The Younger Girl's Flaw

Author's Note: This is an emulating piece of a work called,  "The Monkey's Paw" by W.W. Jacobs. This piece, for me, proved how even though the story is simple, it holds true to its meaning (and is also very hard to write). I changed the plot only a little, and if you click the link above and read the familiar story of 3 wishes granted, you will see how. Please comment below. 

*"Be careful what you lie about, it may come to be the truth."  ~Anonymous*

 The residence sat in dread upon the midnight's raging storm. As for its inhabitants, the old woman shifts her weary weight in the old armchair, creating creaks that are lost to the pounding of snow against the wood panels. The younger girl shifts not once for only hesitance could break her postured stance.

Bursts of wind chime not merrily but eerily tonight, the sounds echo within the hearth that radiates cold, not heat. The old lady shivers and her old bones shake in a dread only mortality can pursue, as she whispers a curse to the horrid night.  However the girl sits in pure content.

A game of cards persists eagerly as the young girl is unfazed t to its incompetent demise. In a manner of haste, the girl fidgets to proceed her hand.

"The queen of diamonds?" The simple request from the old woman, perhaps, set her in a darkness. Her sadness brings her grave closer.

The girl does not make eye contact as she speaks, "Go fish, nanna,"

A sad, shaky hand reaches towards the scattered deck lying on their table. She draws a card as the game endures ever longer.

"Three of hearts?"

The grandma nods and slowly hands the girl her card as the then, much too eager fingers snatch the paper from her drowsy grip.

"Do you have--"

"Nanna, now, I have stated the rule prior. I go again, for I have yet another pair." An arm of strength gestures to the cards set upon the wood. "The…queen of diamonds?"
 

Being so sickly the grandmother had not noticed the trickery placed in the room.  And the card was given, simply yet barely, to the young girl with the cruel smile. However the fire was now dwindled, a heap of glowing ashes, so the smile was hidden, and hidden well.

The storm continued in a fury, with the eager anxiety of a storm that comes so early in the year. It was November 2nd, the early dreadful days where the nights spread longer, continuing ever more as the life of those within its grasp lessens. The old lady especially, with her grave now deathly close.

For once, the girl of youth noticed her relative's grim expression.  "Nanna, is it the cold? Shall I kindle the flames of the hearth?"

"Oh, no, dear," She inhaled a shaky breath. "'Tis only my late husband…"

And the girl thought for more than a moment, hearing the faint breaths of her grandmother released into the small cottage.

"But, nanna, grandfather... is not dead. He is only delayed by the storm." In a haste she rushed from her seat over towards the flames. Placing her hands there, she felt no warmth, as her heart had frozen over, and her eyes were determined not to seek those of her grandmother's.

Light rejoiced in the old woman's eyes, her turning to look at her granddaughter who refused to share eye contact.

"Oh my, oh my! How did you acquire such information? I had only just received the news in person from his work but a few hours past…"

The young girl reserved her time for thought, as she then noted, "'Twas before I arrived, I presume." The grandmother agreed. "However I had traveled the cobblestone path a long ways before meeting the likes of a certain stranger. He had told me of grandfather. He has been injured by the machinery at his workplace, however not killed."

Her face, the grandmother's, was white. Whether doubt or excitement, the younger girl could not decipher one from the other.

A knock came to the door then, and the grandmother jumped. When the younger girl offered to meet the door's acquaintance, the grandmother denied as she walked briskly to greet whomever set step upon their entrance.

There was enough light in the place to see clearly whom the door's acquaintance was. For standing on the doorstep was the old man, the late husband of the grandmother, and suddenly, the grandmother's grave inched further away.

"My dear Evaline." said the man. Now, the girl, who was never a form of truthful, stood in shock, gaping at the scene before her.

"George," whispered Evaline. "You're home,"

The girl swallowed involuntarily to her own horror. "H-how did y-you-"

There was a flash of black eyes aimed at the girl. "The cold seems not the reason for your stutter,"

She stared, uncomprehending of the old man's response. She then whispered, "How did you make it back home with a storm so fierce?"

"I mustn't lie, 'twas not an easy task. The roads have closed, making it so my reason to walk here. My injury deemed it even more of a challenge than I had thought, as well. However I trudged through banks of piled snow to see my loved ones."

"Could you not have called, though?" The grandmother asked in pursuit of curiosity.

He laughed at her supposedly silly remark. "The lines were down, my dear Evaline. Isn't that the reason for my employer to meet you at doorstep instead of landline?"

At that the grandmother laughed, and so on the grandfather laughed. However the girl did not.

They had moved to the couches where the elderly couple sat together, the girl staring at them from a seat afar.  As the young girl sat there, applying conversing skills to the scenario in front of her, her thoughts trailed to the curiosity at hand. There seemed a magic placed upon the night, where her lies subjected to profitable outcome. Where lies solely lead to the demise of herself, the nasty old habit she had acquired, tonight the outcome came around. So as of now she felt herself in a dark place, as the grandmother had once been, for she had no thoughts of how this came to be.

Before the laughs echoed too deep into the night, there was a reason for pause. A thundering crash sounded through the tiny cottage, ripping through the peace the old couple had thoroughly created together.

"What in the heavens was that?" asked the grandmother.

"It sounded from the shed," noted the girl.

The shed sat solemnly against the house where storage was kept.  The three inhabitants trudged through banks to open the shed, where they found part of the roof had collapsed.

"Oh, heavens," The grandmother fretted.

The black eyes fell upon the young woman again, and she could not contain her shivers, as they were not from the chilling night.

"Get the ladder," said the man as he gathered some tools. She was reluctant to do so, knowing the concrete ground was slippery where the snow had fallen from the roof. But too afraid to decline, she did as told.

The old man got to work as the ladder was handed to him. He began to repair the roof, then, managing some of the larger pieces of wood back into their place. The grandmother watched from a distance, now. She felt the icy temperatures set upon her frail body as her teeth chattered. The young girl stood even further away from her grandfather, also feeling the coldness grip her.

Suddenly the wooden ladder splintered as another crash filled the doomed air. The old woman and the young girl watched in horror as the grandfather fell from his heightened position onto the floor. His hammer fell along with him, and managed to crack his skull open when he hit concrete. The grave came closer to the woman as she stared at the gory scene in front of her, but she ran away from it, out into the night.

"Nanna!" cried the younger girl. But like her grandmother, she too ran from the gruesome scene.

Inside the house she set out in pursuit of the landline. In the kitchen she found the phone and dialed 911, hoping the line would work, hoping that even though the roads were closed, that some men could come to help.

She ran back and forth between her two loved ones, her heart a time bomb. Only so much time could pass before she felt ready to explode. It was her third time running back to her grandfather, but before she could throw herself into the dead of night there was a knock on the door.

Throwing it open, she led a man in uniform to the garage. She wasted no time at all, fearing for herself, for her loved ones.

"He's right over here-"

Her breath caught short as she saw the scene in front of her. The old man was gone. A twisted fear crept inside her being, tapping the bomb that lay within.

"Miss," said the sheriff in warning.

She stay still, now completely frozen. What could have happened? What did she do wrong? For there was no blood in sight, nor a body, not even a gaping hole in their shed.

"My grandmother…she saw it." She led the man to her grandmother's room where she had set her down to rest. With each step she felt something draw closer, however she knew not what it was.

When the door to her nanna's room was opened she knew now what it was. It was the darkness of her grandmother's grave that neared closer. And now it has arrived.

A chilly gust swept up from the open door and with a groaning whine from the young woman, came the moment for the sheriff to touch her shoulder in sympathy. For there, in the wavering light of the residence which sat in dread, was the bed across, inhabiting a lifeless and frozen body. 

Comparison: Short Story to Film Adaptation

The film adaptation of "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place" has pros and cons. Some of the things that the director/actors did very well, was the music. Each piece of music, even though different, had the same pleasant, yet eerie tone. It set the mood very well which was a nice enhancement to the piece. The actors also did something very well, and they stayed true to the script. They didn't go overboard with their characters, which made it realistic and true. A specific example of this, would be how the old man was drinking and supposedly drunk. He is a "clean drunk", and because of this, barely stumbles or spills. Some people may say he didn't look drunk at all, but I think he portrayed the "clean drunk" act very well. There was also a scene I liked much better in the film than I did in the actual literature. When the older waiter is reciting the Lord's Prayer and Hail Mary substituting words with "nothing" in his mind, I like how the words overlap and all you can really hear is "nothing". That scene was much better and it captured a greater feel to it than the short story did.

Even though there are many different pros of all different aspects, there are also things they could have improved on. First of all, a major theme within the story are the placements of light and dark and the shadows that are cast. The old man was supposed to sit in the shadow of a tree, however there was no shadow on him in the setting at all in the film. I felt even though the film did play slightly with light/dark, they could've emphasized its affect on the old man. The only other con that really irked me, was the time setting. "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place" was written in 1933, and the film (made in current day) showed modern society...even though there was a World War ll guard walking outside with a naive girl.... I wished they could've somehow removed modern-day aspects and be sincere to the time period. 

Besides the cons, I feel the film was very good. It even helped me understand the story a little better! I'm glad that they made it and I had the chance to watch it. If I could tell them "Good job!", I would!

Response to "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place"

Young Waiter: This waiter shows the stage in life of youth and ignorance. Even though he is trying not to be insincere to the old man (he states he's only in a hurry), he is, rushing the man on his way and kicking him out, even though he is only a "clean" drunk. The young waiter is not thinking of his destined future to be like the old man someday (lonely and sad). He even states that "[he doesn't] want to be that old." Because "an old man is a nasty thing". 

Older Waiter: This waiter is in the stage of a middle-aged man. He is beginning to see his future of loneliness and sadness. Because he is not as ignorant as the other waiter is to his determined future, he has some more consideration for others who like to stay up at night and drink away (because drinking eases the pain of knowledge acquired from the years of memories). 

The Café: The clean, well-lighted place, is a setting where you can feel safe and warm. If you go there, you are participating in society, feeling of a somewhat importance. The two waiters even discuss how drinking alone at home is not the same as at a bar. I believe that if you are alone at home, you are isolated, thus feeling more lonely. However, if you are alone at a bar/cafe, you are included, thus feeling less lonely. The cafe is society, where people of all different stages in life can mix, it is a place where the old can drink, the middle-aged men can think, and the ignorant young men can waste a few years by just being there. It can mean something to different people. But obviously the clean, well-lighted places are the best. 

Page 68 of Fahrenheit 451

'"Here now," said Montag. "We'll start over again, at the beginning."'

  

This is important because even though he is talking about how they should try to comprehend the book by going/reading slowly, it also takes on a double-meaning, because they have to start over (in life) but can never go back because the information will haunt them forever (especially Montag). It is foreshadowing possible changing events in Part 2 of the book. 

A Risk-Free Proposal

Author's Note-- This is a parallel satire of Dr. Jonathon Swift's: A Modest Proposal. In his piece, his idea to end the problems of famine and too many children in the olden days of Ireland, is to eat those said children. My satire, is emulating the voice that he uses within the piece. It deals with the gun debates that have been held recently. Also, please keep in mind that this is a satire (I do not mean to offend anyone's opinion/feelings). Thank you. Click here to read/view Dr. Jonathon Swift's: A Modest Proposal. 

When so westward is a land, the ground not crumbled, by meek or cerebral footsteps, are the parental figures, lugging worries of harm of two, three, or five scenarios that may come to their kin. Of those particular doubts, public deems cruel, the struggle subjected to actuality. We see the individuals roaming the path of them before, yet now, is a path of violence, where automatic shooting singles children to their deaths, and singles survivors to death of innocence. These traits confide, trade platforms among the realities the public eye sees. When all is quiet, not much is seen, however the warnings escalate as the subdued sound escalates—so much warning to be noticed!

Now, I believe a reason stated has oncoming power, within a society of strength, said by sane man, that it may be effective towards defense by guns. In this matter, there is a realm of frightened educators slapped promptly to that horrid solution, where an obvious unsaid idea has come to terms with this country. Mostly I must preach, for a sake at peace of mind, my own benefit lacks structure and existence. Kindly to this quivering debate I am only stating a risk-free proposal, ongoing my peace of mind.

Firstly, a person of average wealth, power, knowledge, has a mind divided of two terms— each distressed when a modern factual placement is indicated. These issues direct mainly, trailing another route or two, to an economy so underworked the stress distributes among each pillar of a person who upholds the crumbling structure of our society. Thus, more and more jobs are given away, mainly sent to those countries of gaining power—this a logic lost on me. So I propose guns of all sorts: rifles, handguns, automatics and more to come, to be made in this westward country, the United States of America. This process shall expose a new market, one of great strength and durability, one of factories—within shall be workers, one of stores—within shall be workers, and the customers of all shapes and sizes marveling at newfound weapons of all these shapes and sizes. With these guns shall come forth a structure, and a structure that all will pursue.

For second, a predicament has now set place in your head—for what shall guns of all shapes and sizes engage in? So now we see the light for a future, in a place where guns shall thrive, where the "at-risk" do not. In elaboration, those who crave need for violence are potentially "at-risk", which could put society into a scenario that meets firmly the ground of destruction and death. The "at-risk" provide keen examples, to put moderately, of rabid actions where the destruction is death of many— as there are too many examples I could straightforwardly inform of you. If the "at-risk" are allowed life, fathers and mothers with children of innocence may indeed be wailing of a kind only a parent could know, of how dearly those lives short-lived, now shed down his and her face dreadfully and untimely. To prevent such tears is to prevent the "at-risk" from a life lived longer than the kin to be doomed—this is a logic of sense to me. Whomever frays a once simply peaceful society into dysfunctional threads of worthlessness shall be permitted, and allowed by law, death by guns. So long as this wondrous proposal sets place to reality, shall we see decrease in numbers. Do not fret however, being so I have again thought of the enlightened pathway that should soon be represented by our world. In the workplace, is it entirely possible for positions to be held, and not as much cradled, by those who are of risk? If so, then wasted are those jobs! I see no other happier conclusion, than the creation of jobs said therefore by myself prior, with also the plan for decreased population to ensure the hardworking, faultless people are employed—this is a proposal, who, much like our citizens, is faultless!

Thirdly, I do indeed understand that an aura of seriousness has crept in-between these lines of this proposal. Guns, such a serious matter, would indeed place a tone among our people, who deserve to be happy in all instances, and as a tone it is dark, dark as much as our nights, as for this I suggest a solution. Sports fail not in terms of happiness, ensuring careless times, innocent times, where I have seen many men and women prevail exultant smiles among them with no-such worries as just discussed. Now sports shall become the savior of our happiness, suggested in a way of aiming towards the clouds above, piercing their voluptuous masses, so that all light shall seep through, shining golden rays upon our beings. The "at-risk" are the game we intend to make of sport, for hunting grounds shall be marked, and we shall make sense of their existence, and use them as a way of relevance to said happiness. Gather those who you believe are of insanity and use your arm for your pleasure. This ensures their demise—of no particular woe—to become the exultant smiles upon your expression.

No such praise for myself is necessary upon these conditions. I have only ever wanted this pure logic to spread across the minds of those who attempt for the kindling of our quaking society. I deeply hope—down to the deepest depths of my heart's capacity— for an existent day where we can claim ourselves "risk-free". With this matter, I feel of accomplishment—towards the future, and closer getting, are we. So while people bear arms, and the happiness of the world crests upon this westward land, we together, shall remark as a nation towards this proposal's idea—to claim the control we know not today!

A Time

Brittle flaws seek the mantle,

In pursuit of cold.

Outside, a host for battle,

Drifts over snow fold.

Cresting high above our tree

In pursuit of warm.

Inside, merriment and glee

Clings to be born.

I search upon that mantle,

For my favorite toy

For a hint of joy

I search my house outside,

And find trampled snow

And no golden glow.

I search upon that  tree,

But stands bare of pine

But still not mine.

I search my house inside,

No family nor friends

No  heart to end.

A time for joyous noise

Sacred stories

A time for sharing sweets

Sharing sweetness

A time for glinting eyes,

Grinning mouths

A time for nothingness

As I search about.

The Chime is Gone

Author's Note: This creative piece is to accompany my prediction piece, where I predict Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale to be the father of Pearl. This scenario is entirely my opinion of what the characters would act like if they were to find out who Hester's accomplice was. I also attempted to recreate Nathaniel Hawthorne's tone of voice that he writes with in "The Scarlet Letter". 

Frequently so, are the tortures of a devilish chime. Suffocating, praying on those inhabited, who pay listless attention to its spitting ring, as it would caress the soul. Thine, however, shall come forth to see truth of a fault! The chime, said solemnly by the whispers of doubt, and as the torturer of men, may cackle a false-truth in thine ear, promising sweet and fruit-like delicacies that outwardly glow of a fresh, inviting image, however inside, are spoiled. And the Holy Ghost cannot tell who should listen to this devilish chime,  likewise man cannot. Yet the intercourse of sin and man has made a possibilty of a satanic recruit! And those who aspire to be so, will see the wretched, twisted notes of this chime, and hear its ring, and advertise its song to others.

Be that as it might, Roger Chillingworth had taken refuge amongst his thoughts. The sight, upon the beloved minister's bosom, was in fact previously horrific, yet how fascinating! thought he, kindling a smile of a snake. Had he known, the dubious thoughts conceived initially, would have been put onto practice of direct accusations! Now, the seal of his patient was locked with a tomb of trust. A simplistic measure surely would've risen to occasion then, now an intense impulse of events are brewed, never again on a line of verge.

Nevertheless, Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale has accustomed it necessary to knock, even it being so, his lodge of comfort. The snake's smile brightens with a burning rage, as it would ever frighten those whom has seen his face of regular day, in the market perhaps, for them to flee for the place of Christ, with the urgency of a mad man. He then heard  the chime screaming of an impeccable  note that reached far beyond, and, yet, Roger Chillingworth implies himself to jump with the might of many, for its being. The Reverend enters, behind him that of joy, and somewhat demonic presence . Pearl, looking fondly at the sights of the dim settlement has taken posture upon a stool. Taken aback, the snake recoils in hurt, and the recruit well-living inwardly smiles, knowing that of questioning shall go forth being simple now.

"Ah, Reverend, there seemed a day foreboding a sight of this. A day, I may imply, where in which I was seeing your pain lie burning beneath thy vestment." The physician lingered a moment in what seemed to be remembrance of the discovery. "Now the clouds of heaven have revealed a tortured Hell beneath the surface. Even so, the clouds could not mask thy sin. Cover up, seemingly so, as I have enjoyed your performance, or even a charade of a sick sort. Now, step forth and exclaim your sin to me. As I have waited, and waited longingly for the words of heavenly truth-- of heavenly proportions!"

The minister, being so still, the vultures may have circled his corpse in attempt of meal. Mr. Dimmesdale thought darkly, how the vultures would be repulsed of his corpse, mutilated of whips and sin and peck not at his being. He held his heart a moment, in a moment of weakness, that as we know, Roger Chillingworth had not missed for a blink, and said, "Forthcoming from my disheveled heart, doctor, how, being so of your relation to myself, is it implemented of your cruel judgment to an act, I do not admit I committed? How is it so, of such a hefty weight upon thy shoulders of only a man, for that weight being my confessed actions to thou? What, on this earth, has brought a state of this upon thou?"

"You need not know," answered the doctor. And the chime, that seemed so bright of pleasure and torture dimmed then.

A breath was taken by, what seemed, all three personas at one moment. That moment, of joined unison, broke a tension of unspoken words. So, then, the dam cracked and shriveled away, releasing a flood of emotions unknown to most in that said room.

Pearl had set herself still upon the stool, and felt what the two men felt. As she, a combination of heaven and hell knew the wall of good and evil, and could perform both, and was simply a smart little girl. "Please," joined she of plea for moments that seemed to endure. "Mother, where has she gone? Mother is my protector."

Roger Chillingworth had taken a breath for serenity in his room, God knowing the doctor needed dearly that peace, but as the others had taken breaths for all different reasons, his patience for this confrontation, had broken into a million pieces as his eruption shattered it. "Who created thou, littlest Pearl?" Exclaimed he, now grasping the tiny thing's hands. "Thou must know who created you!"

The physician took a choppy step back in reluctance, of shock, for hearing no chime. The minister's hand shook with a trembling fear in which corrupted his entire being. And the girl, cast her eyes upwards lingering a smile, and rose her hand, and pointed to the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. And his eyes filled with tears.

Taking her hands, and pressing them preciously upon his chest, his heart, the minister asked, "My Pearl, has mother revealed this to thou?"A flick of her luscious hair to either sides of her being implied no.

With the silence gathering in the room, such a deadly silence is threatened a great deal of harm to Roger Chillingworth, and he had now acquired eyes of a snake, red, glowing, and powerful. "Woud'st thou explain why? Why here, in this moment, now?"

The Reverend answered meekly, "Littlest Pearl found her way here, startling myself a great deal."

"Out!" came a shrill of alarm from the doctor. His eyes, as he is the satanic recruit, could not hear the chime that had once encircled the poor being of the Reverence Mr. Dimmesdale. The doctor, as he had once assumed, need not harm the minister for his crime committed. It was Hester, the name churning in his soul, grinding his inner happiness, who had betrayed him. The Reverend hadn't known even the slightest of the doctor's true identity. And with a rage of many, Roger Chillingworth, with the eyes of snake, protruded out of his comforting home, and went for Hester.

The Reverend, unable to hear thoughts of others, stared confused at the door. Despite confusion, however, was his relief of conscience,  so being that the chime that promised himself release of pain had died. It died in agony, ripping through its torso, broke the heart in two. For the sacrifice now, was the combination of heaven and hell, and was Pearl, staring fondly into the eyes of Mr. Dimmesdale, in such a way of inspiration and admiration that only a child could possess.

"It is gone," said the little thing. "I cannot hear its ringing."

Again, in confusion, the Reverend asked his daughter, "My littlest Pearl, please explain further."

"The chime is gone."

Tears came, again, by of course the Reverend. Filled with such emotion of an earthly saint, that his eyes filled as well. Mr. Dimmesdale had emotion of many. Roger Chillingworth had rage of many. Pearl had so much, too much, that she captured the hearts of many.

And now, her father.