Authors Note: This post is a
combination of responses and a creative piece of the short piece “The Tell-Tale
Heart” by the amazing Edgar Allen Poe! I recommend reading the last labeled
piece on this post… it’s the most fun! Please Comment!
Response #1!
Whether or not the character
is reliable or treacherous is a total opinion based upon your personal beliefs
and wisdom. A character or narrator could seem perfectly dependable and
believable to one person and completely untrustworthy to another. In The Tell-Tale
Heart, the narrator, I believe is unswervingly honest. I also believe him to be
unswervingly reliable. His character may overwhelm some people of the realistic
world, but not me. No one could possibly kill someone without a single drop of
blood anywhere, and people of this world are too clumsy and ungraceful to
practically stand still for almost an hour. Either way, you can trust him. And
wasn’t that the whole point of his story, to prove him trustworthy and not mad?
Yes—and it was clearly stated so. The important events within this reliable tale
are all because of him. Every move, every action, every fault. Everything about
him makes up the story. He is the story—mixed in with a little symbolism. His
POV as before stated is everything, because as readers we obviously have no
other opinion. His character, obviously from a dystopian world, has better
description and logic than a normal person of our world, enhancing the
symbolism and description all the more. And since his character is so powerful,
he has full control over his words, meaning he could make us believe anything
he wants us to. Either way, this time he was telling the truth, because a rich
man of power…turning himself in? That has to be the truth, considering it takes
a lot of courage to admit your own wrong doings than it is to lie about the
ending.
Response #2!
Another character within this
mini piece of admittance would be the old man, in which the narrator murdered
(or so he thought). The old man of course suspected nothing at first
considering the narrator was a perfect gentleman to him, even more polite than
usual. Our interpretation of this piece would change entirely. Instead of a
haunted piece filled with deceit and then regret, it would tell a tale of a man
that had a wonderful change in heart. The narrator admitted that he was even
nicer to the old man the week before he killed him than any other time period.
Surprised, the old man would have been overjoyed to see his newly changed
friend (or employer). But when suspicion aroused he would be more cautious and
their dystopian reality would hit him. Our story would start out in glee and
rejoice and then morph into a nervous fear for death.
Creative
Piece!
He,
such a thoughtful man, sitting there with the burrowed look of distress set
upon his stone face. Chiseled, I say, because of the sharp edges his bones
curved upon, almost as in a matter of haste. As if a harsh wind had whipped him
so fiercely, now his skin and bones are prolonged backwards. He is the best
though, despite his flaws of physical and mental. I see him there, thinking,
and can’t help but feel the guilt gnaw at me. I knew it was a bother to him. My
eye, so I thought to be, was the problem. I cannot face him. He hates the eye,
with almost a violent aura. To about everybody in town I had cursed at, spit
at, swung at, and yet, he still bailed me from the retching fouls of Hell. I
owe him great deed now, for he set root in me. I see now, his best in times of
worst. Worst upon the meaning of rage. Rage for confusion in times of fault,
rage for himself, rage for me. But however now I feel no rage. He has saved me.
He gave me again, life.
Weeks coursed by, his burrowed
look of distress had been reappearing more than ever. Always aimed towards my
eye. Love turned to doubt and suspicion. I felt as a mad man would—angry. It is
not my own particular fault that Hell took its revenge on me in spitting flames
of morph! As one who has studied the enraging spirits his entire life, he
should understand! Although, my debt has not yet been repaid. I owe him at the
least, my word of work. I remember fondly the day I had begged him to hire me,
as his butler, for his benefit and my satisfaction of pride afterwards. He had
done so, and I was overjoyed. But of course this was not enough, I of course
offered him my gold, it was my very first proposal. When he refused, I was
still yet determined to find a way to repay him! And now I worked for him,
working labor to repay his deed of great worthy. But now, a vibe of tension
suppressed itself into the hollow walls of his home, building up, thickening
and expanding the room. My evil eye had
no affect on me, but now I sense it has on my friend. Hopefully I can drive the
evil away with my love and gratitude. I will start tomorrow, as for now, the
work day is over. As I left, the room
finally released in a sigh of relief.
I climbed into bed slowly and
steadily that night, not for the sake of my rickety bones, but of caution.
Recently, I have noticed and witnessed strange noises and shadows cascading
across my walls and floors. Hopefully the demons weren’t here to drag me back.
This night, I was going to catch them. One noise, and I would shred them to
pieces.
As night dragged on, I lay in
bed, awake. My eyes closed. I tried imagining the evils that were lurking about
my grounds, but all I could imagine was my friend.
Clink!
A tiny high-pitched crash echoed
about the halls and rung in my ears, I sat straight-up, waiting for further
movement and evidence. All I could
imagine was my friend.
The walls seemed to move,
shifting side to side, breathing in and out. All I could image was my friend.
Was he my friend? Time clicked
on. Click-click-click.
What did he want?
All I could imagine was my
friend’s betrayal.
And then I was back.
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