LOTF My Alternate Ending

                                                         Ch.13

                   

Ralph ran through the meadow, Heart pounding, matted hair flinging in front of his face. He trampled the yellow flowers, frail in their beauty. Dashed through the open space where the sow had died, still barren, lifeless, as if Nature were afraid to grow back into it.

Behind him, savage ululations resounded,

nearby, threatening, victorious.

Maybe it was his dangling hair—always in front of his eyes -- maybe it was the fear—paralyzing and choking-- or simply bad luck.

He tripped on the Lord of The Flies hollow skull, sprawling onto the pitted stone floor. His foot caught in a hole, twisted at an unnatural angle.

Ralph howled in pain.

He tried getting up, but could not move, his ankle restrained him so.

A rustle of bushes attracted Ralph´s attention. Out from the darkness stepped Roger, cruelly brandishing a spear,  sharpened at both ends.

Ralph dragged himself away desperately, ending up in the flattened circle, where the sow had met her demise. Roger advanced leisurely towards him, Face devoid of pity, remorse, or regret.

He could not go on any longer, Ralph collapsed, and the last he saw, was Roger standing over him, blotting out the sun, and the six-inch grin of the Lord of The Flies, gazing vacantly at him, mocking, victorious.

“You´re not chief! And we will not be sending extra hunting parties!”

 Jack yelled.

Roger stared coolly back at him, expressionless save for a twitch in his jaw,

close to the scar he had received in a hunting accident three days ago.

It was not openly acknowledged, but in the days since the death of “The Enemy”, Roger had been making many of the tribal decisions, and had become much more socially active.

He led his own hunting parties, made up of unusually cruel and violent hunters;

They used stone-tipped spears, and always brought back boars when they went hunting.

Roger had slowly been gaining the tribe´s trust, and making alliances, while the Chief kept to himself, muttering in his shelter into the late hours of the night.

“I don´t care what you and your hunters think! I´m chief, and my word is law!”

In contrast to Jack, Roger did not shout, or have to raise his voice to make himself heard.

His voice carried enough menace, decisiveness, and authority to reach all ears.

A large group of boys had made a circle around them, listening in to their discussion.

Roger addressed them.

“Who said we he would kill Piggy? Who swore, threatened, and tried to do so every day? Jack did.”

                “But who launched the rock that killed him? Who said that he would eliminate the barrier to our having fun, Ralph “the Great Enemy”.  Jack did. But outside whose shelter does his severed head stand?”

“Enough of this!” Jack shouted “Who thinks I should still be chief?!”

Though Jack´s anger was terrible to behold, Roger´s cold, calculating gaze, and the menacing miasma about him terrified the boys. It hinted at punishments to come, and tortures to suffer if he was angered.

Jack waited. No hands went up. Tears of rage came to his eyes, and he stared accusingly and murderously at the congregation. He made as if to attack Roger, but he was protected by his hunters.

Jack fled, running along the bluffs where Piggy met his demise. Roger chased after him, all the way to the entry of Castle Rock, where he readied himself, and promptly hurled his spear will all his strength at Jack.

It caught him in the legs, and he stumbled to the ground clumsily.

Roger´s hunters ran over to him, and with fingers made nimble from practice, tied him up and brought him back.

Roger smirked as Jack was brought back, and from Jack´s belt he drew out the knife.

He appraised his shelter critically, on one side stood Ralph´s head, frozen in a expression of utter terror, but the left side was bare, missing something.

The chief glanced at Jack, and then, with his newly acquired knife, began to sharpen a stick at both ends.

    Rationale

After the disbanding of the first tribe, and the death of democracy, Jack held power for a while. The savages were getting used to their new lifestyle and their freedom to what they wished. Throughout the novel, Roger had been experimenting with and testing the boundaries of society. Towards the beginning, he threw the rocks at the little children playing in the sand, but threw to miss; towards the middle, he begins to change into a violent person, shoving a spear up the sow´s butt when they were hunting.

When Jack´s tribe was formed, and Roger was free to do whatever he wished, he had an epiphany of a sort, a revelation. There were no adults or any civilization on the island to restrain him. He was free to act how he wished.

After Piggy´s death at Roger´s hands, the power and authority in the tribe began to lean towards him. The boys were no longer afraid of Jack, but Roger. When Jack threatens the twins, they don´t feel frightened. Roger shoulders Jack out of the way, emboldened by his killing of Piggy, and advances upon the twins “wielding a nameless authority” as they sat terrified on the ground.

Though Jack threatened to kill Piggy, it was Roger who actually did so, lending him – in the eyes of the tribe—a combination of respect and fear.

If Ralph had died, no doubt it would´ve been Roger who carried out the deed, as Jack was content to let the others live on the other side of the island, while Roger wants to kill them all.

It is very plausible that there would have been a power struggle if they stayed longer on the island, and since Roger is ruthless and prepared to kill for anything, he would have come out the victor, with no one in the tribe daring to oppose him.

I decided to start the story from when Ralph was being hunted, so as to keep the events that had happened before which would lead up to the hunt.

LOTF Tanka poem Ch.10

Fire´s important
fire cooks the meat, fire
lights the night. Maybe
that´s why chief Jack stole that which
belonged to Piggy, by right.

Tankas

1.
Sitting blakly there
staring out the window pane.
Glued to the cold chair,
mo thought, no feeling, except
the crushing, killing boredom.

2.
Simon tried to banish
their ignorance and their fear.
but frightened boys stabbed
him with their spears, and so brought
strife, in the taking of his life.

3.
What truly is a poem?
Pretty lines made to rhyme, or things
worth more than the average dime?
Man´s great crim, is when he writes,
with words harsh as leaves of thyme.

You Can´t Have It All

But you can have wild blackberries and strawberries,
those that grow untamed on fences,
sweet and tangy,
like gifts from nature.
You can have the comforting warmth
of your dog´s paws pressing up to you at night,
and his cold black nose resting on your cheek.
You can have a cold drink after a hot day,
soothing,
refreshing,
like an oasis in a desert.
You can´t have it all,
but you can have lazy Sundays,
the kind that you stay in bed until 12,
just because you can,
and nothing stops you.
You can have pictures,
the kind freeze a moment in time,
so when you look at them,
you remember,
and you smile or laugh,
as if you traveled back to that day.
You can´t have it all,
but you can enjoy simple pleasures,
like playing Frisbee with your dogs,
a game of pool volleyball with your big brother,
or just a book and a couch.
You can have one of those family moments,
the ones where you remember fondly,
playing Monopoly by lantern-light,
when the electricity goes out.
You can go to sleep on the beach,
lulled to sleep by the lullaby of the waves,
dashing against the sand,
and then foaming back into the sea which birthed them,
and the palm tree´s cool shade,
and its leaves constant rustle,
familiar,
comforting.
You can´t have it all,
but you can have these things.

Poetry Notebook Compilation

Theme: Loss

Come Back!

Description: Loss may be one of the most haunting themes in poetry, in which poets make us acutely feel their emotions as if our own. This is perhaps one of the most recurring themes in both ancient, classic, and modern poetry.

Synopsis: Enclosed here you will find poems made those who lost someone, or themselves, permanently or temporarily, due to sickness, war, time, and other reasons.

War and Children! by Patrice Bennet
The Family Has Been Informed by Roger Elkin
Death Of A Hero by Anonymous
American Soldier´s Wife by Tonya Shore
Seek Not My Heart by Kit McCallum
Scattered Echoes by Todd-Michael St. Pierre
The Cost of Freedom by Ron Tranmer
The Journey by Anonymous
For The Fallen by Laurence Binyon

Peale Green

Benjamin Moore

HC-121

Her prized copper plates,                                                                                                                                             

her only memento of her parents,

the only possession she values.

She takes care of them meticulously.

But six times a year,

When birthdays come,

She opens up the cupboard,

wasted, worn, and old,

but clean.

And she takes out her plates,

to polish them with a torn washcloth.  

Sometimes she wipes them clean with water

from the bucket placed under the leak,

other times with her tears,

but the rag glides over the plates anyways.

Each times she cleans the green film over the copper away,

she sees her prized mementos a little thinner,

sees them wasted, worn, and old.

Till one day, as the rag glided over the smooth surface,

her

precious,

prized,

possessions scattered on the floor,

worn to dust,

as if ashes,

the ashes of her parents,

her last memory of them.

But she stood strong, a rock, a pillar,

letting neither sob,

moan,

nor groan,

hold her hostage,

preventing the grief and regret from swallowing her up.

And when she came to their faithful table,

Scratched, cracked, and gouged over the years,

she set down their normal plates, chipped and cracked,

wasted, worn, and old,

she is still happy, congratulating her son, carefully rationing out portions of their meager meals.

Her husband,

wasted,

worn,

and old beyond his years,

catches her eye and sends a wordless apology.

She nods, the only acknowledgement,

the only inch ceded,

a minuscule chink in her armor,

the one sign of her grief shown.

In the darker hours of the night,

she allows herself to be comforted, but never cries,

knowing she would still repeat her actions if given the chamce,

that the rag would glide over the copper once more,

until it became

wasted,

worn,

weary,

and turned to ashes.

Her husband tells her the news.

He´s been promoted to foreman,

and swears they´ll move out of their old house,

and live a new life.

For once, in a long while,

they feel

new,

happy,

and young.

He swears to buy her a new set of copper plates,

and she smiles and hugs him,

but inwardly, her smile is also sad.

There will only ever be,

one set of copper plates.           

The Knife of Never Letting Go

The Knife of Never Letting Go by Patrick Ness

Publisher: Candlewick Press

Genre: Fantasy

Where I Got It: It was recommended to me, and when I found it on a shelf I decided to read it.

One Sentence Summary:  Todd Hewitt is the only boy left in Prentisstown. There are no women in Prentisstown, because they were all killed off by a virus that also rendered men able to hear each other´s thoughts.

First Sentence: ¨The first thing you find out when yer dog learns to talk is that dogs don't got nothing much to say.¨

First Chapter Review:   The first chapter introduces the reader to Todd, his dog Manchee and his surroundings. It is explained Todd lives in New Prentisstown, the only settlement left on the planet. The author also explains the history of the planet, which culminated in all women dying, and men being able to hear each other´s thoughts.                                                                                               The author sets up his environment very well, showing the overwhelming gloom and sadness that pervades the town, and the confused jumble of men´s thoughts. We can see Todd´s opinions of the town situation, and the ¨Noise¨, or the thoughts of men.

Verdict: This book easily draws the reader in, with a mysterious secret that Todd attempts to uncover throughout the book, making this a page-turner. It’s the first of a trilogy, and leaves the reader in just the right place to make him/her want to read the sequel, The Ask and The Answer.

Cover Comments: It simply shows the outline of a red knife, obviously a reference to the knife Todd carries with him throughout the book, which is given a clear symbolism. There are faint scrawled letters on the cover, written in the same format that the author uses when writing ¨Noise¨(the thought s of men).

Heart of Darkness

We began well, we were happy. And then---
Things started breaking up

I had a dream a horrid one.
The murmur swelled,
then died away

¨The beast comes out of the sea¨
The assembly was shocked into silence

Noise seemed very loud,
darkness and silence made it so.
A bitter sound
We ought to have left this for daylight

Trunks rubbed each other,
a flurry of wind,
made the palms talk.
A thin wail out of the darkness chilled them,
set them grabbing for each other.

The littleuns were near,
huddled into a tight knot in the grass.

The world, that understandable and lawful world,
was slipping away.
Fear, beasts,
this seemed the breaking of sanity.
Littleuns were staggering away, howling.

The storm broke.

The assembly shredded away.
The sand is full,
of noise and excitement,
scramblings,
screams and laughter.

Dispersed figures came together on the sand.
A wordless rhythm,
mock hunting, hysterical laughter,
real terror.

The beast was...--
mankind´s essential illness,
dirt and decay,
irregular and sketchy,
bogies, big and horrid,
unmentionable, unknown,
watching and waiting.
The gloom in the island.
Darkness, terror,
evil, silence.
A dense black mass that revolves.

The beast is like...
Jack.
A black fire, a heart of darkness,
violent hunters, dirty black caps in the darkness.
Scowling, arrogant, and wild.

My Origins

I an from motor oil, the busy garage workshop,
and the smell of gasoline. I´m from the Black & Decker toolkit,
and the sounds of sports engines, and tinkering in the morning.

From the choking dust of construction, and blisters even in gloved hands,
and also from the cool, air-conditioned executive office.

From the backyard gardens, and the tall, wavy palms that rustle in the wind. I´m from the spiky turf that digs into your back when you lie and stare at the sky, and I´m from the sound of dogs barking, and happy panting.

I´m from Fridays at the movies, and texted advice. I´m from Saturday labor, and lazy Sundays. From the coffee and Formula 1 races in the morning.
¨From hot-headedness, and cold calculation. I´m from ¨clean up your mess¨ and ¨think out your actions¨
I´m from tropical rain on the roof, and hot, windless Italian nights

I am the steel girder, holding up the roof.
I am the palm tree, waving in the breeze.
I´m the race car, not speeding through, but cruising past the curves.

Disaster Strikes

I was working in my cubicle, when I fitfully glanced at my watch, it was 2:46. I was pondering what I would have for dinner, when there was an ominious, barely audible rumble. Following this precedent warning, the floor started to rattle.

I backed out of my cubicle, due to its lack of capaciousness.The office´s playful banter had come to a dead stop, and there were copious amounts of fear in the air.

Then the floor started to rumble and shake. Everyone stampeded for the stairs, grappling for a chance at escape. Many fellow employees rushed to the elevator, but guards had already been deployed there, and they also started to organize evacuation, insisting organization was crucial. The crazed crowd decelerated, then calmed down. Being adept at their jobs, the guards kept order facilitating evacuation. But around 30 or more office workers were trampled and injured in the mayhem.

 When we got outside, 30 minutes after the quake, the waters from the ocean, not azure, but black and filled with debris, swept through the city, barely missing us. I felt a pang of regret at all the destruction in my city, I did not see how we would recover. Everyone was quiet, fastidiously watching the damage.

Zombie Spaceship Wasteland Review

                                                               By: Giovanni Ferrari

The title of my book is Zombie Spaceship Wasteland, a title which referrs to the autor, Patton Oswalt´s, views on people. Although these views aren´t of vital importance, they are still one of the most memorable and symbolic parts of the book.

This memoir is about the life and career of comedian Patton Oswalt, born in 1969. He started his career between the 1980´s or 90´s. He was heavily influenced by the flood of information from the boom of the television industry, and all the new information and programs.

It was organized in a first person perspective, as an adult looking back at past events. Patton arranges it in the following manner: Long story segments, which reveal and explain important events in his life. There are then short stories, which show a bit less of his character, in small bits. There are a few joke segments in the book, him being a comedian.

The memoirist realized a good deal of things in what he wrote. He realized he did not want to stay in one place his whole life, and wanted to travel the world. He realized a good deal of things when he was working in a movie theatre, which is what the first long segment entails.

At some point he came up with his particular opinion on people, Zombie Spaceship Wasteland. People are classified into these three groups. Reading the book is required for full understanding. Included is only half of Patton´s explanation.

Zombies:   ´´You see them everywhere- rolling their eyes outside a rock club at how lame the band was, shaking their heads over a newspaper in a coffee shop, resentful under office lighting.´´

Spaceships:  ´´Spaceships leave. A chunk of my peers became spaceships, maneuvering through their own lives. Deflector shields up. ´´Laser Cannons`` take the place of conversation, ´´deflector shields`` are emotional nuance, and ´´warp drive`` is story exposition.``

Wastelands:  ´´Wastelands destroy. They´re confused but fascinated by the world.´´ ´´Wasteland. Post-nuke, post-apocalyptic, or simply a million years into the future- that´s the perfect environment for the Wastelands imagination to gallop through. A wasteland is inhabited by people or, for variety, mutants.´´ ´´Variations of the human species grown amok-isn´t that how some teenage outcasts already feel?``

Patton identifies himself and most other comedians as Wastelands later on in the chapter.

I thought the book was interesting, but what most drew me in, was the unconventionality. It wasn´t clearly set up from Ch.1 to the end. Patton was descriptive, was able to make uncommon situations easy to relate to, and was humorous as well.

´´As I read it, I kept drifting out of the book, out of the booth, and coasting on the green crest of the song, to the momentary idea that any point on Earth was mine for the visiting, that I´d lucked out in the reality I was in. And I also got the feeling that I was souring and damaging that luck by enjoying contentment of pulling the shades on the sun, and shutting out my fellow employees and the world, and folding myself up in the construct of a brilliant novel like The Man in The High Castle, that all the reading I´d been doing up to this point hadn´t enhanced my life, but rather had replaced and delayed it.´´

I liked this particular paragraph, above similar ones like it, because it really makes any person think, even the most close-minded one, about their own beliefs, and if they were utilizing their life to its fullest potential.

Finding Balance in Humor

Giovanni Ferrari

English C/D

Mrs. T. Meadows

February 14, 2011

                                    

I believe humor balances out the negative. I learned the value of humor in life, when my dog died.

It was two days after New Years,  and my family and I were at our beach house. I was idly watching TV, my parents were sleeping, and my sister was listening to music outside, probably lying on the hammock. Suddenly, my sister rushes into the TV room, cradling the dog in her hands. The dog was foaming at the mouth, and she had a wild look in her eyes. I rushed upstairs and woke up my parents. They tried to wash her mouth out, assuming she’d bit a frog. We saw that she was getting worse, and I carried her outside, to try to flush the poison out with a house. We tried to help her recover from the poison, but it was useless. The paralyzing poison reached her heart and brain, and she grew stiff and cold, like a rock. I felt numb, so did everyone else, but we knew there was nothing else to do. We quietly packed up everything and went back home, with the dog wrapped in a towel.

The next day, my mom stayed in bed, sobbing. We all tried to comfort her, but to no avail. My older brother was holding the other, younger dog we had. He was looking sad, or at least serious, as if sensing the mood. Suddenly, without changing his solemn demeanor, the dog farted once, loudly right in my brother’s arms. A sour stink enveloped the room, and my brother made a sound of disgust, and proceeded to nudge the dog out the door with his foot. As he did this, my dad commented: “Maybe that’s why he looked so sad… He knew after he let that one rip, he was going to be kicked out.”

            We all cracked up in, in varying degrees. Maybe it was the look of disgust on my brother’s face, or my dad’s goofy grin, or a combination of both. Even my mom was laughing, and soon we let the dog in, hearing his indignant barks echoing outside.

           

It’s been three years since my dog died. Over the course of those years, two more dogs we had have died. But instead of grieving and dwelling on their deaths, I moved on, and remembered their quirks and oddities, like how one was a bit dumb and crashed into glass doors, or how the other was overweight and sometimes stole her puppies’ food. I remember them as they were, and all the times they made me laugh. I remember the humor they brought into my life. That day, although everyone was saddened by the death of our dog, I learned something. I learned that humor is as good a medicine as any. I learned to look at things humorously. I was able to deal with what was thrown at me, and changed my outlook on things.

I agree with the poet William Arthur Ward: “A well-developed sense of humor is the pole that adds balance to your steps as you walk the tightrope of life.”

            I found balance in humor. I believe in humor, and its power.

I Believe...

I believe that if eyes are windows into the soul,
then words are doors.

I believe dinner is a family get-together.

I believe the stolen honeycomb,
is worth the angry bees.

I believe the meaning of life,
is to find meaning in life.

I believe fate is an old wive's tale,
that the string is not cut, but wears away,
by itself.

I believe Grandpa's old war stories should stay in his head after the 5th time.

I believe money doesn't grow on trees,
but we sow the seeds of our success with our actions.

I believe a breeze can refresh a person, but also topple a vase.

I believe time is a river, it slows,
it speeds, but never stops.

I believe one's attention jumps from point to point,
like islands in the sea of the mind.

I believe there are no endings,
just a point where nothing else needs to be said.

The Story of Richard Young

Richard Young never thought he would enter politics. He envisioned himself as a heroic policeman or fireman, lionized by the people in the town known as Treetown. Deciding he wanted to be police chief, he took courses in Law and Law Enforcement, and thought he'd go to the Police Academy afterwards. With encouragement from his parents, he also took Politics.

Politics was a relatively new subject for Treetown High, taught by a college professor that had recently moved to Treetown with his new wife. He still wanted to teach, but because the universities were far away, and he wanted to be with his wife, he decided to apply at Treetown High.

Richard walked into his classroom, expecting nothing but a boring class. In fact, he already questioned taking this course. The teacher was late, causing much speculation among Richard's classmates about how he was. His classroom was simply furnished, revealing almost nothing about its owner.

About ten minutes into the class, the new professor, Professor George, the students learned, rushed into the class holding a mug of freshly brewed coffee, and dressed much as his students would on a casual weekend, blue polo and jeans. Richard noted the professor couldn't have been older than 25.

Also, to Richard's interest, he didn't have the same bored look the other teachers at his high school had. Treetown High was an old establishment, and the teachers were tired of teaching the same thing, year after year, for quite a long time. Professor George was quite amiable, and treated his students more as friends he wanted to inform, rather than students whose heads he tried to cram information into.

Little by little, day after day, Richard's interest in politics grew. He began to look forward to the class at the end of the day, with the simple room, and the friendly teacher. He soon liked politics, liked the way they twined around the rest of the world, liked the debates, and liked feeling like he could actually do something. Richard was the best at debate, defending his points passionately yet meticulously, dismantling the defense of others simply and efficiently.

Richard became great friends with Professor George, who became a mentor of sorts to him. It came as no surprise to anyone when Richard pursued Politics as a career,  eventually earning his people's trust, and a Senatorial position. His skills quickly granted him assimilation into the world of politics, but even then, he grew in popularity and influence, known as a compassionate voice, inside and outside Congress.

He was elected three times, each time with the help of his now old mentor, Professor George, now retired, and still living with now vast family in Treetown, except for frequent trips with his friend, Senator Richard, he was content to stay in the town he moved into, all those years ago. He lived happily, with his family, and his succesful protege/friend Richard Young, who he was always proud, of until the end of his days.

Senator Richard stayed in the political community a few years after his professor's early death, then quit, disgusted with the dissension, lies, and blackmail techniques that were spreading through it. He lived with his wife, a defense lawyer he married at the peak of his career, and a veritable army of grandchildren, until he too met his end, passing away in his sleep along with his wife, in their quiet house on the corner of Maple Street and Oak Avenue, on the outskirts of Treetown, next to the house where his mentor had lived all these years.

Caught Off-Guard

We were playing soccer. It was a Tuesday. Slightly cloudy day, a threat of rain on the horizon. We were ahead by a few points. I was off-guard. Little did I know that right behind me, Jacob was conspiring to bring me down. Literally. With a bit of footwork and surprise, I was tripped into a patch of spiky, itchy weeds. The field dissolved into anarchy as people started laughing, and others scored sneaky goals while everyone else was distracted. 


Trying to apprehend my assailant, I grabbed the leg off the person closest to me, and flipped it over my shoulder. It turned out not to be Jacob, but Matthew who had been standing close by to me. He landed straight in the mud the field gets covered in when its wet. I felt a bit guilty, then reasoned he'd probably been laughing at me too. So it was ok. My short anger attack over, I decided to help him up, gave Jacob the 'evil eye', and continued playing.