Life and Death often meet in Waffle House parking lots. Contrary to popular belief, it's not easy being an ageless inevitable entity and sometimes hash browns are in order. Also, they're twins. It's good to catch up every now and then. Sometimes they swap stories. They always know the same people, they each meet them once.
     Life likes to know how each persons story ends. All of the little details. Every person matters to life, no matter who they were in their time on earth.
     Death likes to know how each person's story starts. the exact circumstances if possible. The contrast is what's interesting to them. More frequently than anyone knows, no one starts and ends their journey in the same place.
     No one sees them as they sit at the bar, but two plates of hash browns and two cups of coffee will find their way to the end of the counter.
     It's nice, this time together, it reminds them they aren't so alone.

      It was done. Despite the journey. Despite the warnings of danger. The Prince won the battle with the dragon. It's corpse lay broken, bloody and charred in the ruins of the thorn bushes surrounding the castle. Climbing the winding stairs of the tower, he imagined the look of gratitude and adoration that would be on the Princesses face.
      There was a wooden and iron door at the top of the stairs, it opened without a sound. The vaulted chamber beyond was dim, the light from the fire below barely coming through a small window. The only furniture in the room was a large bed with gauzy curtains hanging to the floor. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust. The Prince left footprints as he approached the bed, dust fell in a cloud as he pulled back one of the hangings to look at the Princess.
     Even protected as she was she could not escape the dust. His fingers left a trail as he gently stroked her cheek, caressed his thumb over her lips and down her neck. Even asleep she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Her skin was so soft and her hair was starkly black in the dimness of the room.
     He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.
     The Princess sighed and opened her eyes. She smiled sweetly, lifting a hand and gently tracing the Princes features. The Prince smiled in return, closed his eyes and leaned in for another kiss.
     Without a sound, without warning, he was hurled from the bed and thrown against the ancient wooden door. His head hit with a resounding thud. He struggled to his feet, preparing to battle whatever new entity would keep him from his prize when he was shoved down and held in place.
     Coughing he looked up and screamed.
     It was his Princess, squatting beside him, head tilted to the side like a bird.
     Her eyes. There was nothing human in her eyes; There was nothing of gratitude or adoration, more like cold detachment. He couldn't look away, terror made him week.
     "I know you," she whispered in his ear, coming closer. Her voice was clear and lovely. He flinched back but there was no where to go.
     She wrapped one cold, delicate hand around his throat and squeezed. As he fell into the void he heard her whisper,  "You walked with me once upon a dream."
     

Merchant of Venice Character Study

Lancelot from The Merchant of Venice

The Merchant of Venice, otherwise called The Jew of Venice, is more than a romantic comedy. It explains the population’s prejudices toward Jews during Shakespeare’s time. The people of Shakespeare’s England were especially superstitious towards Jews. They were accused of such things as poisoning wells and stealing babies, and their strange customs did not endear them to the population. In that age Jews were viewed as a necessary evil because they often took on the least alluring occupations such as moneylenders. Christians found this occupation to be shameful and against their own moral code, and so the Jews were persecuted and punished for what society demanded of them. This is most evident in the character, Lancelot, and his role is particularly evident in three specific scenes: Act Two, Scene Two; Act Two, Scene Three; and Act Three, Scene Five.

As the audience is introduced we find out Lancelot, a Christian, has no respect for his master, Shylock, who is a Jew and a moneylender. The first words out of Lancelot’s mouth are full of censure for his master and he is debating whether or not to leave his service. In keeping with his title of “clown” he makes fun of his situation in it’s traditional sense, as well the lesser known role of speaking inconvenient truths. For example, the period Londoner’s view of Jews. Lancelot says that the Jew “is the very Devil incarnate” (2.2.21) and that “he is a Jew if he serve the Jew any longer” (2.2.100).

He leaves Shylock’s service and goes to work for Bassanio, the down and out Italian merchant. In Lancelot’s opinion, and the common opinion of the time, it would be better to serve a poor Christian than a rich Jew.

Lancelot’s disdain goes only so far as Shylock it seems, for in the following scene the audience sees how the clown has formed a friendship with Jessica, Shylock’s beautiful daughter. In Scene Three of Act Two, Shakespeare wrote a touching encounter between Jessica and Lancelot. Here, it is made apparent that the clown and the Jewess were friends in mischief, referring to Lancelot a “merry devil” (2.3.2). Neither one cares very much for Shylock’s melancholy attitude toward society and his place in it. In this scene, Lancelot is telling Jessica goodbye and he is moved to tears at the thought of not seeing her again. He calls her the “most beautiful pagan, [the] most sweet Jew” (2.3.10-11), illustrating that her beauty makes it easy for her to fit in with the Christian society.

Jessica’s beauty does not save her from eternal damnation, as Lancelot makes clear in Act Three, Scene Five of the play. Lancelot and Jessica sit in Portia’s garden passing the time, and although Lancelot’s words appear to be in jest, they betray an underlying message.

Though Jessica has run away from her father to be with her husband, Lorenzo, and has converted to Christianity, Lancelot claims that “ the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children…for I truly think you are damned.” (3.5.1-5). Lancelot, the embodiment of the common man, makes it clear, though in jest, that nothing can save Jessica’s soul. She was born a Jew and will always be so, with all of the stigma and prejudice attached to it.

All of Lancelot’s prejudices are conveyed to the audience through the guise of comedy. He is, after all, the clown, and his purpose is to make the audience laugh. Yet his sentiments are clear: he believes a pretty Jewess can be accepted in society but only for friendship. The world will frown behind her back for being the wife of a wealthy merchant. The Jews were necessary in the economy of the time; however, that doesn’t mean they have to be treated with respect, or as educated men worthy of respect such as Antonio or Graziano.

All of the age old discriminations toward a particular group of people are present in Lancelot. His belief that they are damned and that they are demons reflects the popular attitude towards this group of people at the time. His interpretation of these beliefs is what makes his character funny, poignant, and vital to the play.

Not With a Bang

Maggie stared at the industrial ceiling tiles. The ambient sound of chatter and soft soled shoes lured her into a state of unconscious that she fought wearily. She wanted to get out of here. She wanted to get away from the smell of antiseptic and Clorox. She wanted a fresh cup of strong coffee. She wanted her bed and her dogs. She wanted to go home. She didn't dare.

There had been no word. Her Dad, still speaking with the doctor a few paces down the hall, looked haggard. His blue eyes were red with crying and the lines were pronounced around his eyes. The nurses had stopped their come and go from Papa's room. That was good, she thought. He'd be able to rest now. She wanted suddenly, and with a pain that made her choke, to be little again. She wanted to go back to that princess room that her parents had picked just for her. She wanted her Dad to read her a book and Papa to tuck her in. She didn't want to be in the hospital waiting for Papa to die.

"Hey," a male voice brought her out of her gloomy thoughts. "I brought you coffee." Her little brother, Kevin. So much younger than her, only a senior in high school. He didn't deserve to have his father die, he deserved so much more time with their Papa. 

"Thanks," she said and put on her brave face. The coffee was bitter and weak. Kevin never could get it exactly right. "It tastes good." He smiled slightly and sipped his coke. He tried to laugh a little, but it came out garbled and wet. "It'll stunt your growth." 

Maggie reached over and gently cuffed him over the head. It was an old joke and a silly one. Maggie had been tall all her life and now she towered over her brother and parents. Only Papa had ever come close to her in height. Though, lately, he hadn't had the strength to sit up never mind stand. 

Another memory surfaced. A banquet for a charity her parents sponsored. Of course there was dancing, of course she towered over the other boys. Papa found her in the ballroom hallway, the little bit of makeup they had allowed her for the night running down her face as she cried silent tears. 

"This will never do," he said in his academic voice. "The prettiest girl at the dance cannot be allowed to hide in the hallway." He had dried her tears with his handkerchief and led her onto the dance floor. "Stand up straight, Maggie" he admonished her. "You have been blessed with height, don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise." 

A nurse came rushing by, pulling Maggie out of the memory. She glanced down the hall. Her dad and the doctor were still talking. What more could there be to say? She thought angrily. The diagnosis had been grim for months. Over the past few days Papa had steadily declined. What more could there be to say. Papa was dying. Papa was dying and he didn't need to be in the hospital. Maggie wanted him to be at home. He needed to be at home with their dogs and his special temperpedic pillow. They could put on The Golden Girls, even if he slept through all of it, and he would be comfortable and they would be together. There wouldn't be any antiseptic smell, or ambient beeping from heart monitors. 

"Do you remember coming home, Kevin?" She asked suddenly. He looked at her strangely but answered the question. "No," he whispered, then clearing his throat continued. "I was so young when I was adopted, apparently it's not surprising. You guys, my family, you guys are all I remember." He took a sip of coke and Maggie watched as one tear then another slid down his face. Reaching over, she wiped at the tear with her thumb. She looked down into her coffee cup, rolling the styrofoam between her hands to warm them. 

"What about you," he asked. "Do you remember before?" 

Fluorescent lights, another kind of industrial cleaning smell. Her seat just as hard as her present one, but her feet miles off the floor. Exactly three crayons, that was all they had allowed. It had frustrated her, how could she possibly draw the pictures in her head with three colors? Two men came in and spoke with the lady at the desk in front of her, both with golden hair. She was stunned. Maybe they were princes, she thought. Like in the stories. They were laughing with the woman. She stopped coloring to stare at them and looked away quickly when she was noticed. The man with dark eyes whispered to the other man and sat down next to her. The man with blue eyes continued to speak with the lady behind the desk.

"That's a pretty picture you're drawing." She looked down at he landscape, nothing but blue sky, green grass and the bright yellow sun. She shook her head sullenly. "Not enough colors." She mumbled. 

The man with dark eyes tutted. "That won't do," he said and reaching into his sports coat he pulled out a big pack of crayons. She stared enraptured by the shades of green, blue and red, gingerly taking the box from the man with the dark eyes. 

"Thank you," she whispered unable to take her gaze away from the yellow and green box in her hand. The man chuckled and she looked up at him. He held out his hand and she stared at it, unsure what to do, slowly she put her small hand in his. Gently he squeezed and went down on his knees on the floor so he looked her in the eye. "Miss Maggie," he whispered. "You are the sweetest, prettiest little girl. Would you like to come and stay with us?" He gestured to the man with the blue eyes. He had stopped talking to the woman behind the desk and they were looking at her now. The other mans eyes were turning pink and he had tears on his cheeks. 

Maggie looked at the man with dark eyes, how they twinkled with mischief and fun. "Yes I would," She whispered.

"No," she whispered, coming back from the memory. Her throat painfully clogged with tears too close to the surface. "They are all I remember." 

Dad finally stopped talking with the doctor and moved slowly toward them. Kevin jumped up and Maggie followed. As soon as they were close enough they were gathered in, holding onto one another. Maggie took comfort in the cedar smell of her Dad's cologne, wanting to weep because she knew it was her Papa's favorite. Still holding onto each other they sat on the sofa.

"Can he come home," Kevin asked tearfully, taking her question from her. They looked at their Dad, the air heavy with expectation. Maggie knew the answer before he opened his mouth. She knew by the hopeless look in his eyes and the tightness of his jaw. 

Kevin saw it too and let a strangled sob escape before he jumped up and began pacing the hall. Attempting and failing to keep the tears at bay. Maggie sat with her dad, holding his hand, tears running down both of their faces.  

"I'm going to sit with him," she whispered. She moved slowly toward the door, her dad holding onto her hand until the last minute. Someone had brought a lamp so that there was a soft orange glow in the room instead of harsh institutional light. Maggie pulled the armchair up to the side of the bed and gently took Papa's hand. With his warm brown eyes closed he seems deflated somehow. The force of his personality hidden behind his lids smudged blue with exhaustion. He seemed so frail. 

      The ambient sound of the hospital was muted in his room. Here only the heart monitor broke the oppressive quiet. She tried to take deep measured breaths to keep from thinking. Painfully, she swallowed and laughed ruefully. "I'm sorry I didn't bring my phone in," she whispered. "Or we could listen to some Bossa Nova." 

Tears were silently falling down her face. She gently ran her thumb back and forth across his hand and the thick veins that bisected it. She became aware of her Dad and Kevin coming into the room. Kevin moved to the other side of the bed and took Papas other hand while Dad pulled the other chair up to the foot of the bed. 

Once everyone settled she realized that Papa was worrying at her hand and she looked up. He was gazing at her from half lidded eyes, a faint smile on his face. 

"Hey pretty girl," he rasped, coughing and she hurriedly reached for the nearby cup to get him some water. Dad stood up and moved to the head of the bed, smoothing Papa's hair back. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything?" He asked. `A weak smile. "No, just sleep. I'm so tired." Dad gave him a pained smile and made himself busy straightening pillows. Papa smiled when he saw Kevin and ran his finger up and down his cheek. 

      Everyone smiled and made small talk as though the world wasn't being shifted on its access, as though they weren't all standing at the precipice of before and after. It was the strangest thing, but there was something comforting about resting in that delusion. In believing that it was just another hospital visit, and that as soon as the doctor gave the go ahead they would wheel Papa out to the car. Him joking about the service like the hospital were a four star resort and the rest of the family rolling eyes at his corny jokes. Despite the surroundings, Maggie found herself getting sleepy, across from her Kevin's head was resting on his chest. Her blinks became longer and longer. Maybe she'd put her head down, just for a minute. The last thing she heard before sleep claimed her was the quite murmuring of her parents, and Papa whispering, "You are the sweetest, prettiest little girl." 

She was cold but what woke Maggie was the quiet. There was no sound, no beeping of the heart monitor, and her Papa's hand was limp. Sitting up, she found that it was morning, weak yellow light shone through the large window. She looked around and saw Dad standing with the doctor, holding a sobbing Kevin. Maggie stood shakily, slowly moving back from the bed. She thought someone was saying her name, but she couldn't hear anything over the roaring silence. She pressed her hands to her mouth, shaking her head in denial. Refusing to let the tears come. She needed to be strong, Dad and Kevin needed her to be strong, and if she started sobbing now she'd never stop.

She tried breathing deeply to calm down, one after the other she tried to catch her breath but someone had sucked all of the air out of the room. Faintly, from far away, she heard her name again. She was sobbing now, her grief and panic taking over her body. She couldn't breath. Arms surrounded her and she screamed. She wailed. Everything that was happening, everything that she wanted for Papa came crushing down on her chest. Her ribs puncturing her lungs, her heart exploding. Why she kept living in those moments was a mystery she'd never know.

     Later Dad and Kevin would tell her that Papa had dozed off early in the morning; still holding onto her and her brother. His heartbeat had slowed, the doctor was brought in, the beeps of his heart had moved further and further apart. Dad said that the doctor called time of death just before she woke up. "It's like you felt him leave," he whispered in her ear when she calmed. "Baby girl, don't be sad. Papa always knew just when to go."  

Mara’s Story, OR; I wrote this as an assignment in college. The story is my reaction to reading a book called Living Dead Girl.

              Mara went to the coat closet and pulled out her leather blazer. She had hoped that her best friend and sometimes roommate, David, wouldn’t notice and would continue playing video games on her PS3. She had almost made it out the door, keys in hand when he stepped into the family room doorway.

    “Where are you going?”

    “Out with friends.”

    “Mind if I tag along?”

    “Jesus, David it’s just drinks with some friends. You’ll be bored stiff without Court TV to amuse you.” She laughed shrilly. “Just stay here.” “No,” he replied. “It could be fun, besides it’s been ages since I went drinking on River Street.” He walked down the hall and grabbed his heavy duster and the keys to his car.

The entire twenty minute ride from the marshes to Savannah proper, Mara was sweating bullets. David would know, as he always did, that she was up to something, especially if she left the bar as soon as they arrived.

    They found a place to park in a lot by the entrance to River Street and slowly made their way through the heat to Wet Willies.

               The air was so close, so hot and damp she could have held it in her hand. There was no escape from the Savannah heat. It hid between the buildings and narrow allies. The live oaks smothered with Spanish moss turned the squares into incubators. Above them, the normally heavy traffic on Bull Street could hardly be heard. Even the diehard drinkers were absent from River Street, trying to escape the heat.

              When they entered Wet Willies, she found that everyone was inside the bar enjoying the air conditioning. It was while standing in the throng of people that she knew what to do. She pulled David down so that his ear was by her mouth.

              “I’m going to the powder room,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” He looked at her deeply, worry in his eyes, before nodding and making his way to the bar. She made her way back to the restrooms, but once in the corridor she went for the service exit, passed through the kitchen and came out in the night air below Bull Street.

               She climbed the steps up to the street proper and made her way down Bull Street, past Haitian square, toward the warehouses used for the cargo ships.

              As she walked she realized how inappropriately dressed she was for a summer night in the south. She wore too high boots and tight black jeans, a black leather jacket and a black shirt. She was feeling the heat. She felt sweat trickle down her back and her cheek.

              She reached an intersection and looked both ways before crossing the deserted street. Upon reaching the other side she looked around again, peering into the shadows, looking to see if she was being followed. Satisfied that she was alone, she walked back into the middle of the street, took a deep breath then broke into a dead run toward an abandoned warehouse. When she reached the sidewalk she leapt up and grabbed onto the wall eight feet off of the ground.

              Using the tips of her fingers and toes she climbed the next four stories with ease. There was a guard rail on the roof and she hung on to it, scanning, making sure she was alone before she swung herself up. The roof of this building was typical for a warehouse. Flat, with abandoned crates and cinderblocks scattered here and there. At each corner huge security lights guarded the roof, but they were dark for now.

              In the darkness a shape was moving towards her. She didn’t see it at first, she was moving toward the little shed that held the access door when a deep bass voice called her name.

              “Mara.”

              With a spin that was almost too fast for the human eye, Mara was facing the shadow, pistol pointed unwaveringly in its direction, conjured from inside her leather jacket.

              “How did you find me?” she asked into the darkness.

              At that moment two lights switched on, illuminating the source of the voice. David stood in his black duster ten feet away from her. He was huge in the shadows, adding to his bulk was his coloring, he was very dark; his black brown hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, a few strands had escaped to frame his amazing cheekbones and bottomless brown eyes.

              His brown eyes slowly met her electric blue in the shadows. He smiled a small smile. “I can always find you Mara. I knew you weren’t planning on staying at the bar.” He said gently, taking a couple of steps forward. Slowly he lifted one bronze skinned arm and pressed down on the barrel of her pistol, gently forcing her to lower it.

              They stood there in silence for a moment, only a couple of feet apart. Mara had her arms dangling by her sides, pistol held loosely in her hand. Her appearance one of defeat but her body vibrated with tension, ready for anything. She was caught in the warm depths David’s eyes. They were filled with so much compassion and warmth. She could not let herself stare too long into his eyes. She might change her mind if she did.

              “David,” she began helplessly.

               “Don’t let him take this part of you Mara, don’t kill him.”             

                “I have to do something!”

                “But you can’t kill him! He may have done unspeakable things to you, to dozens of girls after you and before you, but only you have survived, you lived. If you do this there is no turning back, it will haunt you forever, don’t give him that. Do not give him your soul.”

Mara looked him in the eye, tears glimmering so dangerously near the surface, but he knew she wouldn’t cry. Mara never cried.

                “I am not going to kill him. He has another girl. I’m doing what I always do, I’m rescuing her. Then, while I’m taking her to the safe house I’ll call the police.” She looked away from him as she finished. “Just the way I always have.”

                “Bull shit.” David spat. “I know you better than I know anyone, Mara. Hear me. Nothing you do will make your captivity not have happened. You will not feel better when it is done. He may be a monster, but if you take a life, no matter how evil, you will be scarred. Mara,” He said trying to get through to her. “You can be happy without doing this.”

                Mara stared at him. He was and had always been her best friend, even though he was seven years older than her. He was the one who had rescued her, this giant of a man. He knew what had been done to her. He had been walking down a side street one beautiful spring day, everything green and in Technicolor bloom. She remembered those colors so vividly. Her captor had kept her in the dark basement with no light. That day she had scraped enough paint off of the windows to see outside. By some act of fate David had been walking down that street when he saw her, he was able to get help to rescue her. 

              “He already owns a part of me. He stole it from me. He owes me, and I will get him back.” The last was said with all of the anger in her being, it was there to see on her face, and it frightened David. It was a rash anger, and he knew he had to stop her. If she acted on her anger Mara would die tonight.

                Mara saw the muscle tense in his leg. He was going to rush her, tackle her, anything to keep her from going into that warehouse. She stepped quickly to the side, striking first, hitting him over the head with the butt of her pistol and knocking him unconscious.

                He would have a hell of a headache when he came to, but her mission would be done. Quietly, she made her way down the stairs.

                Her acute senses led her to the middle of the third floor; she could hear rattling and muffled screams. Her heart started beating in triple time, her breath became short, her palms began to sweat and her hands began to shake. She put her pistol inside her jacket only to pull it back out; she was in front of the prison door.

                She turned the latch slowly, of course it was unlocked, and light from the hall spilled into the store room. A man, naked, on his knees behind a young girl. Her bloody wrists shackled to the wall. His oily smile, “Mara,” his soft voice, His taunting “Want to join?” But she couldn’t move, just like when she was young, she was paralyzed, her gun slipped out of her slick palm. “Tut, what have you here?” He was too close, and he kept moving closer, but he was using the young girl as a shield. She was so young, younger than Mara had been, and Mara couldn’t move, she couldn’t pick up her weapon to help this girl.

“Did you think to catch me, Mara?” he continued in his too soft too sweet voice. “Did you think you could stop me?” He jerked the girl in his arms. “Did you want to save her?”

              In her periphery Mara could see the black butcher paper covering the windows. It would have been completely dark with the door closed. She could see the young girl’s pallet in the corner. There were no blankets, and no clothes anywhere. He kept her naked in the darkness.

              “Have you come back to me, Mara?” she heard him ask now. “You were always tougher than any of my other girls.” He smiled as he said that, running a hand up and down the young girl’s bare side, causing her to whimper. Mara tried very hard not to throw up. She had been tough. It had delighted him that he could abuse her in any fashion and she would recover in time for him to come back the next night.

              She stood there in numb horror, staring at this man who had haunted her in one form or another for most of her life. She had thought she was free the day David rescued her, but she had still been in a prison of her own making. Her need for revenge had kept this monster alive and in her life for far longer that he should have. She realized that she had never really lived her life. All of her being had been dedicated to finding and destroying this monster.

              As she stared into his soulless grey eyes, she felt a kind of peace settle over her. Everything she had trained for came back and she felt her muscles unlock, become loose again. She gauged the distance between them, looked to see if he had any weapons hidden near him or on him. She could rush him, she saw, grab the girl away from him, and get her out the door. Then they could both be free.

              On the rooftop, David regained consciousness. At first he felt that it would have been better if he hadn’t woken up. He had a pain behind his right eye that felt like a nail was making a home there. Then he remembered where he was and jumped to his feet. He saw the open doorway to the stairs and went down them as quietly and quickly as he could. He couldn’t hear anything, not even his footsteps. It was like walking through cotton. Instead he listened for Mara. His “Mara-detector” their parents had teased, even as children he had known where to find her. This instinct took him to the third floor. It was black in the hallways, and again he ignored one of his senses, listening only to the hum of his blood that told him he was getting closer.

              He saw her in a halo of light. The only light on the entire floor was outside of a nondescript store room. However as he came nearer, he heard a voice that was both oily and sweet at the same time. He couldn’t make out the words but the tone was mocking. He came ever nearer and saw that Mara didn’t have her gun in hand. He slowly drew his, never making a sound. He couldn’t think what Mara had planned, usually he could but right now the space her mind filled with his was blank. He stood deep in the shadows watching.

              Sense she didn’t have her gun, David worried that she would rush the monster; try to kill him with her hands. As he pondered what she would do he noticed a kind of calm come over her, relaxing her shoulders. Before he could think what it meant, he saw a flash of silver. The monster had a knife. G-d knows where it came from, or what he was going to do with it. Whether he was going to slit the girl’s throat or throw it at Mara, but David couldn’t let him do either. He moved closer to the room and lined up his target and fired.

              Mara heard the click of the trigger a hundredth of a second before the gun was fired. She saw the monster fall back, blood already pooling beneath his shoulder. The girl was ramrod stiff, white as a sheet for another hundredth of a second before collapsing into sobs. Mara caught her before she hit the floor and gathered her into her lap. David checked the monster’s pulse as Mara attempted to comfort the girl. “He’s alive but barely.” David said. Mara said nothing to that, only continued to rock the girl, stroke her hair, trying to give her some reassurance.

              “Mara,” David said, getting her attention. “Prison will be the worse than death for him.” She looked into David’s beautiful brown eyes and felt so warm, so safe. “I know,” she whispered and pulled out her cell phone to call the police.

              The police had their questions and they wanted answers now, but David being one of them convinced the coppers that she would be better able to answer questions at the station. She was glad in an abstract way that she didn’t have to deal with people. She didn’t even have to move. David picked her up and carried her out of the warehouse, back down to River Street, into his car, and back to his house on the Bull River. She was feeling about five in the early morning light. Especially as he picked her up out of the car and put her in front of the fire pit on the deck overlooking the water. The tide was just coming in; she could feel the deck slowly rising with the water.

              “Here,” he said handing her a glass of red wine.

              She lifted the glass and inhaled the sweet scent. “Cabernet Savinaun?” He smiled down at her. “It’s your favorite.”  He had beer in his hand. “Besides you never did get that drink last night.” She took a sip and held the glass to the light, seeing how the sun shone through the ruby liquid. They spent some time in a comfortable silence before Mara spoke up again.

              “I don’t suppose you’d let me take a shower?” David laughed at that.

              “No, I like my water bill just where it is thanks. Every time you come over and spend an hour in the bath it goes up about fifty dollars.” Mara smiled wanly.

              “Why do you put up with me?” she asked seriously. David answered her question in kind. “My grandfather used to say that when you saved someone’s life it made you responsible for them.” He looked over at her. “You were always like a little sister to me, but after I found you…” He sighed. “You think you have lived bent on revenge.” He shook his head and took a sip of his drink.

              Mara was confused. “Why would you feel the need for revenge?”

              Why would he feel the need for revenge? David didn’t answer for so long that she must have thought he was ignoring her question. In truth he was astonished. Astonished that he could have spent all of his life nearly overwhelmed by what he felt for her and she could never have noticed. At times he thought it must be written on his face. He was in agony when, at ten years old, she disappeared. It had made him become a cop, so that he could have access to her case, so he would be better able to find her. And he had, partly it was his connection to her, it had taken him down an untried path that day, one close to the original search site. He had found her, he had carried her out of that place, bruised and bloodied. But not broken. At fourteen, she had captured his heart; she was the strongest person he had ever known. And he needed to avenge her. He needed for the monster to be punished for this crime.

                “I wasn’t going to kill him.” He looked at her disbelievingly. “I wasn’t. I felt this power inside me, this light, and I knew I was OK. Because I could walk through that door and save that girl I knew that what you said was true. I could find peace and live my life, even if he went to prison, even if he was still alive. I had decided he no longer had power over me.”

                David had to look away for fear she would see the tears in his eyes. His happiness for her threatened to overwhelm him, this was what he had always wanted for her. That she would find peace with her captivity, and be able to make a new life for herself.

                He took a deep breath and looked around. “Hey,” he said suddenly. “Remember when you were little and we would go swimming in the river?” She looked up startled and out at the river, reminiscing. “Yeah, you taught me to swim.” “Let’s go for a swim now.” He said standing up and holding out his hand for her. She looked at him disbelievingly. “Right Now?” “Yeah now, this way you can have a bath and not run up my water bill.” He pulled her up and started down to the end of the dock.

                “Come on,” he said pulling off his shoes and socks. His enthusiasm was contagious and Mara laughed as she sat next to him and unzipped her boots. Then they both stood and leapt.

They jumped in the river. Giddy and laughing they took a breath and swam to the bottom. There was a whole world beneath the water. Crabs scuttled under rocks as they approached. Bugs skimped the surface and weeds moved with the current.

              Suddenly she surfaced and David pulled her close, finger to his lips. On the other side of the bank dolphins were playing, the babies following the parents in the search for eels in the muddy bank.

              Mara was filled with joy at the sight, and she was grateful to David for showing it to her. Smiling, she turned to thank him and was shocked by the way he was looking at her. “Mara,” He whispered, tears glimmering in his eyes. Glimmering because it had been so long sense he had seen any happiness in her face. She turned to a statue as he moved closer, his lips brushing hers. “I love you.” He whispered before deepening the kiss. She knew then that she had always loved him, long before she had been captured; ever sense she was a little girl. She welcomed the feeling, the way it filled her and gave her a marvelous sense of belongin. It was wondrous. She pulled back, resting her forehead against his.

              “I love you, too.”

A Letter to my Forty Year Old Self

Dear Allison,
   
Do you remember in high school, when your counselor said that sixteen year old Allison had to think

about what forty year old Allison would want? It seems to me that's a particularly stupid piece of

advise for a teenager. What sixteen year old thinks that far ahead? Do you think about us at sixteen?

Would she be happy with where you are not?

     I have so many questions for you, questions more than anything. Are you happy? Or have you

only settled? Please don't tell me you settled. Content is not the same as happy. I'm scared that one

day I'll wake up from content and wonder what the hell happened.

     So, my hopes for you. I hope that you are in an amazing, beautiful, romantic relationship. I hope

you are surrounded by family, and dogs, of course! I hope that you travel, and often. I hope you are

happy and that you are at peace.
                             
                                                  Love,
 
                                                   your Twenty Nine Year Old Self

A Letter to my Sixteen Year Old Self

Dear Allison
   
     Don't listen to them. They will tell you to be practical, to envision what your older self would want or need.

Let me tell you something; she will be bitter and cynical just like them. Do what makes you

happy. Don't be stupid, don't do something harmful or illegal. Follow your dreams. It may never be

too late, but don't waste these years, don't waste your time like that.

     Also, you are so much better at essay writing than you give yourself credit. Don't compare

yourself to others. Just because you don't worship Ginsberg or think The Catcher in the Rye is the

best novel in the world doesn't mean that you are bad at English. If you need help ask for it, don't be

afraid of other peoples reaction. It doesn't have to be perfect the first time and you don't have to have

your homework done before you get home.

     Flash cards are your friend, stick with French and voice lessons. If it gives you joy don't stop.
                                             
                                                        Be Brave.
                                                                  Love
                                                                      your 29 year old self

Ophelia

Once upon a time I went to College and I studied English. The great thing about being an English major is how everything is up for interpretation, also, you read Shakespeare. I mean almost ALL of Shakespeare. And what Shakespeare class would be complete without reading Hamlet? In this post I want to share some thoughts I had from a Shakespeare in film class. The assignment was to write a character study, below you will find my thoughts on Ophelia.

I think Ophelia is a fascinating character. She is famously known as the young girl who was in love with the Danish Prince Hamlet and then kills herself when he rejects her. But what if this wasn't the case? It is my opinion that Ophelia is much more complicated.

In the play, after Hamlet sees the ghost of his father and is told to avenge his death he says he will perform an “antic disposition” to fool the king into confessing to the murder. It is not unreasonable to assume that Ophelia is also performing madness.  There are 4 films that I watched to compare Ophelia performances. The first, and my favorite, is Kenneth Branagh. His interpretation of Ophelia is unique. He is the only director that says, “Yes, Ophelia is a performer”. His Ophelia takes the road less traveled, playing a girl who sees suicide as her only option. The other directors, Zeffirelli, Almereyda and Doran have the more traditional performances of Ophelia.

Branagh goes to great lengths in his film to show that Ophelia and Hamlet are in a relationship. As Ophelia is being interrogated by her father she remembers the time she and her prince were together, and when she and Hamlet meet in the lobby of the palace, his greeting is more than that of a friend. Branagh follows the popular notion that Ophelia is distraught over Hamlets treatment of her and that she is terribly grieved by her father’s murder by him. That is where the similarities with the traditional portrayal of Ophelia end. The first time the audience sees mad Ophelia is when she meets with the queen dressed in a strait jacket. Her speech is nonsensical at first but it soon becomes apparent that it is all an act.

When Branagh’s Ophelia has moments of lucidity he uses close ups of her face. For example, when she says “we must be patient...” Branagh cuts from lucid Ophelia to confused king and queen then back to a close up of “sane” Ophelia’s face. He does this again when Laertes witnesses his sister’s madness. Just before Ophelia goes back into her padded room the camera zooms in on her face, she looks over at her brother, recognizes him and says “g-d by you” before going of her own will into her room. The last view we have of Ophelia is of her receiving “treatment” for her madness, being sprayed by water hoses. As the attendants leave her, closing the door with a satisfying click, Branagh again closes in on Ophelia’s face to show her taking the key out of her mouth. When next we hear of Ophelia, she has committed suicide.

While Branagh is exploring new territory for the character, Franco Zefferelli displays a traditional reading of Ophelia. He shows Ophelia as that of fragile girl broken by the death of her father and Hamlet’s vicious personal attack. To show her impending madness, Zefferelli has Ophelia always apart, isolated from other people. The very first time we see her she is in a sewing room full of women, but when Laertes finds her she is separate from them. As she and her father go to see him off she walks behind the men, a chaste figure in white. Zefferelli also has Helena Bonham-Carter play Ophelia as a simpering girl, always differing to her father and brother. This view of the sweet obedient girl who is jilted by Prince Hamlet is shown most clearly in the scene where Ophelia is mad.

In this sequence Ophelia is introduced in a close up that emphasizes her disheveled appearance, then slowly pulls away to show Ophelia wandering around Elsinore singing about the dangers of allowing a man into your bed. Throughout this scene Zeffirelli continues his technique of showing Ophelia apart from the rest of the court. Entering Elsinore, she is framed by the giant oak doors and the crowds of people who have all moved away from her. Her exchange with Gertrude is nonsensical, as are her emotions. She moves from manic to despondent from second to second. There is no moment in this sequence when the audience doubts that Ophelia has lost her wits. Her nonsensical behavior guarantees that the audience feels sympathy for the poor girl jilted in love and driven mad by the grief of a lost father.

A more modern adaptation on this “traditional” madness is in Michael Almereyda’s Hamlet. His Ophelia is modern, hip, and relatable to a younger audience because of her relationship with her father and brother. Almereyda portrays Julia Stiles’ character as a young girl pressured by the adults around her to act and behave a certain way and is therefore driven to madness.

In this production the first sign that all is not well with Ophelia is just before she meets with Hamlet, as her father and the king and queen are taping a microphone to her shirt. Before the camera cuts to her and Hamlet in his apartment, it shows a close- up of Ophelia’s face and the tears on her cheeks. Clearly, the actions of the people in authority are wearing down on her. Then, in the opening of this version of act four, scene five a camera angles down to the visual representation of Ophelia’s mental state. A spiral walk way where Ophelia is running up. As she approaches Gertrude, the audience can tell that she is distraught, her cheeks are wet and her clothing is inside out. The editing out of the majority of the lines from this scene serves to convey the lack of sense in Ophelia’s words. Her rhyming is more about her descent into insanity and the loss of her father than about being jilted in love. Finally, the tracking shot of her and Gertrude walking around the spiral walkway further illustrates Ophelia’s descent into madness.

Another modern Ophelia may be seen in Gregory Doran’s production. In this portrayal of Ophelia, she is a classy young lady, always calm and poised. It is this composure that makes her madness so disturbing. Her meeting with Gertrude shows her to be even more disheveled than Almereyda’s Ophelia, a drastic change from the preppy girl who sees her brother off to school. The medium shots and the stage like setting in the act four, scene five, sequence allows the audience to have the illusion of watching the play in the theater. This gives the witnessing of Ophelia’s madness a greater intimacy. And the brilliant medium shot of the queen with a broken mirror behind her, reflecting Ophelia to the audience, represents the fracturing of the young girls mind.

While Zefferelli’s, Doran’s and Almareyda’s Hamlet adaptations present different performances of Ophelia’s madness, they all portray her as truly insane. Branagh takes all of the available material on the play and is able to direct a performance of Ophelia that is unique. His Ophelia is devastated by the actions of her boyfriend and the death of her father, but she is not insane. She is in despair and sees suicide as the only way out of her situation. However, she lives in a catholic country and believes she will not be correctly buried if she is not seen as blameless. Therefore she “performs” madness, puts on an “antic disposition”, and is able to be buried according to her faith.

Variations on a Theme

Here are some more 70's book covers:

     Farewell the Tranquil Mind by R.F. Delderfield is a historical fiction novel set mostly in France during their revolution. David Treloar must leave his native England for France after his father is caught smuggling. While there, he is taken in by a the Rouzet family and he falls in love with their cousin Charlotte Lamotte. The novel follows the goings on of the Rouzet household, a family passionate about the revolution in it's most philosophic terms. As the Revolution reaches a fever pitch David and the Rouzet family must find a way to escape Paris before they are all imprisoned. 

     This novel took me by a pleasant surprise. I began it thinking I would be enjoying another light Gothic Romance. What I held instead was a well thought out captivating historical novel. I found myself delighted by the reality of the characters, they all embody traits that you would expect in people today. The plot was engaging, the novel takes place over the course of two years, the bloodiest in the history of the French Revolution. I would recommend this novel to someone who likes to read for the details of history, but if you want historical romance, this might not be for you.

Nine Coaches Waiting by Mary Stewart is a Gothic romance novel also set in France, this time post WWII. Young Linda Martin is hired by a wealthy French family, the Valmy's, to act as an English governess to their young nephew, Philippe. At first everything is very pleasant, but then strange accidents start happening around the chateau. A gun goes off and hits a tree where a moment before Philippe had been standing and a part of a balustrade on his balcony breaks off as he runs out in a thunderstorm. There are too many secrets and silent looks at the chateau, what could they all mean? And what part does the dashing Raoul, son of the intimidating Leon de Valmy, play in this drama?
     OK, this was much more along the lines of brain candy. Mary Stewart is effective in creating an atmosphere of suspense, there was one scene that left me unable to turn off the light, there is not much historical meat to the story. However, I would recommend this novel to someone looking to read on their commute, or some light reading on their lunch break.

Used bookstores....

     Hold the most amazing treasures. I like to find novels from the 70's at used bookstores. Especially romances, they have the most outrageous titles and cover art.

Here is one that I picked up recently....

     This is the story of a young woman, Christina, who goes from America to stay with her father's estranged family in England. It was her Father's dying wish that the bridge be mended between himself and his father and his daughter has gone to fulfill that desire.

     The setting is the coast of England and here there be smugglers. It is dark and dreary, the patriarch of the family is manipulating everyone into doing his bidding, including trying to blackmail Christina into marrying her cousin. Little do they know that Christina comes as a lady with a mind and a will of her own and she won't allow anyone to manipulate her so easily. 

     I enjoyed this novel. There is a love story mixed in with the intrigue of nearby smugglers and the threat of their discovery and all of these elements mixed together to make for an enjoyable reading experience.

     Also, how could you say "no" to that wonderful, dramatic cover art?

I just LOVE finding geeky finds at Goodwill.

The First 100 Pages of Rose Cottage by Mary Stewart.

Reading the first 100 pages of this novel makes me think that maybe I need to reevaluate the 100 page policy. Or maybe this book just takes a while to get started. That could prove problematic as it's only 264 pages long...

Rose Cottage is a suspense romance by Mary Stewart, who also wrote The Crystal Cave. It takes place in England shortly after WW II. We are introduced to Kathy Herrick, Née Welland. She comes from a small village in the English countryside, the illegitimate granddaughter of the gardner and cook of the local big house. She is returning to her childhood home, Todhall to retrieve some papers for her grandmother who is moving to Scotland.
On the day of her arrival she runs into an old friend, Davey Pasco, who agrees to assist her in opening her Grandmothers safe. Back at the house, she discovers that someone has been in the cottage and removed the contents of the safe. The next day she goes into the village and begins to ask questions about any goings on at Rose Cottage.

And that's the first 100 pages.

I don't know if I will finish this novel. It didn't really grasp my attention, and I don't really feel motivated to discover who would have gone into her grandmother's house to get the things out of her safe.

So, for now, I will set Rose Cottage down and move on to the next novel.

Pinterest Inspired Outfit

Y'all, sometimes I hate taking pictures. Anyways, the outfit to the left was one that was spotted on Pinterest. I love simple outfits made up of basic pieces. On the right is my version of the outfit, waist down is pretty much the same, I changed up the outfit by choosing the cropped denim jacket and instead of a screen print tee I went with a white tank.

Another Writing Exercise

There is a White Barn candle on my desk. It's not lit yet. The silver bottlecap top is crusty with soap scum. The label is peeling and wrinkled. Scent? Sparkling Limeade. It smells like a bathroom cleaner and burned wicks. When I look at this candle, I am reminded of pastel bungalows on a Miami beach, faded and bleached by the sun and the salt.

For the Ordinary Girl on a Budget.....

Check out Goodwill.
     I tend to have very good luck finding treasures at Goodwill, but my secret is very simple. I touch pretty much every item on the rack and when I find something I like I try it on. Goodwill is not a place I go to find an outfit quickly. Rather, I go when I have the time to spend finding staples for my wardrobe.

My outfit today was made up almost entirely of Goodwill finds.

These shoes were slightly used on Amazon. They retail for about $120 USD and I bought them for $50!

     The t-shirt was about 3$ and the pants are Eddie Bauer for $5!!!

Two Writing Exercises

I'm working on a free creative writing class offered through my public library and thought I would post some of the writing exercises I've done so far. I can't vouch for the quality, but I hope they are slightly entertaining! Enjoy!

The Room Where I Write

     The room where I write is my bedroom. There are large dust bunnies under the bed where the dog and cat hair hides. I sit at a corner desk wedged between the wall and an IKEA table. Piles of books surround me. I pick one up to start reading and get distracted by the computer
     The computer is an old Gateway I bought with my first tax refund at my current job. It's at least 3 years old. The speakers are built into the monitor (it's an all in one) and dust has gathered at the edges. You can tell what keys I use most often by the amount of dust gathered on the key board.

Four Things in My Room: A Free Writing Exercise

Dust Bunnies: Who the heck came up with that name? Wait, focus. Collections of dead skin cells, the hair of various beasts, dirt and gravel. These things make up dust and we refer to the collected batched of this smut as Dust Bunnies? It's too bizarre.

Corner Desk: A cheap little desk I bought at Target. It used to be where I did my makeup every morning and now it is where I write. It's pretty banged up; the black paint is coming off of the edges.

Pile of Books: Wow my hand is tired now. OK so a pile of books. Rose Cottage, Uprooted, Alexander Hamilton, Boneshaker, The Student Bible. The Bible is at the bottom; a support, a cornerstone.

Computer: A tool. Covered in dust. Don't look too deep in the cracks.

It takes 100 pages...

to become involved in a book.

That's what my librarian mother has always told me and I find it to be mostly true. In 100 pages I think the plot should be sufficiently built up so that you, the reader, know whether or not you will continue with the book.

I was thinking about this philosophy as I looked at my "unread" bookshelf. Yes, there is an entire bookshelf dedicated to books I own and have not read. I'm sure I have at least 120 books that I really do want to read, but haven't got 'round to it.

So I'd like to start a little series here called 100 pages. I will pick a book from my TBR bookshelf and read the first 100 pages. Once that is done I will give a brief summary here saying what the book is about and my findings in the first 100 pages, then move on to the next book. I hope that by doing this I'll be able to power through the books that I ultimately won't interest me, and the ones that do I'll know to get back to, or just continue on reading, whichever.

See you soon with my first First 100 page book!

Here there are fairy tales.....

When I was in college I took a creative writing class. Part of our final assignment was to write a 10 page short story. I decided to do a modern retelling of the Scottish fairy tale Tam Lin. This is the "prologue" of my story. I welcome any and all constructive criticism, I am always looking to improve. Don't leave nasty comments, if you don't like my work just close the page, no one will be the wiser, thanks!

When Janet was a little girl she knew that no one could possibly know more stories than her GiGi. GiGi was old when Granny was little, she wore green all year long and made the worlds best peanut butter cookies.Every date night Janet’s Mama and Daddy took her to GiGi’s house to spend the night. Those were the best times; They would build a fort and defend it from Yankee soldiers, bake cookies and eat the dough; which Mama never let her do at home, finally it would be time for bed and Janet always asked for the same bedtime story; the story of Tom Allen.

Once upon a time, GiGi would begin. The whole of this land was wild. Indians lived right where we are now, Creek and Cherokee, and they were always fighting each other. They had their spirits, both good and evil and they had charms against them. Then the white man came. He brought with him industry and his own demons that the wise of both parties realized were the same as those of the cherokee.

Years passed, the land became more tame that it had been, but in the dark corners of the land still lurked the superstitions and the evil, waiting for a chance to return. Then a rich man with a gold pocket watch came to the land and in one of the dark corners he saw a way to make a profit by building a mill.  It was at a bend in the river, where the water ran swift and deep,  

        All of the old people were against the project. The grandmothers told of children going to gather berries there and never returning, they said the evil fey folk took them because of their beauty and purity. The grandfathers said that young men were tempted by the beautiful fairy queen, who lured them into the swift moving water to their death. The Indians said that devils lurked in the water, and poisoned the riverbed so nothing could nest there and nothing could grow. The man with the gold pocket watch ignored all the warnings and set about building his mill, his young son Tom by his side.

        Tom was the most good and handsome man in the land. He was tall with hair that was black with traces of steel blue. He was brown from working in the sun all his life, for his father, though rich, did not think it beneath him to send his son outside to work. He was gentle and he was strong and knew what was right. He stood by his father as he set about building the biggest cotton mill in the south.

        The design of the mill was strange. It was thought up by the man with the gold pocket watch and he would not tell anyone, not even Tom, where his ideas came from. The mill was to take up both sides of the river. On one side were the sorting and carding rooms, on the other were rooms that turned out the cotton fabric. Connecting the two was a huge bridge with several water wheels attached to the bottom that powered the mill. No one had ever seen anything like it.

From the beginning things were strange at the mill site. Three crews were hired and then dismissed because of missing tools and machinery. A fourth crew was hired and then left the night after a body was found deep in the foundation of the building. The final crew was bossed by Tom, who would allow no superstition to spook his men and was able to finish the mill faster than any man before or after would have thought possible.

        Finally the mill opened and for a while everything went well for Tom Allen and the man with the gold pocket watch; but the stories of the old people should have been listened to, for there was evil at Carterhaugh, it had been waiting and watching, it had seen Tom Allen and it wanted him for its own.

It happened one cold October night. Tom Allen, who had been put in charge of the mill, was checking the machinery, long after the men had left for the night. The stories say that as the midnight church bells struck a beautiful woman was seen by him on the far side of the mill. There was a small valley there and it was near the hills beyond the valley that Tom Allen saw her.

She beckoned to him, and he, struck by her beauty, crossed the bridge.

It was icey that night, unnaturally so. More than once Tom slipped and nearly fell into the river, but it wasn’t until he was opening the door to the opposite mill building that his boot caught on a board and he slipped into the icy river.

A large search party was sent out at dawn the next morning but there was no body found. Not a trace of Tom Allen has been seen since. His father went mad with grief and closed the mill, it stood empty for a long time before anyone noticed it didn’t seem to be decaying the way a wooden building normally does. It grows older and more grown over but it never falls into the river. The people of the land take this as a sign; that there is a great power at work at the Carterhaugh mills and stay away from it. They bolted the great iron gate that was at the start of a long dirt path and they told their children of the evil there.

“Is Carterhaugh a real place GiGi?” Janet would ask when the story was over. GiGi would smile, “You know it is little girl, it straddles the river in between the big hills and the interstate, it’s all grown over now, you can barely see it from the road.”

        “And is Tom Allen real?”

        “Some say they’ve seen him, by the river bank or over on top of the big hills, he rides every seven years with the fairy queen’s band.”

        Janet would always be falling asleep at this point, but she would find enough energy to say, “I will find him, GiGi, I will save him from the Fairy Queen.”

        “No Janet,” GiGi said with a fright. “No you must not go down to Carterhaugh, promise me!” But Janet was asleep, dreaming of fairy princes and didn’t hear her Great Grandmother’s plea.