Guilty Conscience

Author's Note: This is my prediction response that guesses who the "baby-daddy" is of Pearl in "The Scarlet Letter".

Hester, in the book The Scarlet Letter, will not say directly who the father of her "sin-baby" is. She has betrayed her husband, Roger Chillingworth and as he and everyone else in the Puritanical community demands a name, she refuses repeatedly.  So far in the book, only one other mister has been identified and described thoroughly. His name is Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale. Everyone in the community respects him as a young scholar, as a success. Although, as we get a full description of his appearance and a slight glimpse at his inner feelings,  he is more nervous-- despite his honorable fame. So it only makes sense that he would be the father of Pearl.

It seems as if everyone in the town is very secure with their faith and actions. The only others are Hester, Pearl  and apparently Mr. Dimmesdale. But, my guess is that because of his great reputation that the others are blinded to see "a startled, half-frightened look" that showed in his appearance. They also did not notice as he pauses in reluctance to speak to Hester in that public place as he bows his head. The narrator described it as, "The Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale bent his head, in silent prayer, as it seemed, and then came forward." I believe that his "silent prayer" asked for strength to not blow his cover and for restraint from coming clean and declaring himself guilty. He is a good man, and that is encouraged in the description, so his guilt and his faith together most likely takes all of his energy to not confess to his sin.

Also in that public place, as Mr. Dimmesdale starts to speak to Hester, he is "looking down steadfastly into her eyes,". I find that interesting, because most people would not make eye contact with Hester-- she had sinned, and deserved no respect now, according to the Puritans. Most people would look at her Scarlet Letter, the symbol of her great sin. Mr. Dimmesdale either is a very forgiveable man (although Puritans aren't supposed to be like that), or he knows who Hester really is (before the sinning).

Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, seems to have acquired a condition that causes him great pain. He sees the "doctor", Roger Chillingworth (also Hester's husband, who is searching for Hester's accomplice undercover). Even though not a doctor, Chillingworth cannot find the source of Dimmesdale's pain. Whenever Roger starts to get suspicious of Dimmesdale, Dimmesdale would "grip hard at his breast as if inflicted with an importunate throb of pain." I believe that his guilt is eating away at his heart, and Dimmesdale is afraid that if he does not comfort, or hold his pain, that his heart will shrivel away to nothing.

Another clue leads me to this conclusion. It is said that a child can sense their birth-parents' identities. After Mr. Dimmsedale concludes his persuasive speech to Hester in the public place, the child, Pearl, looked at Mr. Dimmesdale, reached with her arms and was pleased, murmuring slightly. The child has not made many actions in that part of the book, so this reaction to Mr. Dimmesdale should not be take slightly. I believe that Pearl senses Mr. Dimmesdale to be her father, and she is comfortable with his voice, which also proves the theory. Yet another example of this reoccurs in chapter 10, where Pearl and Hester are walking by, and Pearl stops and sees Mr. Dimmesdale, and she again notices him and throws "prickly burrs at the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale."  So, again, Pearl senses something. She has proven herself smart, and speaks and acts expressively, not caring who hears, sees, thinks.

This is like the story of The Pearl, and the character Juana is like Mr. Dimmesdale. Since I believe that Mr. Dimmesdale was tempted to evil or "the dark side", he is most like Juana, as she first set eyes upon the large pearl that her husband found and she prayed for, she is tempted to the subject of greed. But, she realizes this--that greed is an unwanted mistake of actions-- and wants things to go back to normal. She goes along with her husband, Kino, who has been so taken with the pearl, that he does whatever he pleases and eventually turns into a different person. Hester is more so like Kino in a way that she knows that she cannot go back, and eventually starts to question her faith… But Mr. Dimmesdale wants everything to back to the way it was, to not have feelings of guilt-- just as Juana wants to go back to not having feelings of greed. It proves that even the nicest, religious, most content people can do wrong, and will want to go back. People have times of weakness--Juana and Mr. Dimmesdale have demonstrated  that, and people such as them want to do the right thing, but are stuck in a bad situation and have a hard time reaching a conclusion that is best for them. 

Of War

Author's Note: I wrote this in the beginning of the school-year based on a quote that I found on a Google Chrome app called, "A Quotation". It's a really cool app that allows you to see all different types of quotes. The one that I chose was one of my favorites. 

Knowledge is the worst kind of war. Its purpose may be for greater good; where the cause is redeemed in enlightenment and success. Yet too much of this war is too much sanity. Is madness. When you see the facts of life in the way they are, you see the pain and blood and gore of war. The enlightenment has turned, and the reality of it all can never go away. Wars don't ever go away. It is with us forever in our past, leading the way for the future. Where the future is dark as life, for the way it truly is.

The quote "Too much sanity may be madness - and the maddest of all - to see life as it is, and not as it ought to be. " is truthful. Don Quixote has learned to see as life is, for the making of this quote. He has told, that once our fantasy realities of the enlightened life are washed away by knowledge, you see something so corrupt, so bloody, you can never return. It makes you mad. You long for the positive possibilities you once had, but the true reality takes over in memory.

Personally, I agree completely with this quote. And the way he uses the term "madness" doesn't mean its literal term. He expresses it as  something to desire, to want. The dream that we have evolved for life is of course wonderful, yet is not real. No, the quote is not negative-- It is fact. We have to stop labeling the truth as a negative factor when it comes to the world. Yes, the world is corrupt, it is a decaying face in which we act in selfishness. Because honestly, while some are soaking in the syrup of ignorance, others are mad with the truth. And the only possible way to save ourselves from ignorance, is to fight for the knowledge, the war.

That is why I believe this quote, because like told in the story of "The Giver", the government knew how the world truly was. It's cold marble under your bare feet, each step a new shock of chill; the marble path leading you to a dead end, death. So the Community council allowed and forced its people to live directly in the fantasy reality. Where nothing was painful, nothing was dark. There was nothing to be afraid of, no reason to be negative. What is was, was a lie. Madness diagnosed from facts and the truth were not acceptable. Happiness there, was the goal. The world does not intend for us to be happy, yet our human qualities will force it if need be.

This also takes place in the "Utopian" country of "Fahrenheit 451". Captain Beatty explains it all as it is, for he knows truth, yet forces it beneath himself so he can be happy too. His job, is to make others "happy" also; as he is a fireman, knowing that incinerating the truthful words of books, confiscating it from citizens, will make them happy in the sappy ignorance. The quote does not mention where we receive this knowledge, but books are a good place to start. Thinking, as well. The country leaders figured this, and decided to blame the transcripts and poetry-- punishing them for their hurtful words of truth. Thought was also a problem, so by removing porches and comfy chairs, giving the people ultra-fast cars, and booming loud noises into their heads-- they wouldn't be able to.

"Finally 12", is a book that just scratches the surface of the quote. The protagonist, an 11 year-old girl soon to be 12, has been fantasizing all of the wonderful and possible realities of being older, of being 12. But soon does she realize that everything falls apart, because she has came to the expectations of her dreams, and saw what was true. Shaving did no wonder to her legs, as they came out worse afterwards. Cell-phones only caused friendship drama that was only sped-up due to the speed of a text. And being treated as an adult only led to responsibilities and chores and more work in all. She was depressed with disappointment during those early times, considering her dreams were found false. Then, though, she attempts to make the most of it, and decides that knowing the world as it is, is reward enough for being 12. She labels it as a new chapter in her life-- and from then on sees the war.

The people who were free to see knowledge, otherwise known as the truth, were eventually happy to see it. Although, those living in that supposedly Utopian Society, will think themselves  happy, although only enlightenment will bring that light unto them in the darkness of our futures. And even though knowledge is for your greater good, you will forever see the pain and blood and gore of war... 

"Are you happy?"

Author's Note: This is a creative piece that I wrote that goes with the theme, "Are you happy?" in Fahrenheit 451. In Fahrenheit 451, Guy Montag was supposedly happy with his material items and burning books, but finds that what he thought made him happy... actually didn't. I tried to incorporate that into this piece... but I twisted it a bit; with books being something that let my character down, instead of the opposite. 

               “Some people believe that life is scripted by God, and people are only a handful of words, animated. People who think such as stated prior, see the words of truth that captivate our communities. They are engrossed with words.”

                I remember reading this excerpt somewhere… but I don’t know where because I examine so many books! They are everything to me. I disregard the titles on circumstance, but who cares?

                I stare at this quote that I taped against my wall. Most girls my age on Friday darkness go dangle out with their boyfriends or contacts at some Skateland or rather. But I’m at this juncture… looking at my wall.

                “Palette?”

                I rotate behind me, to perceive my little sister holding one of my books in her arms.

                “What do you crave, Aspira? And what are you doing in the midst of my manuscript!” My incisive eyes situate upon my book in her arms to see if any mutilation has come to it. Luckily, I can see no nicks.

                When she opens her maw, she speaks tenderly. “I found it in my room, I just thought I’d give it to you.”

                I huff, speculating what I would’ve done if I’d vanished it. When she hands it to me, I don’t bother to verify the title. I embrace it against my torso, clinching it sternly, shielding it from the world.

                “Palette?”

                “What?”

                She looks at me extraordinarily. “Why do you like books so much, anyways?”

                I shrug then articulate, “I don’t know really.”

                “Are you happy?”

                I gaze at her, wondering.

                She reallocates her mass ineptly in facade of me then says, “I mean, how can a book called Nobody Loves Me make you happy? Or Everybody Looks the Same to Me? Or even Gray is My Favorite Color?” She looks at me apprehensively, “They seem a bit… depressing.”

                Once more, I shrug. “I don’t in actuality reimburse attention to the titles.”

                She narrows her eyes. “What about the insides of the books, though? You do read them, right?”

                “Of course I carry out!” I exclaim. “That’s why I encompass so various books!” I forestall my gaze to my overflowing bookshelves.

                “Are you infatuated with words?”

                I stare at my younger sister, in awe. “Infatuated? I am keen of that word! Where’d you gain knowledge of that word?”

                She revolves her eyes. “That’s my point, Palette. Maybe that’s why you talk weird, too. I mean, you say things… and the sentence fluency is off…” She pauses.  “Do you know what I mean?”

                I impede for a jiffy and think. Do I talk uncanny? I presently thought I sounded so much more highly developed than everybody else. I imply, my word choice is supposed to be unparalleled!

                I wobble my head, trying to ponder everything Aspira just informed me of.

                “So… you’re saying…” I recess a second. “That I don’t actually like books? I just like the words?”

                She nods.

                “No.” I utter.

                “What?”

                I look her straight in the eye. “I do not think I am happy. You asked if I was happy. I guess I was just… infatuated with words.”

                “Palette… Words are empty. Do you understand? They are nothing unless you string them together and make a necklace. Words have individual definitions and meanings of their own, but they have to describe something, or say something purposeful. Words won’t keep you happy, Palette. You aren’t happy… are you?”

                I shake my head, now sad. I thought that books made me smart, and that that would make me happy. But… they didn’t teach me anything. I didn’t gain anything from it. This new understanding inspired me to change…Aspira inspired me to change. My little sister! I smile.

                “Come here,” I say, opening my arms to her. We hug, and I thank her. She walks out the door and I sit on my bed, books surrounding me.

                I look at my books, which I only recently thought made me happy. I look back to all of the dreams I’ve had: of me, crying, walking, but getting nowhere. It lead me to an empty room. And now I understand.

                I shove my books off my bed. All of them. I get a glance at some of the titles: Hugging Myself, Dying on the Inside, Oppressing the Pain. I roll my eyes and throw a blanket over my little pile so I won’t have to look at them.

                Words will not make me happy. Words are not my salvation. And I do not need books.

                I check my phone. 7 o’clock. Still enough time to get to Skateland. I grab (not seize) my sweater (not pullover) and put on cherry (not crimson) lipstick and start to exit (not egress) my room. But before I’m out the door, I see the poster on my wall.

“Some people believe that life is scripted by God, and people are only a handful of words, animated. People who think such as stated prior, see the words of truth that captivate our communities. They are engrossed with words.”

                I quickly get a pen from my bedside table and run back to my poster. I cross out the last line. I step back and examine my work.

“Some people believe that life is scripted by God, and people are only a handful of words, animated. People who think such as stated prior, see the words of truth that captivate our communities. They are engrossed with words.”

That is how I will live my life, I think. I will use words to animate meaning and truth in my life.

I smile and remember the meaning (not the words) of my silent promise as I walk (not trot) out my door. 

Moth Trails

Author's Note: I wrote this on Halloween because an idea came to me, and it felt chilling--  just like Halloween. Hope you like it!

A moth trails cobwebs from its wings. They drape, lifeless and dead. And the moth flutters lightly, its movement  soundless. Although through the dark it is gone. Gone with the cobwebs and the wings. A hum of energy ignites over my head. But suddenly I hear something. Not wings. But footsteps. A sound  petty compared to the wings. And the death of night is still succumbing me into silence. I take a step forward. Following my breath which takes me further into the dark. Shapes play in front of me and lights flash in my eyes. Closing my eyes is lighter than my surrounding room. But then I also see the moth. I open my eyes and see nothing. I feel something though.

Closer.

Closer.

Why?

The moth is above me in the heat. I reach for it. Jumping, my feet hit the floor like bricks. And the footsteps increase. And again, they come closer.

I breathe through my mouth. I open it wide when I breathe. And then I leave it open. Eat the darkness is to make it go away. The energy draws closer and it draws in a trail. A trail like the cobwebs. A tingling sensation breathes down my neck and my back. My mouth is still open. I don't close it. And then I feel it.

Imagination?

Please?

Why?

And it is in my mouth. The moth of the night. I close. And feel it flutter to my insides. Deadly and sharp. As sharp as my knife in my hand. The cobwebs trail to my stomach. I smile. The knife now tingles in my hand. The footsteps come closer.

Knife?

Now?

Yes.

The pouring was warm and the moth was cold. I dig deeper into the depths. And the metal slices the energy.

Away.

Away.

Now!

I dig deeper! I have to, it penetrates the soul, deeper and further. That is what I want. The moth has died and the cobwebs spiral to the floor. The dark is lighter now. But I am closing my eyes I realize. They close and I fall. The pouring seems to be over. Over, over! And I smile.

Over.

Over.

Now.

The footsteps are gone.