And Clara, a single flower among weeds, stood beside her father once again.’
Tomas said to me,
“If what is written is true, maybe somewhere out there, we are standing together. In another world perhaps.”
We both left my office and returned to the living room where we sat in silence. Tomas sat with a smile on his face, consoled in the fact that somewhere, Clara was OK. I got up to take Tomas’ new clothes into the guest bedroom and after placing them on the bed, I turned around and was face to face with a pair of violet eyes. These eyes were peeking out from behind small oval-rimmed glasses set just below dark bangs. Clara. I did all I could think to do. I yelled and Clara scrambled down beside the bed.
“Tomas!”
Tomas didn’t come running as I expected him to so I returned to the living room where he was still sitting and smiling. I pulled on his arm and he stood, then I guided him back to the room. Clara was gone. I ran to search the other rooms and Tomas began walking lackadaisically to the living room. It was then that I heard the softest squeak as if a mouse had stubbed its toe. I looked under the bed and saw the violet eyes peering out from between the bedskirt and the dustbunnies. I grabbed Tomas and pulled him down to floor-level. When she saw him, it was as if she flew from under the bed. They threw their arms around one another and tears flowed unimpeded from their eyes. They stayed locked together for what seemed like an eternity.
When they let go, I didn’t bother asking Clara who she was or what she remembered. I had hoped she didn’t remember anything. Tomas did ask.
“Clara, what do you remember?”
She stood for a moment and thought,
“A light. And before that, nothing. You had left.”
The rest of the evening, we sat together. Tomas knew not to tell her who I was other than that I was a writer, though something told me she was aware that there was more to me than could be seen. Her eyes could see into people, past the physical and into what lies beneath. It was nearly midnight by the time we all turned in.
The following morning, I awoke as usual at 7:30. I went to the room Tomas had been using but found it empty, his old clothes still in the bag he had placed them in. I then checked Clara’s room but also found it empty. There was no noise coming from the any of the bathrooms or the kitchen. After I had thrown some clothes on, I checked the front and back yards but found no sign of either of them. The living room was empty as was the dining room. I went into my office. The notepad which had remained on the floor all the previous day was placed on my desk. A text document was open and it read,
‘Michael, I must thank you. Though outwardly, Clara and I are no more real than Santa Claus or the boogeyman, you know the truth. Without you, I never would have had Clara, and without you, neither would the entire world. I read in one of your chapters something that was entirely too true: Clara is my reason for living. Keep us forever in mind and remember as I said; your wordcraft has real-world implications, no matter how big or small. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. We are forever between the pages.’ Signed, Tomas Rougir.
Taped to my monitor was a sketch of a daisy; a perfect picture of the perfect girl.
I opened a new text document and began to write.
Tomas looked at me and smiled.
“It took the longest time to get that batter off of the ceiling. By the time we were finished making and eating them, it had dried. Those were good times, and they may not have happened without you Michael. Thank you.”
“And what little happiness I’ve found in my life wouldn’t have been possible without you either.
Tomas sat there for a while before getting up and walking down the hallway. It was then that I heard the clacking of a keyboard. I went to my office and saw him sitting at a computer, typing in a new blank word document. I only saw the bottom.
‘And Clara, a single flower among weeds, stood beside her father once again.’
Tomas said to me,
“If what is written is true, maybe somewhere out there, we are standing together. In another world perhaps.”
We both left my office and returned to the living room where we sat in silence. Tomas sat with a smile on his face, consoled in the fact that somewhere, Clara was OK. I got up to take Tomas’ new clothes into the guest bedroom and after placing them on the bed, I turned around and was face to face with a pair of violet eyes. These eyes were peeking out from behind small oval-rimmed glasses set just below dark bangs. Clara. I did all I could think to do. I yelled and Clara scrambled down beside the bed.
“Tomas!”
Tomas didn’t come running as I expected him to so I returned to the living room where he was still sitting and smiling. I pulled on his arm and he stood, then I guided him back to the room. Clara was gone. I ran to search the other rooms and Tomas began walking lackadaisically to the living room. It was then that I heard the softest squeak as if a mouse had stubbed its toe. I looked under the bed and saw the violet eyes peering out from between the bedskirt and the dustbunnies. I grabbed Tomas and pulled him down to floor-level. When she saw him, it was as if she flew from under the bed. They threw their arms around one another and tears flowed unimpeded from their eyes. They stayed locked together for what seemed like an eternity.
When they let go, I didn’t bother asking Clara who she was or what she remembered. I had hoped she didn’t remember anything. Tomas did ask.
“Clara, what do you remember?”
She stood for a moment and thought,
“A light. And before that, nothing. You had left.”
The rest of the evening, we sat together. Tomas knew not to tell her who I was other than that I was a writer, though something told me she was aware that there was more to me than could be seen. Her eyes could see into people, past the physical and into what lies beneath. It was nearly midnight by the time we all turned in.
The following morning, I awoke as usual at 7:30. I went to the room Tomas had been using but found it empty, his old clothes still in the bag he had placed them in. I then checked Clara’s room but also found it empty. There was no noise coming from the any of the bathrooms or the kitchen. After I had thrown some clothes on, I checked the front and back yards but found no sign of either of them. The living room was empty as was the dining room. I went into my office. The notepad which had remained on the floor all the previous day was placed on my desk. A text document was open and it read,
‘Michael, I must thank you. Though outwardly, Clara and I are no more real than Santa Claus or the boogeyman, you know the truth. Without you, I never would have had Clara, and without you, neither would the entire world. I read in one of your chapters something that was entirely too true: Clara is my reason for living. Keep us forever in mind and remember as I said; your wordcraft has real-world implications, no matter how big or small. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. We are forever between the pages.’ Signed, Tomas Rougir.
Taped to my monitor was a sketch of a daisy; a perfect picture of the perfect girl.
I opened a new text document and began to write.
In-Class Crime Story
Detective Perspective
--
The victim, twelve year old Bess Jones, was shot to death in Wal-Mart. Her attacker fled the scene in a white car and was seen driving east on Birch Road. Bess was standing in line when her attacker, a white male, entered from the east entrance, drew a pistol and fired at her. He fired twice, hitting Bess once. It is unknown who her attacker is or why he may have shot her.
Coroner Perspective
--
The victim is a twelve year old white female identified as Bess Jones. Time of death is 1:06PM. Victim sustained a gunshot wound to the neck which severed the carotid artery. The bullet was stopped by her spine and was identified as a .40 caliber round.
Prosecution Perspective
--
Keith Martin stands accused of murdering 12 year old Bess Jones. He was seen on numerous video cameras entering the Wal-Mart where Bess was shot, drawing the pistol used in the murder, firing it, and fleeing the scene. The pistol, which has been confirmed as the one used in the shooting, was recovered from the defendant's apartment. No motive has been found, though we believe that the shooting was at random. The prosecution seeks the death penalty.
--
The victim, twelve year old Bess Jones, was shot to death in Wal-Mart. Her attacker fled the scene in a white car and was seen driving east on Birch Road. Bess was standing in line when her attacker, a white male, entered from the east entrance, drew a pistol and fired at her. He fired twice, hitting Bess once. It is unknown who her attacker is or why he may have shot her.
Coroner Perspective
--
The victim is a twelve year old white female identified as Bess Jones. Time of death is 1:06PM. Victim sustained a gunshot wound to the neck which severed the carotid artery. The bullet was stopped by her spine and was identified as a .40 caliber round.
Prosecution Perspective
--
Keith Martin stands accused of murdering 12 year old Bess Jones. He was seen on numerous video cameras entering the Wal-Mart where Bess was shot, drawing the pistol used in the murder, firing it, and fleeing the scene. The pistol, which has been confirmed as the one used in the shooting, was recovered from the defendant's apartment. No motive has been found, though we believe that the shooting was at random. The prosecution seeks the death penalty.
In-Class 7
After being freed from the stomach of the wolf, Red Riding Hood and her grandmother looked to see that the basket of goodies had been ruined. The woodsman who had slain the wolf informed them of a quaint Italian restaurant he knew of in Georgia that sold delicious spaghetti. Red Riding Hood looked at him perplexedly. The woodsman was clearly not of this earth, seeing as how it was 1720 in Germany. Red Riding Hood had no idea what or where Georgia was, let alone how to get there.
The woodsman kept on, insisting that they must get to Georgia. He held his ax above his head and cleaved it through the air. A portal opened and on the other side was a field. The woodsman stepped through and waved the others on to follow him.
The woodsman explained that this was Georgia in the year 2003, where he was from. Across the field was a city street. Amid the small shops was an Italian restaurant. The three went in and enjoyed their meal. After dining on spaghetti, the woodsman reopened the portal at the edge of the field and let Red Riding Hood and her grandmother step back through to their own time.
The woodsman kept on, insisting that they must get to Georgia. He held his ax above his head and cleaved it through the air. A portal opened and on the other side was a field. The woodsman stepped through and waved the others on to follow him.
The woodsman explained that this was Georgia in the year 2003, where he was from. Across the field was a city street. Amid the small shops was an Italian restaurant. The three went in and enjoyed their meal. After dining on spaghetti, the woodsman reopened the portal at the edge of the field and let Red Riding Hood and her grandmother step back through to their own time.
How I Met Your Mother In-Class
The show we watched in class was funny as is to be expected of 'How I Met Your Mother'. I had never seen the episode before even though I have been watching the show since it first aired. The episode follows the signature format of the main characters all relaxing at the local pub, chit-chatting about a story from their past. This is often used to advance the plot in the form of flashbacks or to convey additional meaning to the story. In this episode, talk of one of the character's girlfriends leads to the discussion of the cast's past expectations of the future. Two of the characters, Ted and Marshall, talk of how they had always hoped for success or positive change in the future while one of the other characters, Barney, wished that things would always stay the same.
Misc. Post 5
I wrote this story in its original form when I was in eighth grade. I was in a computer class but since I had transferred to the school in the middle of the semester, they couldn't create a computer log-on name for me. I was in this class for an hour or so every day with nothing to do for a few weeks. One day, I opened my notebook and began scribbling story ideas. A few days later, the result was this story. I have since edited it, changed some of the sentence structuring, added on explanation, and generally made it longer and more interesting to read.
Neptune’s Fury
The year
was 2900; Earth was far from inhabitable. The remnants of human civilization
moved away from the burned out hull that was once a beautiful and fertile world
to the far-off world of Ganymede. Scientists and space pilots had been
searching for a hospitable homeworld for nearly 900 years. Most of the found
planets were too harsh for life. Life on Ganymede was only possible through
centuries of vast terraforming and atmospheric alterations. With the advent
interplanetary travel came the arrival of space adventurers. Often-times, these
were people paid as contractors to journey into the vast unknown in search of
resources and a new home. Some people simply enjoyed the thrill of exploration.
Neptune was the least-visited planet due to its extremely high winds and
poisonous and inhospitable atmosphere, though some pilots still made the long
voyage to the great blue god of the abyss. One pilot, a man by the name of
Chuck Starkey, took his five-man space crew to Neptune. Like so many before him
and an equally great number after, Starkey and his crew never returned to their
Jovian home. This is their story.
Chuck
Starkey was dining aboard his 160-foot model 1260 spacecraft. Starkey was on a
voyage to Neptune and was approaching Saturn. From his seat in the craft’s
galley, he could see the gas giant and all of its glorious rings. The journey
was to take four months but nobody was waiting on Starkey or his crew, so
nobody would notice their absence. Neptune was still a relatively popular place
for the more adventurous of space pilots. Many flew into the top layers of
Neptune’s atmosphere for an extra burst of excitement but none had actually
flown deep inside the Neptunian core and lived to tell about it. Reports from
some time after Starkey’s reflection at Saturn’s rings show that Starkey
entered Neptunian orbit on July 14, 2900. He and his craft and crew entered the
planet’s atmosphere and dipped down into the core. Within the hour, they again
exited the planet’s atmosphere and went on their way. Starkey and his crew
began an easy way home. They plotted a course for Star Dock 61, a popular
refueling station and orbital rest platform. On their way to the Star Dock, one
of Starkey’s crew noticed what looked like light green oxidation on the Main
System Evacuation Panel. When the crewmember touched the oxidation, a substance
of the same sort quickly attached itself and advanced up the man’s arm. In an
attempt to brush off the substance, the man’s arm fell to the ground in a light
green puff of dust. The man quickly collapsed in shock. The ship was thrown
into a panic.
Closer
inspection of the ship showed that the green was all over the ship, from the walls
to the instrument panels. Quick research on what was left of the onboard
computer showed no results for the described organism but the crew began
calling it a parasitic organism. Observation showed that the parasite had
attached itself to most everything but took much longer to decompose metal than
it did organic material. As a crewmember looked out a porthole, he observed
pieces of the ship falling away as the parasite made its way inside and out of
the craft. Within ten minutes, there would be no more ship and there would be
no more life. Some of the men onboard prayed, some simply stood there and
waited for the inevitable end. Moments later, the ship was a trail of green
dust and debris on an irrelevant dot in the endless dark.
This report
was created from transmissions and radio data from the ship of Chuck Starkey,
the Fury received seven hundred years ago. It was a much more chaotic period
then. What is left of the population of Earth have settled Ganymede as their
new homeworld. Chuck Starkey’s story has been inscribed on a monument in front
of the Ganymedian capitol. In schools, children recite a pledge honoring the
brave space pilots who helped settle our world, much as the children of the
former United States of America did some two millennia ago. Ganymede as a
homeworld is very peaceful. There are no wars, no pollution; there is no hate.
Relics of books thousands of years old that have been recovered and transcribed
from Earth would describe life here as utopian. Unemployment is at 100%.
Everyone has a purpose with mine being transcribing and cataloging antique and
ancient records. My job is to sort through books and recordings recovered or
brought from earth. Data is entered into computers where it is catalogued by country
of origin and century relevant. The country for which I was assigned is the
United States of America. I have nearly 2,000 years of archived material thus
far. Hopefully in years to come, these records will be looked at and read so
that the bright history of our history as humankind may be known to future
generations.
Time Read Through Dust
– An Epilogue Companion to Neptune’s Fury
Ganymede – Five thousand years
after the filing of the report on the final voyage of Chuck Starkey and the
Fury.
The cities
and settlements of Ganymede had long since crumbled. Alien life had been
searching the universe in search of intelligent life but to no avail. All they
had found were the remnants of ancient civilizations long-since past. What they
lacked in findings, they made up for in immense knowledge of former life in the
universe. It happened that one day, they landed on Ganymede, at the former site
of the Ganymedian capitol. After some searching, they found vast libraries
cataloguing the lives of these humans. They found rooms full of thousands of
years of history, though the records stopped some four thousand years before
the day of the arrival of these beings. Again, the beings resumed their quest
for sustained intelligent life. Three thousand years later, the beings would
find a planet some distance from Ganymede covered in lush ferns and deep
oceans. Through the thick and fertile jungles, they found similar remnants of
civilization teeming with creatures that walked upright and used tools. Though
they possessed no powers of speech with which the alien beings could
communicate, they seemed to communicate among themselves with loud shrieks,
hoots, and howls. They also seemed to know some form of hand gestures with
which they communicated on a basic level. Before the alien beings left, they
deemed the planet in their own language, “Erth”.
Career Post 4
Part of the reason I wanted to become a history teacher was due to the history teachers I've met while going to school. Each of the notable examples showed me something about what it is to be a teacher. In some cases, these examples were not always so happy or helpful. I suppose that if I ever do teach history, I'll carry some of these memories as influence on my own teaching style.
The first teacher who taught me only history, as opposed to an elementary school teacher who teaches all the general subjects, was Mrs. Smith in fourth grade. Overall, my impression of her was not bad. She used a lot of memorization drills to teach with. One of the largest parts of our class was memorizing the states and the capitals. By the end of the course, I had memorized all of the states and their capitals with little practice. Her class, despite largely using memorization, was not all that memorable.
In fifth grade, my history teacher was a young woman named Mrs. Cook. I liked her at first, but slowly grew to dislike her. She also taught science, which was a much more fun class. Her history class however was based largely on projects and tests. I passed the tests with little effort but I have always hated projects. The ones she had us do were usually booklets that we had to color, write in, and glue together. I didn't like Mrs. Smith by the time I left that school.
In sixth grade, one of my favorite history teachers took me through a very animated world history course. Her name was Mrs. Morrison. When the class was on the section of medieval kingdoms, she brought a scepter and tiara to class and wore them. She took on the persona of Queen Dana. When the class went over Asian culture and history, we brought Chinese and Japanese food to class during the lunch period. When the class went over WWII and the Korean War, she brought in her father's old military gear and let us try it on.
The next year, my history teacher was Mr. Thomas. He was a very straightforward and mature old black man. He didn't play around in class and was very old fashioned. Class consisted of taking notes from an overhead projector and listening to his lecture. He taught history because he liked teaching, and he loved the subject. He showed me that there were teachers who loved their jobs genuinely.
When I transferred schools that same year, I entered into a private Catholic school. The history teacher for the middle school students, I would later learn, has been teaching there for over thirty years. At first, I saw her as a teacher who worked a thankless job teaching a bunch of students who never paid attention to her. I always paid attention and did her assigned work because it was an enjoyable class and I felt that she was a teacher who needed a little extra respect for having to deal with such an undesirable group of students. Later, after I realized how long she had been teaching at the school, I saw a teacher who had an unbelievable amount of patience.
Through high school, I would attend two history classes taught by Ms. Brenneman. She was a very lively and interactive teacher. She did lots of projects which, because I enjoyed her teaching so much, were bearable. I still didn't like the amount of projects we had to do, but her classes were broken up with a hearty amount of bookwork that appealed to learners such as myself. Even students who didn't particularly like history enjoyed her class. It was there that I learned to make everything at least bearable, even if you don't really want to do it.
Whether I liked their classes or not, these teachers all gave me things to take from their classes, be it knowledge of the state capitals or a new way to look at life.
The first teacher who taught me only history, as opposed to an elementary school teacher who teaches all the general subjects, was Mrs. Smith in fourth grade. Overall, my impression of her was not bad. She used a lot of memorization drills to teach with. One of the largest parts of our class was memorizing the states and the capitals. By the end of the course, I had memorized all of the states and their capitals with little practice. Her class, despite largely using memorization, was not all that memorable.
In fifth grade, my history teacher was a young woman named Mrs. Cook. I liked her at first, but slowly grew to dislike her. She also taught science, which was a much more fun class. Her history class however was based largely on projects and tests. I passed the tests with little effort but I have always hated projects. The ones she had us do were usually booklets that we had to color, write in, and glue together. I didn't like Mrs. Smith by the time I left that school.
In sixth grade, one of my favorite history teachers took me through a very animated world history course. Her name was Mrs. Morrison. When the class was on the section of medieval kingdoms, she brought a scepter and tiara to class and wore them. She took on the persona of Queen Dana. When the class went over Asian culture and history, we brought Chinese and Japanese food to class during the lunch period. When the class went over WWII and the Korean War, she brought in her father's old military gear and let us try it on.
The next year, my history teacher was Mr. Thomas. He was a very straightforward and mature old black man. He didn't play around in class and was very old fashioned. Class consisted of taking notes from an overhead projector and listening to his lecture. He taught history because he liked teaching, and he loved the subject. He showed me that there were teachers who loved their jobs genuinely.
When I transferred schools that same year, I entered into a private Catholic school. The history teacher for the middle school students, I would later learn, has been teaching there for over thirty years. At first, I saw her as a teacher who worked a thankless job teaching a bunch of students who never paid attention to her. I always paid attention and did her assigned work because it was an enjoyable class and I felt that she was a teacher who needed a little extra respect for having to deal with such an undesirable group of students. Later, after I realized how long she had been teaching at the school, I saw a teacher who had an unbelievable amount of patience.
Through high school, I would attend two history classes taught by Ms. Brenneman. She was a very lively and interactive teacher. She did lots of projects which, because I enjoyed her teaching so much, were bearable. I still didn't like the amount of projects we had to do, but her classes were broken up with a hearty amount of bookwork that appealed to learners such as myself. Even students who didn't particularly like history enjoyed her class. It was there that I learned to make everything at least bearable, even if you don't really want to do it.
Whether I liked their classes or not, these teachers all gave me things to take from their classes, be it knowledge of the state capitals or a new way to look at life.
In-class
The Allen County museum sat snow-covered and darkened. It was nearing two o'clock in the morning and the streets of Lima were nearly empty. Nobody saw Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and a witch sneak up to the main entrance. Santa used a bit of magic to deactivate the alarm system and unlock the door. Once they were inside, the witch returned outside and got me where the group had told me to wait in the parking lot. Santa had known through his ability to keep track of all the children on earth that I knew every inch of the museum. I was their planner. It was against my will, of course. I would never dream of stealing anything from the museum. The museum was like my second home. I had found out that Santa was in need of a new sleigh. Something had gone wrong with his old one and the museum has a very beautiful sleigh from the 1800's on display. The witch had also explained that she wanted a new cauldron and the Easter bunny wanted antique farm implements to decorate his carrot farm. The museum had all of these things and they knew this. I led Santa through the new part of the museum and into the older part where they had things from the old days of Lima. There in the darkness sat the sleigh. It was beautiful and I had admired it since I was seven years old. Its red velvet bench seat was covered in the antique goat-hair blanket. The black wood of the sleigh made it stand like a ghost among the shadows. Santa let out a jolly "Ho-ho-ho!" and I went to get the witch so that I could lead her to the cauldron which was located in the log cabin. The Easter bunny could wait. The farm machines were in the basement.
I led the witch out to the log cabin and she pushed the door open. Hanging in the fireplace was the cauldron. She cackled and hefted the cauldron down off of it's hook. She started dragging the cauldron back into the museum. I walked ahead and went down into the basement, dragging the Easter Bunny with me. Once we were down there, I showed the Easter Bunny to the farm exhibit and he hopped for joy. While he was distracted and all three of the thieves were in possession of the stolen goods, I pushed the Easter Bunny into the giant grain thresher. His giant feet got stuck. I ran up the stairs and pulled the fire alarm. From the stairs, I made my way to the George Washington room and smashed through the glass to get to Washington's cavalry saber.
By this time, Santa and the witch knew that something was wrong. They were on their way to the basement, figuring they would catch me as I ran up the stairs. I stepped out of the George Washington room with the sword in hand. The witch swung her broom toward me and I quickly cut all the bristles off. She swung the handle at me and I cut the broomstick in two. She threw it down and stepped away. Santa pulled a whip from his coat and cracked it once. I held the sword up and Santa went to grab the sword with the whip but the whip fell from his hand as a rock pelted the side of his head.
Standing on the top of the landing was the Easter Bunny. He had a handful of small rocks and one larger one lined up and aimed at Santa.
The firetrucks and police were there before Santa could make a move. It turns out that the Easter Bunny was actually on my side the whole time. He fought on behalf of Christianity. Santa was an evil symbol of consumerism who needed to be stopped. The witch was just a witch. The Easter Bunny was gone before any of the rescue team saw him, but I won't ever forget how he saved me.
I led the witch out to the log cabin and she pushed the door open. Hanging in the fireplace was the cauldron. She cackled and hefted the cauldron down off of it's hook. She started dragging the cauldron back into the museum. I walked ahead and went down into the basement, dragging the Easter Bunny with me. Once we were down there, I showed the Easter Bunny to the farm exhibit and he hopped for joy. While he was distracted and all three of the thieves were in possession of the stolen goods, I pushed the Easter Bunny into the giant grain thresher. His giant feet got stuck. I ran up the stairs and pulled the fire alarm. From the stairs, I made my way to the George Washington room and smashed through the glass to get to Washington's cavalry saber.
By this time, Santa and the witch knew that something was wrong. They were on their way to the basement, figuring they would catch me as I ran up the stairs. I stepped out of the George Washington room with the sword in hand. The witch swung her broom toward me and I quickly cut all the bristles off. She swung the handle at me and I cut the broomstick in two. She threw it down and stepped away. Santa pulled a whip from his coat and cracked it once. I held the sword up and Santa went to grab the sword with the whip but the whip fell from his hand as a rock pelted the side of his head.
Standing on the top of the landing was the Easter Bunny. He had a handful of small rocks and one larger one lined up and aimed at Santa.
The firetrucks and police were there before Santa could make a move. It turns out that the Easter Bunny was actually on my side the whole time. He fought on behalf of Christianity. Santa was an evil symbol of consumerism who needed to be stopped. The witch was just a witch. The Easter Bunny was gone before any of the rescue team saw him, but I won't ever forget how he saved me.
In-class 12
Everything is a Remix
I feel that the videos detailing how things are created, recycled, and changed were quite sad. The idea that nothing is original and that everything is just an alteration or a reuse of a preexisting idea left me with feelings that the stories I've written in my free time are just copies and spurred off ideas from things I have seen in the past. When writing in my free time, I always try my best to write stories that are interesting and unique. The videos showed me that I am, in fact, just another one of countless genre writers. It left me with the feeling that nothing that I have written in the past was my own original creativity. Despite this, it has not hurt my will to continue writing. It has strengthened it. I will not just give up on writing because I no longer feel original. I will continue writing in effort to distance myself from the mass of other science fiction genre writers out there. Aside from that, the videos were very informative. They went into history as well as the legal and social aspects of how "Everything is a Remix". Instead of just spewing information, the videos actually drew me in and allowed me to link together the remixes in my world to the material they were copied from.
I feel that the videos detailing how things are created, recycled, and changed were quite sad. The idea that nothing is original and that everything is just an alteration or a reuse of a preexisting idea left me with feelings that the stories I've written in my free time are just copies and spurred off ideas from things I have seen in the past. When writing in my free time, I always try my best to write stories that are interesting and unique. The videos showed me that I am, in fact, just another one of countless genre writers. It left me with the feeling that nothing that I have written in the past was my own original creativity. Despite this, it has not hurt my will to continue writing. It has strengthened it. I will not just give up on writing because I no longer feel original. I will continue writing in effort to distance myself from the mass of other science fiction genre writers out there. Aside from that, the videos were very informative. They went into history as well as the legal and social aspects of how "Everything is a Remix". Instead of just spewing information, the videos actually drew me in and allowed me to link together the remixes in my world to the material they were copied from.
In-class 14
Write a story about the following situation: Parents help their son make up with his girlfriend.
For Fred, life wasn't all that bad. He had been single for over four years and had grown to dislike his girlfriend intensely. His parents, however, absolutely loved his ex-girlfriend Laura. They saw her as an angelic and faultless girl; the type of girl Fred needed around. What they didn't know was that she was actually extremely temperamental and prone to fits of screaming and crying. On several occasions, she had broken up with Fred for seemingly no reason at all, only to call him a few days later, explaining that she had made a mistake and wanted him back. Fred was overly nice and optimistic and, twice, took Laura back. Several months later, after intense fighting, the relationship finally ended once and for all. Fred took a week to let things even out but his parents were immediately disappointed. Laura was perfect and there was no way that this was anyone's fault but Fred's. They initially let it go, showing no signs of disappointment. In reality, they were trying to get Fred and Laura back together. It started with Fred's mother adding Laura on Facebook. They talked for a while with Laura upholding her innocent appearance but Fred's mother didn't want to risk bringing Fred up. Fred noticed this at once. He confronted his mother directly, told his mother the truth about Laura, and told her that Laura was a terrible person. His mother kept talking to her though.
Fred decided to do what he should have done a long time ago. He called Laura and calmly addressed the fact that his parents were still completely attached to her. She immediately saw this as a problem and deleted Fred's mother off of Facebook and never tried to contact her again.
For Fred, life wasn't all that bad. He had been single for over four years and had grown to dislike his girlfriend intensely. His parents, however, absolutely loved his ex-girlfriend Laura. They saw her as an angelic and faultless girl; the type of girl Fred needed around. What they didn't know was that she was actually extremely temperamental and prone to fits of screaming and crying. On several occasions, she had broken up with Fred for seemingly no reason at all, only to call him a few days later, explaining that she had made a mistake and wanted him back. Fred was overly nice and optimistic and, twice, took Laura back. Several months later, after intense fighting, the relationship finally ended once and for all. Fred took a week to let things even out but his parents were immediately disappointed. Laura was perfect and there was no way that this was anyone's fault but Fred's. They initially let it go, showing no signs of disappointment. In reality, they were trying to get Fred and Laura back together. It started with Fred's mother adding Laura on Facebook. They talked for a while with Laura upholding her innocent appearance but Fred's mother didn't want to risk bringing Fred up. Fred noticed this at once. He confronted his mother directly, told his mother the truth about Laura, and told her that Laura was a terrible person. His mother kept talking to her though.
Fred decided to do what he should have done a long time ago. He called Laura and calmly addressed the fact that his parents were still completely attached to her. She immediately saw this as a problem and deleted Fred's mother off of Facebook and never tried to contact her again.
Miscellaneous Post 4
In the miscellaneous post before this one, I mentioned how I had to watch a large number of movies as part of a project when I was in high school. Most of these films were made before the 1990's. One of these films was Breakfast at Tiffany's. It was the first Audrey Hepburn film that I had ever seen and I was instantaneously enamored of Audrey.
I was raised by and large by older people. I spent a lot of time with my grandparents down south talking about the old days when things were better than they are now. My mother is thirty one years older than I am in contrast to my friends' parents who are only twenty years older than them on average. As such, I was raised believing that the old way is the best way. This extended to movies as well. I had heard of Audrey Hepburn and Katherine Hepburn, and of Vivien Leigh when I was younger. I had never seen the movies they starred in. When I was younger, I was still but a young boy; I liked movies with explosions and gunfights and cuss words. The often-slow pacing of older movies wasn't enough to keep me occupied until I was older.
In my research for my senior project, I again came across Audrey's name and decided to give what was apparently one of her more famous films a try. I found a copy of Breakfast at Tiffany's and sat down to watch. Two hours later, I was completely and totally in love with Audrey Hepburn.
I was living in a time where Angelina Jolie and Megan Fox were the major female stars. I had seen the first two Transformers movies and the first Tomb Raider movie. I saw movies with little to no substance and actresses who showed entirely too much skin and nowhere near enough depth.
I've only seen three and a half of Audrey Hepburn's films and bits and pieces of maybe five others, but I found more depth and beauty in those three and a half films than I did in any number of Michael Bay films put together.
I was raised by and large by older people. I spent a lot of time with my grandparents down south talking about the old days when things were better than they are now. My mother is thirty one years older than I am in contrast to my friends' parents who are only twenty years older than them on average. As such, I was raised believing that the old way is the best way. This extended to movies as well. I had heard of Audrey Hepburn and Katherine Hepburn, and of Vivien Leigh when I was younger. I had never seen the movies they starred in. When I was younger, I was still but a young boy; I liked movies with explosions and gunfights and cuss words. The often-slow pacing of older movies wasn't enough to keep me occupied until I was older.
In my research for my senior project, I again came across Audrey's name and decided to give what was apparently one of her more famous films a try. I found a copy of Breakfast at Tiffany's and sat down to watch. Two hours later, I was completely and totally in love with Audrey Hepburn.
I was living in a time where Angelina Jolie and Megan Fox were the major female stars. I had seen the first two Transformers movies and the first Tomb Raider movie. I saw movies with little to no substance and actresses who showed entirely too much skin and nowhere near enough depth.
I've only seen three and a half of Audrey Hepburn's films and bits and pieces of maybe five others, but I found more depth and beauty in those three and a half films than I did in any number of Michael Bay films put together.
Miscellaneous Post 3
I owe my graduating high school in part to the film from which this blog gets it's name. I went to Lima Senior High and it was required for all seniors to complete a senior project of something that they were passionate about. I originally chose to do it on the history of Allen County but soon realized that that would involve sifting through ancient books in the library and the museum, and that it would soon become very boring after much of the industry and things that made Allen County once great were out of the picture. I then chose the history of film. I spent much of my free time watching movies and it combined two of my favorite things: history and movies. One of the requirements of the senior project was that students had to log 25 cumulative hours working on their project. My project adviser said that it was acceptable to watch movies as part of my hour logging. One of the films I watched was The Right Stuff. For me, the film was a three-way combination of things that I enjoy: it was a movie about the history of the space program. Among other films that I watched were Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange and The Shining. I also watched Breakfast at Tiffany's, which was the first Audrey Hepburn film I watched.
So thanks in part to a 1983 film about the first astronauts, I passed my senior project and graduated, though that is partially because I watched a bunch of two to three hour long movies. That added up quickly and my 25 hours were over with the stroke of a pen.
So thanks in part to a 1983 film about the first astronauts, I passed my senior project and graduated, though that is partially because I watched a bunch of two to three hour long movies. That added up quickly and my 25 hours were over with the stroke of a pen.
Miscellaneous Post 2
Sometimes I write short stories. I've been doing this since I was eleven years old. I started writing a humorous story full of intentionally misspelled words one night when I was sitting around with my cousin. When I showed this to my grandmother, she loved that it was so novel. I was breaking every conventional grammar rule I had been taught but the end result was an entertaining and well-written piece of work. She prompted me to continue writing these stories and I did. She showed them to her friends in her book club and they all laughed and admired how funny and quirky my writings were. Eventually, I began writing other stories. I moved around in my earliest science fiction stories around this time as well. When my grandmother passed away in 2005, two years after I had started writing my short stories, I used writing as a way to process my emotions. I began writing dark and creepy stories, one of which was written in second person. As I got older and became more experienced with writing short stories, I learned how to develop characters and use dialog. When I was a freshman in high school, I had a lot of free time in class and I had just read Stephen King's The Stand. I started writing a story about a young guy who travels from his home in Seattle across the country after he finds that he is the only survivor of a plague that wiped out the rest of the planet. I haven't written anything in a while. I last wrote the second part of a trilogy of stories which combines to be one much longer story and then a spin-off of the same trilogy, but that was this summer.
HST2300
HST2300, Technology in Western Civilization, could be an interesting course. The material presented by the professor is interesting enough, but the presentation itself is off by a notable margin. I haven't opened the book since the class started, I wrote my final paper in an hour and a half, I've taken perhaps two pages of notes, and I've gotten high B's or higher on the three tests I've taken. I guess what I'm saying is that the class is too easy. While it isn't currently my greatest aspiration (more of a hobby), I am still officially a history major, and history is often the class I take most seriously. The professor glides through the course and occasionally stumbles through the PowerPoints. I've slept through three quarters of an entire class and missed nothing, because all we did for that class period was watch a video of a show I saw on the History Channel a few years ago. The first month of class I can confidently say that I could have skipped without taking any negative points on my grade. It was entirely recap of things I learned in my Western Civ class at USM. Ninety percent of the class to this point has been watching videos in class of old Modern Marvels episodes and Engineering an Empire episodes.
At least I'm not paying $2,000 a class like I was at USM though. In that respect, I suppose you get what you pay for. COM1110 is the exception to this rule, in which case, Professor Piro deserves a raise. English is easily tied for my second-favorite and respected subject and she teaches COM1110 with the concision and fervor the subject deserves.
Miscellaneous Post 1
I'd like to dedicate this blog post to my friend Rachael.
Three years ago this April, I was bored at 2AM, goofing off on the random chat site Omegle when I ended up in a chat with this person who said she was a fourteen year old girl. She linked me to her Myspace account after a while. I didn't believe her when she said that she was fourteen, but that wouldn't be important at the time. She looked, typed, conversed like someone who was older. Contrary to the usual workings of Omegle, we kept talking. She was funny and completely atypical compared to the people I went to school with who were her age. She talked about anime and photography, music and her family life. This was a wonderful change of pace. I was getting more and more tired of the people I went to school with and how they talked about who was dating who, or who had the fanciest phone and the nicest car in the school. I had found a girl who didn't care about any of that. She just wanted to watch anime and take cute pictures of her cats, and when we talked it was about our lives, not the lives of others.
A day turned into a week, a week turned into a month. We kept talking. I had talked to a girl I found on Omegle for a couple months before I started talking to Rachael, but the first girl seemingly disappeared one day, and I wouldn't talk to her again for another three years. Rachael was different though. She didn't disappear. After a while of talking to her, I noticed how very keen and sensible Rachael was. That is in part why I'm writing this blog post about her. Despite how she originally appeared to rather read manga and play video games than do anything school related, I would come home, do whatever homework I may have had, and then if I had time, get on Facebook to talk to her. Gradually, she began paying more attention to schoolwork and I began paying more attention to Netflix. I started talking to her more about my social life and she came out with very direct observations and solutions to my problems. This blog is one of them.
When I told Rachael that I had a 41 blogs due in seven hours, she told me to stop talking to her and to go write up my blog posts. A small example out of many, I took her advice. I've found that in three years, her advice is usually the right advice despite the three-year age difference. I guess age doesn't always equate to wisdom in my case.
Thanks for occasionally whipping me into shape Rachael. Sometimes I'm just too dense and stubborn to do it myself.
Three years ago this April, I was bored at 2AM, goofing off on the random chat site Omegle when I ended up in a chat with this person who said she was a fourteen year old girl. She linked me to her Myspace account after a while. I didn't believe her when she said that she was fourteen, but that wouldn't be important at the time. She looked, typed, conversed like someone who was older. Contrary to the usual workings of Omegle, we kept talking. She was funny and completely atypical compared to the people I went to school with who were her age. She talked about anime and photography, music and her family life. This was a wonderful change of pace. I was getting more and more tired of the people I went to school with and how they talked about who was dating who, or who had the fanciest phone and the nicest car in the school. I had found a girl who didn't care about any of that. She just wanted to watch anime and take cute pictures of her cats, and when we talked it was about our lives, not the lives of others.
A day turned into a week, a week turned into a month. We kept talking. I had talked to a girl I found on Omegle for a couple months before I started talking to Rachael, but the first girl seemingly disappeared one day, and I wouldn't talk to her again for another three years. Rachael was different though. She didn't disappear. After a while of talking to her, I noticed how very keen and sensible Rachael was. That is in part why I'm writing this blog post about her. Despite how she originally appeared to rather read manga and play video games than do anything school related, I would come home, do whatever homework I may have had, and then if I had time, get on Facebook to talk to her. Gradually, she began paying more attention to schoolwork and I began paying more attention to Netflix. I started talking to her more about my social life and she came out with very direct observations and solutions to my problems. This blog is one of them.
When I told Rachael that I had a 41 blogs due in seven hours, she told me to stop talking to her and to go write up my blog posts. A small example out of many, I took her advice. I've found that in three years, her advice is usually the right advice despite the three-year age difference. I guess age doesn't always equate to wisdom in my case.
Thanks for occasionally whipping me into shape Rachael. Sometimes I'm just too dense and stubborn to do it myself.
Career Blog 3 - Backup-backup Planning
When I was four years old, my older cousin sat me down at his computer and booted up a game titled, simply, F-22 Raptor. Being four years old, the fact that I was allowed to use the flight stick and control the video game jet that way added to the realism. I was amazed that I was flying a plane, and it could shoot missiles, and if I hit a certain key combination, I could make the pilot of the jet eject. When I couldn't play the computer game, I hoped to go to the home of my father's friend. My father's friend had a house that sat close to a river and, on the bank of the river, he had a swing tied to a tree branch. The swing sat so that at the apogee of the swing, when you felt most weightless, it looked as if you were hovering over the river with nothing below you but air and water. I was four years old and I was flying. On the same river, at another friend of my father's, I learned about helicopters for the first time. My father's friend and the friend's brother flew helicopters at various points in their lives and still had an assortment of parts lying around the house as well as a helipad in the back of the house. I was taught by my father and his friend about main rotors and collective levers, and about what happens if the tail rotors fail. I found it incredibly interesting, even at a young age. Five years later, my mother and father took me to an airshow. It was fun just walking on the ground looking at all of the aircraft. When we went inside one of the buildings to look at ticket prices for ride-alongs. My father wanted me to fly in a helicopter but prices were $40 per person. The cheapest ticket for $15 bought a ticket for a circle around the city in a small Cessna single-engine plane. I gladly accepted my parents' offer and ran to get in line at the small blue and white plane. Once aboard, the pilot, co-pilot, another small boy, and myself buckled in and prepared to taxi for takeoff. The small plane accelerated down the runway, the tires rumbling and shaking the plane across the tarmac. Once we picked up enough speed, the pilot pulled back on the stick and we were airborne. The flight only lasted fifteen minutes but the view of the city thousands of feet below me only fueled my love of aviation. By the time I was sixteen, I had changed my mind on what career I wanted to pursue several times and had landed on becoming a commercial pilot. I began looking into aviation colleges and found that Wright State in Dayton had an impressive program for people to become commercial pilots. I also found that Wright State had fairly high entry requirements, requirements that I wasn't able to reach by the time I graduated. By the time my senior year came around, I had realized that if I joined the military I could become a pilot that way. I was again let down to realize that you had to first become an officer and also be exceptionally good at math to be allowed to fly as a military aviator. I set aside my dream of flying for profit when I got accepted into the University of Southern Mississippi, realizing that I could always pick back up on it when I was older and more financially stable. Becoming a commercial pilot has all but slipped from my mind as a possible career but I still have aspirations to get a private pilot's license.
Career Blog 2 - Why I Want to Get My ASL Cert.
When I was younger, say ages four years to ten years, I was a terribly sickly child. I had near constant ear infections, with them at times reappearing within days to a week after healing. I suffered through at-first unbearable pain and earaches when I was younger. When I was eight or nine years old, my right eardrum ruptured during one of my worst ear infections to date. By that time, it had become a regular thing. I was growing so accustomed to having ear infections that, if they were relatively mild, my pain threshold made it so that I hardly realized anything was wrong with me. When I was nine years old, following the ruptured eardrum which eventually healed (though not without effects), my doctor referred me to a specialist who in turn referred me to a surgeon who would remove my tonsils and adenoids, as well as put tubes in my ears.
Following the surgery and, for practically the first time, a whole host of non-ear related illnesses, it seemed my trouble with ear infections and their related illnesses (sinus infections, colds) was gone. I would enjoy several years of decent health without much difficulty or major illnesses, but I did often notice that my hearing seemed to be getting worse with no apparent reason. It first started as occasionally not hearing all of what someone said and gradually came to the point where I had to repeatedly ask people what they said. This wasn't always, and there were times when my hearing was normal. Perhaps a combination of all of those ear infections and the ruptured eardrum, plus listening to loud music through earbuds, and (since I grew up down south) shooting guns without hearing protection led to a reduction in hearing quality.
Recently, my hearing seems to be getting progressively worse. At times, the hearing in my right ear, the ear that was most often infected, the ear whose drum ruptured, will go out almost completely. I can hear faint sounds on my right side, but nothing as clear as on the left. A few minutes later, hearing will slowly come back to that ear and things will be normal again. Healthcare is expensive and specialists are even more so. I don't have insurance and I'm not willing to put myself thousands of dollars further in debt on top of student loans for something that is already in poor shape. I have had to face the very real possibility that I may be, at best, hard of hearing within the next ten years. A certification in American Sign Language would give me both a way into a career such as interpreting as well as a way to communicate with what may eventually become my societal group. I wish I could keep my hearing as it is now if not improve it, but I also want to prepare for the worst.
Following the surgery and, for practically the first time, a whole host of non-ear related illnesses, it seemed my trouble with ear infections and their related illnesses (sinus infections, colds) was gone. I would enjoy several years of decent health without much difficulty or major illnesses, but I did often notice that my hearing seemed to be getting worse with no apparent reason. It first started as occasionally not hearing all of what someone said and gradually came to the point where I had to repeatedly ask people what they said. This wasn't always, and there were times when my hearing was normal. Perhaps a combination of all of those ear infections and the ruptured eardrum, plus listening to loud music through earbuds, and (since I grew up down south) shooting guns without hearing protection led to a reduction in hearing quality.
Recently, my hearing seems to be getting progressively worse. At times, the hearing in my right ear, the ear that was most often infected, the ear whose drum ruptured, will go out almost completely. I can hear faint sounds on my right side, but nothing as clear as on the left. A few minutes later, hearing will slowly come back to that ear and things will be normal again. Healthcare is expensive and specialists are even more so. I don't have insurance and I'm not willing to put myself thousands of dollars further in debt on top of student loans for something that is already in poor shape. I have had to face the very real possibility that I may be, at best, hard of hearing within the next ten years. A certification in American Sign Language would give me both a way into a career such as interpreting as well as a way to communicate with what may eventually become my societal group. I wish I could keep my hearing as it is now if not improve it, but I also want to prepare for the worst.
Career Blog 1
On the first day of COM1110, Professor Piro had us all state our majors. I noticed at once that a large majority of the students who were in the class were healthcare majors, physical therapy majors, dental hygiene majors, and so on. I was the only person to say "I'm a history major." This was not entirely shocking to me. Rhodes is not exactly overflowing with history majors, at least not that I have seen. Since I began college last summer, I have been in two history programs and an IT program. As much as I love the subject of history, I'm going to be pursuing my ASL certification next semester. To get an actual history degree is time-consuming and I feel I am still adjusting to the college environment, so for the time being, I want to get credits in all sorts of various things, as well as pick up the occasional certification if it is feasible or practical. I was going for an Associate's degree in network security in my second semester while I was in Mississippi last year but that fell through when I realized that I don't like computers near enough to make it a career, or even stay in the degree program. This was after I started in the History Education program at the University of Southern Mississippi. Circumstances had me move from coastal Mississippi to Lima.
I like history but it is slowly becoming apparent that I may not want to pursue it for my career path.
I like history but it is slowly becoming apparent that I may not want to pursue it for my career path.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
In-class #9
I bumped into my ex-girlfriend while at the store with my wife the other day. My wife is pregnant and we were shopping for baby toys. As the three of us conversed awkwardly, I recalled telling my ex that I was not the marrying kind. I had hoped she had forgotten that I said that, since it had been quite a while since the breakup. The conversation was full of awkward pauses and the feeling that some or all of us were dancing on the edge of bringing up the past. The standard cordialities were put forward: "Hi, how have things been?", "You look good.", "Glad to see life has worked out alright for you." As we went to part ways, she called out over her shoulder "So much for you not being the marrying type." She stopped and turned around, then spoke again. "And now look at you, married to a knocked up broad."
It was good to see that she held onto things from the past just as much as I did. After all, she was the one who eventually left me for one of my best friends and then acted like nothing happened. But at least I had the decency not to call her on it all these years later.
It was good to see that she held onto things from the past just as much as I did. After all, she was the one who eventually left me for one of my best friends and then acted like nothing happened. But at least I had the decency not to call her on it all these years later.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Smash episode paragraphs
Introductory
Smash is a television drama about a group of Broadway stage actors. It is largely musical in theme. The episode viewed, titled "Bombshell", featured believable characters and very good musical elements. It was balanced in content; not too mature yet not too watered down and juvenile. It also had great songs and audio. The setting and costumes were also excellent. Lastly, the ending of the episode was very well-written. While the show did a decent job at maintaining the attention of the audience, it was also slowly paced. It took a while for the show to get interesting and even then may not hold the interest of people who dislike musicals or theater productions. It also tended to rely too heavily on the drama element but was not always able to deliver. This was occasionally due to the characters not being entirely believable.
Conclusion
While Bombshell was interesting and fairly well-written, it failed to stun and leave amazed. The good setting and costume design as well as the great use of songs could not pull it out of its niche demographic. Though it had a good balance and a strong ending, it suffered from slow pacing and not entirely-believable characters.
Smash is a television drama about a group of Broadway stage actors. It is largely musical in theme. The episode viewed, titled "Bombshell", featured believable characters and very good musical elements. It was balanced in content; not too mature yet not too watered down and juvenile. It also had great songs and audio. The setting and costumes were also excellent. Lastly, the ending of the episode was very well-written. While the show did a decent job at maintaining the attention of the audience, it was also slowly paced. It took a while for the show to get interesting and even then may not hold the interest of people who dislike musicals or theater productions. It also tended to rely too heavily on the drama element but was not always able to deliver. This was occasionally due to the characters not being entirely believable.
Conclusion
While Bombshell was interesting and fairly well-written, it failed to stun and leave amazed. The good setting and costume design as well as the great use of songs could not pull it out of its niche demographic. Though it had a good balance and a strong ending, it suffered from slow pacing and not entirely-believable characters.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
10 Min. Writing 9-25
The hall was quiet until she heard the barking coming from outside the front door. She opened the door to see a cardboard box that was two feet wide by two feet high. When she opened it, she saw that it contained two puppies. They were small and white with black noses and dark brown eyes. Their coats were thick and plushy and when she reached down to pet one, she immediately noticed how warm it was. As she was petting it, it plopped down in the box, rolled over on its back and nipped at her fingers. The other puppy was sitting down and staring at her complacently. She looked around outside to see if there was any trace of who may have left the puppies on her doorstep. Nobody was to be seen so she took hold of the edge of the box and drug it into the foyer. Sensing their change in environment, the puppies simultaneously hopped on onto the edge of the box, toppling it and freeing them. The puppy that had been sitting down in the box - identifiable only because he was larger - immediately began sniffing his surroundings. The smaller more active one began running and bouncing about the house. The girl decided to name them for the time being instead of mentally referring to them as "puppy one" and "puppy two". She dubbed the larger calmer one Neptune and the smaller active one Mercury. Neptune had found his way to the kitchen and was barking at the pantry where he could smell all sorts of edibles. Mercury was running around still and, as he also discovered the kitchen, knocked over his companion sending him sprawling across the floor.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
In-class Prompt #1
I am one of the people who embrace reading and writing and I have written about doing so in the past. In my literacy narrative, I am going to be writing about how I started as a writer and how I got to where I am as a writer today. I feel that this story is an entertaining one to tell and I always find relevant ways to present it. As I detailed in a post in my personal blog, writing is a way in which I process the world around me as well as a way for me to process my own emotions. Since I feel exceptionally emotional about my history in writing, my literacy narrative will serve a dual purpose to allow me to release my feelings about writing as well as retell the story.
As part of the narrative, I also plan on referencing my creativity itself as a means of elaborating on important parts of my history in writing. I will go into detail on past projects and current projects to show how I have grown and how my personal writing styles have changed or, in some cases, stayed the same. For example, I began writing about solitary characters who face person versus self conflicts. This theme persists but I have began adding more depth of character as I have gained more experience as a writer. I will essentially be writing about my creativity itself.
As part of the narrative, I also plan on referencing my creativity itself as a means of elaborating on important parts of my history in writing. I will go into detail on past projects and current projects to show how I have grown and how my personal writing styles have changed or, in some cases, stayed the same. For example, I began writing about solitary characters who face person versus self conflicts. This theme persists but I have began adding more depth of character as I have gained more experience as a writer. I will essentially be writing about my creativity itself.
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