Slicing the Newborn

The holy man’s on the altar, He’s got a bible in one hand, a knife in the other. They’ve been cutting their babies for years. Mom’s still pale from a 12 hour birth, Dad’s can still taste the cigar From 8 days ago. It’s a party! So why aren’t I smilin’? It’s a party! So why aren’t I wearing pants? It’s a party! So why am I crying? “It’s tradition” dad said when I learned to dress myself. “It’s tradition” dad screamed when I learned to think for myself. “It’s tradition” dad begged when I said I wanted better for myself. It’s a party! So why aren’t I smilin’? It’s a party! So why aren’t I wearing pants? It’s a party! So why am I crying? Mom didn’t say much, she sort of just sighed And convinced herself what they were doing was right But when the knife came down she just couldn’t look. Snip Snip, it was awfully barbaric.

Tryst

Her sadness descends into madness,

all trysts come to an eventual end,

it wasn't the lackluster saving of face,

but the "maybe I'd like to be friends"

and cruelty it comes in three flavors:

salty, rich, tinged bittersweet,

and sadness descends into madness,

when everything comes to an end.



There are thoss in this world that believe the old lies,

of things ending on high notes, of love seeming like song,

but there's a reason the old they grow deaf as they age,

and real mourning occurs when the tears are all gone.



Artists dip brushes in colours, and sigh,

and moan as the best years of their lives have gone by,

but squirrels, they scurry and scamper and die,

without knowing much more than the lonely black night.



Little girls read about princes and wine,

and they overlook men who are only alright,

but when princes turn sour, all that's left is the vine,

and the sweet salty promise of fresh tears and old wine.



sadness descends into madness,

all trysts come to an eventual end,

it wasn't the lackluster saving of face,

but the "maybe I'd like to be friends."

If...

If Harry Potter were a softcore porno:

Scene: Hogwarts, Gryffindor boy’s common room, midnight of a cold night during Christmas break. Two lone students sit, the only two Gryffindors remaining at the school during the holiday, Harriet and Preston.

Preston: “so Harriet…”

Harriet: “Preston, the sexual tension is too much. Our author is clearly gently mocking an oversexed British woman.”

Preston: “What?”

Harriet: “Do you want to have sex or not?”

*Harriet removes her blouse, Preston’s eyes wide with shock. Gently and awkwardly fumbling, Preston has a bright idea.*

Preston: Alohamora!, *pointing his wand at Harriet* (pervert. The literal wand. If I was talking about the non literal one, I would have used a stupid euphemism.)

*I’m sure you can guess what would happen. Harriet smirked, which was odd, as apparently only Slytherins are capable of smirking, and they do it entirely too often. Preston just stared at Harriet’s now bare torso*
Harriet: “in that case, maybe I should call an engorgio on your erm… chocolate frog. (Told you I would use a stupid euphemism! Win!)

Preston: (mocking being offended) “ouch.”

*Harriet drew closer, and kissed Preston passionately.*

*End scene, Preston drawing his wand upon himself and muttering “protego”, clearly a great use for a shielding charm indeed.*

If Twilight were a softcore porno:

Scene: A stupid girl that doesn’t really need a name, and a stupid old vampire guy are alone together. The vampire doesn’t want to have sex, furthering the author’s mormonic agenda.

Stupid vampire: *his face is perfect* “I can’t have sex with you stupid girl. I haven’t been laid in almost a thousand years. I’ve forgotten how”

Stupid girl: “Can’t you try? For me?”

Stupid vampire: “I’d love to, but I don’t exactly have blood left to spare.” *he said, perfectly making his perfect face all the more perfect by furrowing his brow.*

Stupid girl: “Alright. Want to get popcorn?”

Stupid vampire: “Alright. I do like Orville Redenbacher .

END SCENE

Weird Frankie

The red van dropped Weird Frankie at the curb and pulled an illegal U-Turn. Weird Frankie was the sort of guy who seemed to be in a perpetual daze. He saw the off-white rags, the big yellow dollar store sponges, the cheap posterboard signs. He heard the freshie girls screaming “CAR WASH”. He didn't seem to notice any of it. He sat on the bench outside of Paul B. Stevenson High without looking at anybody. No one noticed him either.
Mr. Thorndike was genuinely upset. It was his first year at the school. The department wide science field trip had its funding cut. He and the other faculty had laid out their own money in September expecting to be reimbursed. He touched his hand to his face, and picked at the three days of a beard on his chin. He did that when he was nervous.
Weird Frankie looked at the other kids enjoying themselves, washing cars, muscly shirtless boys squirting the pretty girls with the hose. Girls responding in mock outrage. Taking the hoses. Squirting the guys back. Frankie didn't know how to join them. He wished he wasn't such a failure at group gatherings like this. He wanted to go home.
Mr. Thorndike felt guilty for getting an erection looking at the girls covered in water and sweat. He put his newspaper over his lap and reminded himself that it didn't make him a bad person unless he acted on those urges. He rubbed at his eyes. He had been out late. Mr. Thorndike moonlights. Mr. Thorndike drove a van. Mr. Thorndike couldn't tell anybody. Weird Frankie went back to his bench.
Sable noticed Weird Frankie. She never knew what to think of him. Sometimes she found herself making nasty comments about him with her friends, and she never really knew why. She tried not to think about it. Everyone else was doing it. They must have had a reason, and that was good enough for her. She didn't like being squirted with the water hoses. She was glad she didn't wear white today. She half entertained the notion of going to sit with Weird Frankie. She knew she would be laughed at. She squired Charlie back with the hose.
Mr. Thorndike was very concerned. There was little business. He was the only member of the faculty reluctant to lay out the money in the first place. He knew he didn't have a job for the next year either. He scratched at an itch on his ass, and hoped none of his students noticed. Weird Frankie got up and started lying down on the grass.
Mr. Thorndike gulped in anticipation. He had to do this. He stood up. He told the kids that due to WayWay land raising the prices at the last minute, they would have to pay an additional forty dollars each for the field trip. They grumbled. They whined. They kept working.
Weird Frankie noticed that they were pissed off. He said brightly, glad for an opportunity to join in “I can help get more customers”. Charlie started to snicker. Sable laughed too and didn't know why. Mr. Thorndike didn't like Weird Frankie. There seemed to be something off about him. He was a teacher though, and couldn't express how he felt.
“Let's hear him out.”
and Frankie said “watch!”

. . .

Frankie went over to a pigeon. He started cooing at it. The pigeon started cooing back. Charlie couldn't hold in his laughter. Sable laughed too. Edgar chuckled. Molly snickered. Renny laughed the hardest. Everybody hated Renny. He figured that if he laughed with them, maybe they'd accept him. That's always why the kid who laughs the hardest laughs the hardest. Even Mr. Thorndike laughed. “Oh boy Frankie, I'm glad for the comic relief.”
Frankie sulked back to his bench embarrassed. The pigeon followed him. He started stroking it, and no one seemed to notice but Mr. Thorndike. He would have given it more thought, but he was getting an erection again. “God,” he thought “It's hard being a teacher”.
All of a sudden, the sky went dark. Sable screamed. Renny gulped and offered her his hand. She took Charlie's hand. Charlie tried to hide how afraid he was. The sky fell down. There were pigeons everywhere. They swarmed around the street, clearly everywhere for miles. Renny called his dad's number on his cell phone. Renny's dad was the local weatherman. The call went through, and was immediately dropped. He tried again. The same thing.
The birds shit all over the place. Store fronts, people's heads, their clothing. Most importantly, the birds shit on the cars. They make more than twice what they needed to go on the field trip. Mr. Thorndike figured there was no point telling the rest of the faculty. He kept the extra money for himself.

…

There was talk of the pigeons for weeks. Rumours started to spread about Weird Frankie. Frankie and his voodoo shit. Kids stayed even further than usual. He was called in to see the guidance counselor. The counselor was a devout Catholic. She wished she didn't have to deal with the demon boy. “God,” she thought. “It's hard being a guidance counselor.”
Charlie told the story with relish, with his hand on Sable's leg. Sable liked when he touched her there, but would never admit it. She simply pretended like nothing was any different. She laughed at Frankie like the rest of them, and grew uneasy when his name was spoken.
Edgar asked Frankie what kind of strange coincidence it was. Frankie said “It wasn't a coincidence. I told you I could help.” Edgar didn't believe him. Frankie said, “Watch this!” Frankie pointed at Edgar's lunch tray, and it started to slide across the counter on its own. Edgar pointed and shouted “Stay away from me!”.
The story of Weird Frankie and the lunch tray made its rounds. The guidance counselor came to the cafeteria with rosary beads and candles and holy water. She muttered things. Renny took out a gun. He was on a pure adrenaline high induced by fear, and the gun he'd had for months. Said he'd use it on Charlie after school. He never did. He knew it was wrong. But something in the room was feral. Something had his balls hanging low and his teeth bared. He pointed it at Frankie. No one in the room tried to stop him. Sable wanted to vomit. She didn't want this to happen to Frankie. Charlie held her close. “God,” she thought. “He smells so good.” and Renny pulled the trigger.

Originality is a point of contention only among those who feel the need to reconcile the paradox between the original and the mundane. These two great forces, forever at odds, provide us with the temptation to succumb to black and white thought. Indeed, a dichotomy does not exist between the original and the ordinary; it is folly to fail to recognize that we're working with multiple topologies, all of which have equal merit.

Love.

One day I'll meet her. We'll fall so madly in love that lemonade won't need sugar and gargoyles will scowl and grimace and send expensive China to our wedding reception in order to compensate for their jealousy. She'll hold my hand while driving, and I'll gently put it on my shoulder so I can safely make the next turn, only to pick it up again and squeeze her fingers when the road goes on straight for miles. We'll lie in bed watching a silly movie, her snuggling up to me, leaning in for a kiss that turns into a pillow fight, and finally a mock wrestling match. I always let her win so she can claim that kiss. I see her in the tea leaves, the tarot cards, and the I-Ching bones. All that's left to do is wait.

AP LIT SCARLET LETTER

Scarlet Letter Paper:
Jeremy Schatten
AP Lit
Ms. Johnson

Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter is constructed with an always distinct, but not always obvious intent.
Through his indecisive tone, his symbolic imagery ,and his judgmental word choice, Hawthorn creates an air of ambiguity in order to draw upon the experience of the reader, making his novel all the more compelling.
This is especially evident in Hawthorne's conclusion found on pages 252 to 255 wherein the author employs numerous instances of intentional ambiguity in order to draw his reader in. Hawthorne begins “... there was more than one account of what had been witnessed on the scaffold.” Immediately, Hawthorne implies an innate disjointedness, a disintegration of a scene that clearly only truly happened one way. Arthur Dimmesdale, father of Pearl and lover of Hester Prynne, was seen upon the scaffold in many different lights. “Most of the spectators testified to having seen on the breast of the unhappy minister, a scarlet letter – the very semblance of that worn by Hester Prynne – imprinted in the flesh.” Hawthorne continues to offer other theories to contrast with the first. “Some affirmed that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the very day when Hester Prynne first wore her ignominious badge, had begun a course of penance- which he afterwards in so many futile methods, followed on- by inflicting a hideous torture on himself”.
It is clear from Hawthorne's language that the narrator is skeptical of those who defend Dimmesdale, which is Hawthorne's way of condemning his character. His use of the word “most” in his first explanation offer it more credibility, while his use of the words “some affirmed” gives it a nasty brand of hearsay. Although Hawthorne clearly holds with the first, his narrator offers the reader a choice. “The reader may choose among these theories. We have thrown all the light we could acquire upon the portent, and would gladly, now that is has done its office, erase its deep print out of our brain where long meditation has fixed in in very undesirable distinctness.
The use of the word “we” is most curious, until the nature of ambiguity is further explored. In choosing the pronoun of the relative, Hawthorne is providing even more unsureness, even more of a muddle of ideas. This works to his advantage as he continues on to condemn the most vehement theory of all. “It is singular, nevertheless, that certain persons who were spectators of the whole scene and professed never once to have removed their eyes from the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale denied that there was any mark whatever on his breast, more than on a newborn infant's” Hawthorne conjures the image of an infant in direct contrast to Dimmesdale's sin. “Neither by their report, had his dying words acknowledged, nor even remotely implied any, the slightest connection, on his part, with the guilt for which Hester Prynne had s o long worn the scarlet letter.” Hawthorne immediately reprimands those who hold with this belief. “Without disputing a truth so momentous, we must be allowed to consider this version of Mr. Dimmesdale's story as only and instance of that stubborn fidelity with which a man's friends- and especially a clergyman's- will sometimes uphold his character, when proofs, clear as the midday sunshine on the scarlet letter, establish him as a false and sin stained creature of the dust.” It is here that Hawthorne's own opinions glimmer from behind the guise of his narrator, thus passing judgment on the nature of sin, and the entity Mr. Arthur Dimmesdale.
Hawthorne wears the ambiguity of the passage as a badge of honor, allowing the readers to make their own conclusions. Hawthorne is unique, in that he is both judgmental and ambiguous at the same time. While most authors would have a difficult time pulling off this feat of linguistics and tonal mastery, Hawthorne manages to make judgments through his ambiguity. In presenting different scenarios to the reader, and offering them a pretense of a choice, he subtly makes it clear exactly what he, (the one with the most authority on the subject) believes to be the case. In his line condemning those who “... made the manner of his death a parable”, Hawthorne allows us a peek at his misanthropic tendencies, fueling the fire of indecisiveness.
After Hawthorne's description of the scene on the scaffold, he jumps to another disjointedness, a change in the character of Mr. Roger Chillingsworth. He begins “Nothing was more remarkable than the change which took place, most immediately after Mr. Dimmesdale's death, in the appearance and demeanor of the old man known as Roger Chillingsworth.... This unhappy man had made the very principle of his life to consist in the pursuit and systematic exercise of revenge; and when, by its completest triumph and consummation, that evil principle was left with no further material to support it, when, in short, there was no more Devil's work on earth for him to do, it only remained for the unhumanized mortal to betake himself whither his Master would find him tasks enough, and pay him his wages duly”. Hawthorne is at once calling Chillingsworth the accolade of the Devil, and praising the changes in his character. By offering the reader both views, but once again subtly mocking Chillingsworth by portraying him as washed up and decrepit, he once again makes his opinion known.
Hawthorne even goes to hyperbolic lengths to combine opposites and create an aura of murky moralities. He conjectures “ It is a curious subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at the bottom.”
Hawthorne continues his strange techniques further, where after essentially picking these two men apart throughout the entire novel, offers them a tentative redemption. “In the spiritual world, as the old physician and the minister- mutual victims as they have been- may, unawares, have found their earthly stock of hatred and antipathy turned into golden love.” Hawthorne nearly makes his reader dance trying to keep up with his whims, but ultimately manages to use this to his advantage. His constant shifting of perspective, of tone, of ideas, and even frequent vacillations between contradictions, add to the environment that he's trying to create. In a very roundabout and confusing manner, no one could accuse Hawthorne of being overly quixotic. By leaving many of his conjectures open ended, he allows the reader to become more engaged in his works as a whole.