“The Lottery” “A Good Man is Hard to Find” “The Yellow Wallpaper” “Bullet in the Brain” The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely, and the grass was richly green. School was recently over for the summer, and I was at The Tower, the best place to eat in the small town where I live. The worn out sign hung precariously above the door and read, TRY RED SAMMY'S FAMOUS BARBECUE. NONE LIKE FAMOUS RED SAMMY'S! RED SAM! THE FAT BOY WITH THE HAPPY LAUGH. A VETERAN! RED SAMMY'S YOUR MAN! My friends, Luann and Greta, were going to come and meet me there and we were going to spend the night at a lake house owned by the parents of Greta’s boyfriend. “Hey, Sammy, I’m going out back for a smoke,” I called, hopping of my stool, and heading to door. “If my friends come in let them know, will you?” "Yes'm, I suppose so," Red Sam said. My tank top stuck to my body in the summer heat, and sweat rolled down the side of my face as I smoked. Behind the Tower was a huge baseball field, and a couple of boys were just leaving, covered in dirt, and sweat. The town of Jackson was in the middle of nowhere, and was surrounded by rolling hills and tree. The Tower was on the edge, so it was deserted once the boys left. I couldn’t wait to get out of here and into college. I dropped the cigarette butt on the ground when I was done and stomped on it with my boot. I had only taken two steps when something hit me in the back of the head. Shit, is the only thing I thought before I blacked out. Heat. A baseball field. Yellow grass, the whir of insects, myself leaning against a tree as the boys of the neighborhood gather for a pickup game. I wanted to join in, but they just laughed in my face. The tree pokes into my back, and the sun shines directly into my face. I am angry and bored. My big brother glances at me and says something, but I can’t hear him. I came to slowly, the world coming back bit by bit. The dream is already gone and forgotten. The first thing that caught my attention was the pounding in the back of my head. Groaning, I rolled to my side and came face first with a blue pillow. My eyes popped open and raised my head, taking in my surroundings. It looked to be a bedroom, huge and airy. There was a window to my right with bars across them, filtering in the sunlight. There was a small window to the left also. There wasn’t much in the room, just the bed I was on, a bedside table, and a dresser that looked like it was going to fall apart any second. Crawling to the edge of the bed, and unsteadily took to my feet. Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deep-shaded arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees. “What the hell?” I muttered, rubbing my face, my headache growing worse. Before I could figure what to do next, large thumps came from somewhere outside the room, like someone was coming up a flight of stairs. Panic clawed at my throat and I dove back into the bed and closed my eyes. The door to my room creaked as it opened, and my heart raced in my chest. A minute of silence went by, and then another. I hesitantly raised my head after the silence continued, and looked up at my captor. His hair was just beginning to gray and he wore silver- rimmed spectacles that gave him a scholarly look. He had a long-creased face and didn't have on any shirt or undershirt. He had on blue jeans that were too tight for him and was holding a black hat and a gun. When my eyes landed on the gun, I threw myself against the headboard. “Stay the hell away from me!” I snarl to seem like I’m not scared shitless. His face stays impassive, so I have no idea what he’s thinking. “Why did you kidnap me?” I asked, my voice wavering. “What do you want from me?” My kidnapper remained silent, his blue eyes trained into mine, bright and piercing. My hands dug into the sheets as the staring contest went on, until he broke out into a smile that made my stomach turn. He approached me as I cringed back, prepping myself in case I needed to protect myself. His hand reached out to caress my cheek, his palm rough and calloused. He looked at me with a fond smile, then turned and left the room. *I am aware that there is no ending, but it was getting long. I might continue working on it and post more later
0 Comments
The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, causing shadows to dance through the trees and over Vicar’s body. The river gurgled, and cicadas began to come out. The trunk of the truck was cold and stiff against my back and hips, but I made no attempt to move away from it. My fingers were numb, and I realized it was because they were wrapped tightly around the AR-15 rifle that currently sat in my lap. My stomach twisted, and gritting my teeth, I threw the gun out of the truck, where it landed beside the drying pool of blood from Vicar’s wounds. Get ahold of yourself. Did you want someone else to do this? You did the right thing, I thought, though whether I firmly believed that was unclear. It felt like at any minute something inside of me was going to snap.
The sob that comes out of my mouth breaks my train of thought. I put my fingers to my face and they came back wet. I’m not sure I can remember the last time I cried, the army beat that habit out of me. The tears fell onto my lap, staining my jeans and the floor of the truck. My eyes passed over Vicar’s body, which I realized that I could barely make out now that the sin had fully set. Taking a deep breath, I wiped my eyes on my jacket sleeve and grabbed the shovel next to me. I decided to dig a hole close to the riverbed. My back and legs ached by the time I was done digging. I had to take a few seconds to catch my breath afterwards. The knot in my chest tightened slightly when I picked up Vicar’s body and gently put him in the hole. His eyes, thankfully, were closed and he almost looked peaceful. It looked like he was simply sleeping, if you ignored the gaping bullet holes in his chest and head. Turning away, I rubbed my hands over my face as I took deep breaths, hoping to not throw up what I ate for lunch. The last time I’d thrown up was when I got food poisoning my second week into my deployment. Why am I falling apart now? I shot him three times, it wasn’t like he was going to come back to life. He’s just like those dogs we shot on the battlefield, I attempted to convince myself. But he’s not, is he? “Dammit,” I muttered as my boot hit something solid on the ground, causing me to stumble forward. I managed not to fall flat on my face, and I turned around to figure out what the culprit was. It was my gun, the one that I had thrown earlier. I hesitantly picked it up, and it sat heavily in my trembling hands. There’s a rustle behind me, and in a flash, I have my gun trained at the spot, my heart pounding in my ears. A squirrel stared back at me, an acorn in its hands. After a couple seconds into our staring match, the squirrel decided it was bored of me and scurried off into the night. Gritting my teeth, I lowered the gun as my breath came out rugged. Orange, will I always be orange? Will I ever get to be white again? To be free of this fear and caution? I mean, dammit I was about to shoot a freaking squirrel! The tether finally snaps and the next thing I know, tears are running down my face and screams are crawling out of my throat and into the open sky. Colors dance across my vision; red, and orange, and white, over, and over, swirling and blinding me. My chest aches and I scream, and I scream until I can’t scream anymore. I must have blacked out because suddenly I’m looking at the night sky. The stars are twinkling above me, and the ground is soft against my back from the morning rain. Numbness wrapped around me like a blanket as I laid there for who knows how long. My mind feels fuzzy, like it’s filled with cotton balls. Cheryl’s probably worried about me, I think faintly, but the thought drifts off like a cloud. Maybe I’m losing my mind, I’ve seen it happen to other men too many times. Men who see things that no man should ever have to see, men who once they see they don’t know how to handle it. Good men, men who will never be the same ever again. My mind then wanders to Weissert, who came home an empty house and an absent wife. Who started on a binge drinking spree and has yet to stop. I think of Lance Corporal Curtis, whose wife is five months pregnant, which doesn’t really add up after a seven-month deployment now does it? I think of all the men who didn’t even get to come back, like Eicholtz and Franklin, and the dozen other men whose names will most likely be forgotten. What where we even fighting for, if in the end all we have is empty hearts and a ledger full to the brim with red. My gun is cradled in my arms like a teddy bear, comforting like one. After what seemed like hours, I finally get back on my feet. I take the shovel that I had dropped at some point and filled Vicar’s grave back up with dirt. Then I threw the dirty shovel in the trunk and took hold of my gun once again. I knew what I had to do then, like a lightbulb going off in my head. I felt bad that I didn’t get to tell Cheryl I love her, but maybe it’s for the best.
Blog introduction:
This blog post is a re-genre piece of the short story Bullet in the Brain by Tobias Wolff. Re-genre analysis: Blue Suit Bank Robbers Strike Again At around 1:30 on Saturday, March 5th, Central Bank in New York was robbed by two men in ski masks and blue suits. There is one reported death, a book critic named Anders, who was apparently shot in the head. "I'm not surprised," one witness reported. "I was standing in front of him in line, and he wouldn't keep his mouth shut. It was terrible." Security footage from the bank shows the two men coming in, and one shot Anders after getting into a verbal altercation. The only other injury was to the bank security guard, who was handcuffed and kicked in the back. "I didn't see what went down, but I could hear the moron mouthing off to the robber. If someone puts a fricking gun to your head and tells you to shut up, you shut up," the guard reported. The mother of the victim refused to give a statement, but was willing to hand over a journal written by the deceased. Here is an early entry by the victim. “Heat. A baseball field. Yellow grass, the whirr of insects, myself leaning against a tree as the boys of the neighborhood gather for a pickup game. I look on as the others argue the relative genius of Mantle and Mays. They have been worrying this subject all summer, and it has become tedious to me: an oppression, like the heat. Then the last two boys arrive, Coyle and a cousin of mine from Mississippi. I have never met Coyle's cousin before and will never see him again. He says hi with the rest but takes no further notice of him until they've chosen sides and someone asks the cousin what position he wants to play. "Shortstop," the boy says. "Short's the best position they is." I turn and look at him. I want to hear Coyle's cousin repeat what he's just said, but I knows better than to ask. The others will think I’m being a jerk, ragging the kid for his grammar. But that isn't it, not at all - it's that I was strangely roused, elated, by those final two words, their pure unexpectedness and their music. I takes the field in a trance, repeating them to myself.” Blog Post Introduction:
The focus of this blog is to provide an analysis of the book “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson. The blog will have three different sections, which include a literary analysis, an argumentation piece, and a narration piece. Literary Analysis: Theme: Tradition and hierarchies Motifs: The black box and the black dot on the slips of paper Conflicts: Whether or not to keep following tradition Argumentation: What current American tradition shares similarities with the lottery tradition in the village? A tradition that is like the lottery tradition is hazing. Something that is most commonly associated with college fraternities, hazing is a dangerous ‘tradition’ that unfortunately happens a lot. Hazing can be embarrassing and humiliating for the people involved, and in more extreme cases, life-threatening injuries, and death. https://qz.com/1065207/college-hazing-continuously-results-in-death-why-do-we-keep-the-tradition-alive/ Narration: When have you made an important choice to break away or not break away from a strong family, friend, or cultural tradition? I made an important choice to break away from a friend in high school. It took me awhile to realize that the friendship was toxic. This friend, Sarah, wasn’t really a good person; she constantly belittled people, lied, and never seemed to take responsibility when she did something wrong. I kept making excuses for her to convince myself that she wasn’t really that awful of a person; that and I hate confrontation and didn’t want to lose a friend. Now I didn’t choose necessarily to end the friendship, at least at the time. I had planned on it but it didn’t really go as planned. It was the last class of the day, I think our drama class, and Sarah had made a comment about someone that I felt wasn’t nice, and ended up snapping at her. I texted her later apologizing about it, which then turned into a HUGE argument, One thing led to another and our relationship ended in a chaotic mess. In the end, I was relieved that the relationship had ended even though it hurt. Blog Post Introduction:
The focus of this blog is to provide an analysis of the book The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. The blog will have three different sections, which include a literary analysis, an argumentation piece, and a narration piece. Literary Analysis: Context: Charlotte Gilman was a writer that was born in 1860. She wrote novels and had a magazine, and later committed suicide in 1935. Publish date: 1892 Text: A woman and her husband temporarily move to a new home to help the woman recover from her depression. She soon becomes fascinated with the yellow wallpaper in the bedroom as her mental health deteriorates. Style: Subjective, serious, with short sentences. Subtext: Themes: Mental health/depression, power and control, and sexism Motifs: Yellow wallpaper, notebook, and bars on windows Argumentation: The narrator didn’t have much freedom when it came to the actual act of writing in her journal. She was technically not supposed to be writing, and had to constantly hide the notebook from her husband, John, and his sister. It seemed like her life with John was largely being told what to do and being controlled by him. But otherwise, she had a lot of freedom to make whatever choices she wanted, at least in terms of writing. She didn’t have any restraints on what she could write; she could write basically whatever she wanted. It was a notebook; a place for her to write her thoughts and feelings, not a novel that she planned on publishing. Narration: In general, I tend to limit myself in my ability in making important life choices, although very rarely am I put in that position. I hate making decisions, big or small. I always have and probably always will. The pressure of making a choice is overwhelming, and I always worry that I’m going to make the wrong choice. I also worry about what effect it’ll have on the people around me, like friends and family. A fair amount of the stress stems from having an anxiety disorder, causing me to overanalyze the situation and deciding last minute. I’ve always had pretty low self-confidence as well, so I never feel confident in the decisions I make. Please copy and paste the following bullet points into your blog post and complete the following:
English 112 Blog post #1 Blog post introduction: This blog post is going to analyze and interpret a podcast called What You don’t know. This blog post will contain a literary analysis, an argumentation section, and a narration section. Literary analysis: Context: Author biography: She is a filmmaker who was originally a classical pianist. She was raised in Miami after being born in Beijing. Publish Date: April 22, 2016 Setting: China Text: Genre? Plot Summary: Lulu Wang’s grandmother was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer and had 3 months to live, and her family decided not to tell her about the diagnosis. POV: Lulu Wang’s POV Tone/Style: Subjective, emotional, intimate, and serious Subtext: Theme: Grief, Deception, Ignorance Argumentation: Honestly, I don’t know whether I agree with the decision or not. I fully understand why the family decided to lie; the grandmother didn’t ever get sick and die anyway. I think if the grandmother was younger, then I would probably not agree with the decision to lie about having a terminal illness. On the other hand, if someone does indeed have a terminal illness, they deserve to know. It seems cruel and disrespectful to lie about it, especially if they only have a certain amount of time left to live. I have seen relatives both die and survive different forms of cancer; I even had a benign cancer tumor removed from my left ring finger last summer. I don’t think lying about having the cancer would have been able to help those I’ve lost. The cancer would still be there; it would still wreck their bodies and minds. Not telling someone about a serious ailment won’t magically ‘cure’ them of it. I know that I would want to know if something like this was happening to me. If I had pulled this stunt on my dad, he would disown me. Those were basically his exact words. Narration: I had an experience last year that indirectly affected a friend after keeping a relatively big secret from them. This friend, I’ll call her Michelle, entered the same college I did last year. She had a boyfriend that she had been with for at least a couple of years. He would occasionally visit the college and they would hang out in my dorm with my roommate, who I’ll call Gina, and I. My roommate came to me one night and told me that Michelle’s boyfriend, Joe, had confessed to Gina that he liked her and that they kissed. She told me not to tell Michelle, which I hesitantly agreed to, figuring that they would figure it out. Now I don’t remember if Gina ever did tell Michelle, but I was told much later that Joe was cheating on Michelle with at least two or three other girls. I haven’t spoken to Michelle since she found out about the cheating, so I don’t know how big the impact was. There is a little bit of background that isn’t included, and honestly, I don’t know if saying anything would have fixed the situation at all. But it’s something that I still occasionally feel guilty about. |
Details
Elijah CarneyI will use this blog to explore course readings. Archives
December 2017
Categories
All
|