Friday, October 3, 2008


All assignments should be two pages typed, 1.5 spaced. You can go longer if you need, but I’m more concerned about style than you “finishing” some sort of plot—though feel free to.

Make sure you have a title.

100 points total.

• Choose a short story and “rewrite” it in the style of either Faulkner or Hemingway—if the story is “too long”, you can even just rewrite a part of it.
• Write a story in the style of either Faulkner or Hemingway based on a myth.
• Write a dialogue / or even a short story using only lines from both Faulkner and Hemingway. (Each line will need to be cited.) You will obviously be able to capture the “writing style” with this one, so you will be mostly graded on your ability to present a coherent conversation.

50 points:
• Completely matches the style of either Hemingway or Faulkner: syntax of sentences, diction, pacing, and conventions.
• Is free of unintentional spelling, typographical, and grammatical errors—this should be “publishable.”
• Completely achieves objective of prompt.
45 points:
• Matches the style of either Hemingway or Faulkner: syntax of sentences, diction, pacing, and conventions.
• Is free of unintentional spelling, typographical, and grammatical errors—this should be “publishable.
• Achieves objective of prompt.
40 points:
• Completely achieves 2 of the 3 items above.
35 points
• Mostly achieves 2 of the 3 items above.
30 points
• Is successful with one of the items above.

All papers are to be accompanied by a meta-cognitive piece (see handout), stapled to the back. This is also worth 50 points and should provide enough depth for me to see your understanding (again, refer to questions on handout.)

I will read this only after I grade the first part.

Print this rubric and place between your paper and meta-cognitive.


Jenny L said...

Hi Mr. Gallagher,

Is the metacognition due tomorrow?

Kristen W. said...

I was wondering the same thing as Jenny!

Also, I had a bit of a different idea for this paper. I kind of wanted to make it into something i really enjoy. I love the style of Poe. So i was wondering if I could somehow write my paper as if Hemmingway was using his style to write a horror story? If that makes any sense to you.

hope to hear from you.

Mr. G said...

sorry for such a late response!

the meta is not due until thursday (with the final draft)--you will also be writing about the revision and editing process.

today is to workshop....kristen. I'll see what you did today before I answer.

Mary N. said...

A Light for the Girl

The bar the American and the girl sat at smelled strongly of cheese. The girl could feel her stomach circumvolving; in fact, she became aware of the undesired nausea being dispersed throughout her body and needed a drink fast - the man had already ordered their Anis del Toro but the Spanish waitress was taking a while - so she decided to focus on the hills in the far distance that concealed a hidden world.
The hills resembled white elephants: white elephants that ran on for endless miles horizontally and vertically, that pierced the midday sky with its multiple curves, but the girl could see beyond the hills nonetheless; yonder the hills was a paradisiacal place where the American and she could have everything, yet it all reckoned on one decision that had not reached a conclusion.
The waitress pulled the curtain beads aside, which isolated the customers inside the bar from the customers that sat outside. The multifarious beads varied from considerable widths to diminutive heights; they reverberated as the waitress disrupted their natural standstill state. On a hot day like this one, the American and the girl were the only couple sitting outside in the confined shade provided by the part of the roof that jutted out.
“Shall we drink? The train should be coming any minute now, and besides, you were carping of your morning sickness earlier- maybe a drink can soothe your stomach.” The man said as he took a sip of his Anis del Toro; it fizzed in his mouth as it went down his throat to settle flatly in his stomach.
“Morning sickness isn’t too awful, though. I complained about it because I wanted you to pay more attention to me. You want me to complain about being sick, though, don’t you? If I do, then it means that I dislike my state right now.”
“No, why would I want that? You know I love you. I don’t want you to be sick anymore, so I really think we should do it. Once you do it, being sick is no longer an issue, and you won’t have to make a fuss to get my attention. Plenty of people undergo the operation everyday and end up happy - We want to be happy.”
“Let’s not talk anymore.” The girl cast both of her eyes down at the hotel stickers, peeling at the corners due to the constant disturbances caused by the movement from hotel to hotel, that marked their luggage: the bedroom romances disappeared beneath the gravity of the decision she knew she would have to make before she got on the train, but at the same time she understood that half an hour could not possibly be enough to convert absolute darkness into light for her. The shade began to feel overwhelming, even cold on this particularly heated day.
The girl gulped down the rest of her Anis del Toro, which was becoming flat due to the exposure to the oxygen in the air, and stood up; she walked out past the two feet of shade provided by the roof, turned around, and stared at the man she spent three months with.
“We could have everything!” The girl exclaimed suddenly. “There is so much more we could do after the operation, right? The world could belong to us!”
“Of course we can have it all: all the Anis del Toro we want, all the hotel complimentary gifts we want, all those chimerical and enchanting days we can spend together. We will be perfectly happy”
“But no. We can’t have all of that - we can’t even have part of that. The world can’t belong to just us, the world won’t belong to just us: the world might belong to all three of us, though. If they take it away, we can’t get it back. We won‘t ever own the whole world.”
“You worry too much - we will have it at all, just watch; the operation is so simple it will be done in no time. Come back to me in the shade: the heat and the sunlight are driving you to insanity; once you come back here, you will see exactly what I mean by holding all of happiness in our hands after the operation.”
Upon sitting back down at the table, the waitress came out and informed the American of the train’s arrival in approximately five minutes. The girl stared down at the dirt ground that was replete with sharp pebbles that would pierce the skin of a bare foot, and saw the shadows cast by the legs of the table as she listened to the sound of the curtain of beads clinging together in the light wind. Maybe it was the heat wave, but the girl imagined that the hills weren’t so varying in height anymore - they almost appeared flat to her. Maybe we can have everything, she thought.
“I’ll bring the luggage to the platform. Why don’t you order two more Anis del Toro, so we can remember the taste of it and come back here for more in a year or so - what do you say to that?” The American stood up and gathered the overused luggage handles in both of his coarse hands.
“Okay.” The girl smiled. “Okay, I will try to order it but if the waitress does not understand me, we get no drinks - but you said we will come back in a year or so, and we will have another chance to taste the Anis del Toro then, right?”
“Exactly. We will be happy, and the road to get there is so simple. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Ashley A said...

Drifting Dionysus

Dionysus had always been a unique child. Being the only Greek god to have a mortal parent, Semele, and with his violent, unpredictable tempers, his father, Zeus sent him to live with his grandparents on the isolated suburban area of Hampton, New York. Dionysus was the god of wine, giving him a dual nature, one that was at times joyful and the other that was angry and violent. Since Dionysus mainly lived around elderly people, he was unaware that he was not like other teenagers. With Dionysus’ unpredictable tendencies to wander, one day he found himself in the hectic and dangerous streets of Manhattan, New York,

Stumbling out of Penn Station, Dionysus was surprised to see the difference between Hampton and Manhattan. He came across a small café and he ordered everything with grapes in it that he could find on the menu. As the midnight hour approached, he left the café with and walked aimlessly around the dark and cold streets of New York, until he was confronted by a group of males. The guys had spotted Dionysus from the park and the immediately thought he was one of the many rich college kids. Frightened, Dionysus ran down the street but the boys quickly caught up to him.

“Empty your pockets,” said the oldest boy.
“I don’t have any money,” said Dionysus
“Fine, give us your watch,” said a younger boy
“No! My grandmother gave it to me.”

As the boys fell over with
laughter, the oldest boy began to beat up Dionysus, but he was a lot stronger they thought. Just Dionysus was about to get away, the boys found a rope and tried to tie him up, but every time they tied a knot, it would fall apart. Realizing that there was something weird about Dionysus, all of the boys started to run down the street, just as the NYPD came flying down the street, in response to a robbery in the area. Out of all of the boys, Dionysus was caught once again and brought down to the police station for questioning.

“Where were you coming from at this time of night,” said the officer
“A café on 6th street.”
“Well, why were you running down 8th street?”
“I was being chased by a group of guys!”
“The tried to rob me and then tie me up, I swear!”

Unsure of whether or not Dionysus was telling the truth, the officer ran him through the system and discovered that Dionysus was the son of the most powerful, feared, and admired God, (term used when referring to the highest officials of the department) Zeus, of the entire bureau.

After Zeus and Dionysus finally reunited after so many years, Zeus brought him back to meet the rest of his family, but he was not met with great enthusiasm. Dionysus and his cousin, Pentheus, immediately hated each other. Dionysus’ different way of life and his extreme passion for anything purple highly bother Pentheus. So Pentheus gathered a group of his friends, as did Dionysus, and they headed to battle.

“Get off of my property, or I will call the guards.”
“My father owns this property, so it is more mine than it is yours.”
“ Tree hugger!”
“You should not try to battle me, I have special powers.”
“Nature lover, nature lover”( Pentheus was now laughing uncontrollably)

Pentheus’s comment about trees triggered Dionysus’ violent side and they began a bloody battle. Pentheus managed to scare off Dionysus’ followers into the hills. As Dionysus calmed down, he once again tried to reason with Pentheus, but his angry overpowered his judgment. Pentheus ran after Dionysus, only to find him surrounded by all of his follower, his sister, and his mother, Semele.

“You tried to hurt my son,” yelled Semele
“when you attempt to hurt a god, you die instead.”

Pentheus immediately realized his wrong doings, but it was merely too late. As nightfall set, the air became cooler and damp, Dionysus’ followers and everyone else surrounds the hills grew even angrier, but before anyone realized, Semele quickly and flawlessly lunged at Pentheus.

As the sun rose, a trail of blood and bones could be seen leading up to the hills.

Kristen W. said...

Sometimes, I sit and wonder to myself why I feel the way that I do. Others ask the same question to me. The answer is questionable, but the questions remain unanswered. I sit in the darkest corner of my room; the walls seem to sweat with every thought that runs through my mind. I retrace my steps and replay the horrid memories of that night over and over again. Not once does the story change, or even affect me in any way. I fight with myself, should I believe it, or was it just a spectacle of my own imagination? The duality of my mind begins to take over, processing its own information inside my memory. Although I am unsure of what exactly happened that night, it went something to this nature.
It was a crisp winter’s night. The moon in Spain always seems just a bit brighter than anywhere else. I opened the window. The smell of alcohol flooded my nose. As I tucked my dear to sleep, I pondered, will we be forever in love? Her feelings seem to be fading by the day. Mine remain just as strong as they ever were. I would never let her leave. I gently kissed her forehead and proceeded to the door. She moved slightly, and the sound of the moving sheets ran through my head. It was the sound of leaves falling off a tree as the seasons change. I didn’t know what to think anymore. The sound became more and more irritating as it replayed in my mind. I did not want to see the leaves change colors, which was the sign of them to fall. I slowly proceeded up the creaking stairway to my bedroom. It was my own sanctuary. I reached into a drawer for my black masking tape. I ripped off seven large pieces and began taping them around the border of my only view to the outside. That single dreadful window. Next, I reached for the paint. It smelled of oil as I opened the cap. The color red, poured out of the container into my pan. I then began to stroke the color over my window. The sound of paint spreading eased my pain. No more would I see the leaves changing, no more would I catch a glimpse of that one leaf falling away from the tree. She would forever stay with me.
“No more falling, no more pain.” I repeated to myself.
“I can’t see them, but is it still happening?”
“No, it can’t be. Nothing will fall within this house.” The slightest of sounds caused a slight panic within my chest.
My mind followed every sound of the room, stalking each corner as if it were alive. That is when I lay my head down, and began to rest. My body lay still but my mind continued racing. No longer could I deal with this pain. In that one corner of my room laid a single leaf. Laying there it began to crumble. I heard it mumble “No more.” Right then I knew she would leave. This was the only way to prove my love. I went to her room, and reached my arms around her. She awoke in a panic not knowing what was occurring.
I repeated to her, “It will all be over soon, it shall be okay.”
“Why are you doing this?!” she cried.
“I love you, always. It will all be over soon.”
“Leaves will never fall, we will never crumble.”
“Leaves?! Crumble?! What are you talking about?!”
“Leave me alone!”
Her screams could be heard throughout the hallway. No one, except that crumbled leaf could hear her. I dragged her toward the bottom of the stairwell. There I fought with myself.
“Why, why am I doing this?”
“Will she leave?”
“Yes, of course she will. I need her.”
“Is this the only way? What else is there? Nothing.”
I continued to hit her until the floor matched my half painted window. There was still a pulse. Her heart, beating. The sound was not to be avoided. It continued to beat repeatedly.
“She will be mine”, I thought to myself.
“No matter what.”
I started breaking down the stairwell, making room for the beating of her heart. Inside is where she lay now, covered by the boards. She laid motionless, one in the same with the leaf. The noise is still heard. The crumbling, the beating. The noises very much alike. What belongs where? The question remains still.
I lay still, thinking to myself. The mirror catches a glimpse of light reflection from the window. Unpainted is one corner. The paint can was left emptied on the floor. With my shirt, I quietly walked to the bottom of the stairway. There I wiped the blood of my beloved. No more was the window left unpainted. The corner was now filled in. In the mirror is where I look now, often thinking of my life, as my eyes which were normal, now proceed to beat with the sound of her heart.
Sometimes, I sit and wonder to myself why I feel the way that I do. Maybe insanity takes over? Or maybe, in complete saneness, I shall continue my love for her through the beating of our now single heart.
I repeat to myself, “No more.”
“No more.”
“No more.”

Mels1619 said...

Killing for love by Hemingway and Faulkner

It was late and everyone had left the café except for (A clean, well-lighted place, Hemingway, 158) the American [Dick] and the girl [Jig] with him that sat at a table. (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 120).
“That’s the only thing that bothers us. It’s the only thing that’s made us unhappy” [Jig said] (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 121)
“But what will you have me do about it?” (A rose for Emily, Faulkner, 27)
“Let’s drink beer” (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 120)
“Where’s the nigger?” [She said] (Barn Burning, Faulkner, 163)
“The man himself lay in the bed” he said.
“What was left of him, rotted beneath what was left of the nightshirt” (A rose for Emily, Faulkner, 23)
“Oh, cut it out”
“It’s really an awfully simple operation” [Dick said] (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 121)
“And if I do it you’ll be happy and things will be like they were and you’ll love me?” (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 122)
“Well, we’ll wait till October” (Barn Burning, Faulkner, 172)
“Then, I’ll do it” (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 122)
“All right. But you’ve got to realize-“(Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 122)
“I want some poison.” She said.
“I want arsenic” (A rose for Emily, Faulkner, 29)
“That’ll do” He said. (Barn Burning, Faulkner, 164)
“I’ll do it and then everything will be fine”
“And we could have everything” (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 122)
“We’ll wait and see” (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 122)
That night they camped, in a grove of oaks and beeches where a spring ran. The nights were still cool and they had a fire against it, of a rail lifted from a nearby fence and cut into lengths- a small fire, neat, niggard almost, a shrewd fire. (Barn Burning, Faulkner, 165)
“We are two different kinds” She said. (A clean, well-lighted place, Hemingway, 161)
“I don’t care about me” (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 122)
“Well, I care about you” (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 122)
“Oh, yes. But I don’t care about me. And I’ll do it and then everything will be fine” (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 122)
“Don’t you want me to help?” He whispered. (Barn Burning, Faulkner, 169)
“All right” (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 121)
“Where’s the nigger?” (Barn Burning, Faulkner, 163)
“I’ll hold him” she said.
“You’ll hold him better than that. If he gets loose don’t you know what he is going to do?”... “Maybe I’d better tie him” (Barn Burning, Faulkner, 173)
“Go get the oil” [Dick screamed] (Barn Burning, Faulkner, 173)
“Let me do it” she said. (Barn Burning, Faulkner, 168)
“Don’t you know all they wanted was a chance to get at me because they knew I had them beat?” the nigger cried. (Barn Burning, Faulkner, 166)
“Get out of my way nigger” Dick said. (Barn Burning, Faulkner, 167)
“It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig”… “I know you wouldn’t mind it” (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 121)
“I’d do anything for you” [Jig answered] (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 123)
He went on down the hill, toward the dark woods within which the liquid silver voices of the birds called unceasing- the rapid and urgent beating of the urgent and quiring heart of the late spring night. He did not look back. (Barn Burning, Faulkner, 175)
“Do you feel better?” he asked. (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 123)
“I feel fine” she said. (Hills like white elephants, Hemingway, 123)

Cynthia R said...

A Clean Well Lighted Place: Faulkner Style

The moon was out, the clock read three a.m., and every soul had departed from the café except for the elderly gentleman who sat beneath the shade created by the leaves of the tree that blocked the light emanating from the filthy and old fashioned electric light fixture that hung from the ceiling. During the hours when the sun shone, the streets were overflowing with dust but as the time passed and day became night, the dew that formed made the dust settle; the elderly gentleman settled into the chair at the café and genuinely enjoyed it for he was deaf and during the night was the only time when he could sense true quiet really was. The two waiters working in the café that night knew that the elderly gentleman was somewhat intoxicated; he had been ordering brandy after brandy since the afternoon, becoming sloppier and more relaxed with each sip of the cool honey-colored liquid in the small glass. Although he was an excellent client, coming in regularly and never disturbing the other patrons, the two waiters knew that they could not let him become too drunk for he would end up leaving without paying his bill. The two waiters watched the elderly gentleman closely; eyeing the way he slouched in his chair, the glassy look in his eye, the way his words were beginning to become slurred each time he ordered more alcohol, and that reserved, almost lonely and forgotten look on his face.

“Last week he tried to commit suicide,” one waiter said. The two men then began a quick conversation about the elderly gentleman’s attempted suicide. Back and forth they discussed the possible reasons why an elderly gentleman of his position would have the desire to end his own life. Possibly, the reason was the elderly gentleman’s lack of wealth, but the idea was quickly thrown out as the two waiters noticed the elderly gentleman’s newly polished brown leather shoes, which were each tied in a perfectly neat bow, the chain which connected to his golden watch with the family emblem engraved on it (most likely a family heirloom passed down from father to son to grandson and so on) and of course his lavishly detailed fall coat with the fur lining.

The two waiters sat at the round wooden table, whose polish was gone and legs were scratched from years of wear and tear. The table was up against the pale green floral wallpapered wall that led to the large wooden doors of the entrance and as the two men sat there, they would glance at the small and well kept terrace with its empty and clean tables all ready for tomorrow’s clients where the elderly gentleman sat forlornly at the small table beneath the shadow of the yellow, orange, and red leaves that were beginning to fall from the large oak tree that swayed back and forth slightly in the late autumn wind. Outside a petit almost mouse-like girl wearing a long pink pleated skirt with a silk trim and a white knit sweater walked with a flower in her hand; she was shielded from the cold as she walked in the arms of her tall and protective soldier friend in his uniform. The soldier’s brass number set on his collar shone as it reflected the light that came from the street lamp above.
“The guard will pick him up,” one waiter said.
“What does it matter if he gets what he’s after?”
“He had better get off the street now. The guard will get him. They went by five minutes ago.”
The elderly gentleman in the shadow suddenly began tapping on the silver saucer with the empty brandy glass causing the younger waiter to walk over, ask the elderly gentleman what he needed and then try to convince him to not have another brandy for at the point he was nearly inebriated. Realizing that the elderly gentleman could not be convinced, the young waiter stomped his way to the counter, mumbling that the old hag should have killed himself by now, brought back the brandy and poured it out for the old man while telling him that he should have completed the deed last week instead of still living and ultimately being a burden on the café. The elderly gentleman had no way of hearing, but the older waiter did, and this comment made him think, really think, and eventually realize that he empathized with the elderly gentleman. As the waiter sat staring at the elderly gentleman’s wrinkly and leathery hand tremble as it picked up the brandy glass and brought it to his mouth, he began to feel his own hands and face, simultaneously realizing that he is on his way to being old. The young waiter walked back to the kitchen, leaving the elderly gentleman sipping his brandy and the older waiter thinking.
“Thank you,” said the elderly gentleman with a warm, poignant smile.

Jenny L said...

Miss Emily’s Death: The Truth Revealed

“The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was” (120 Hills Like White Elephant, Hemingway) “a big squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street.” (26 A Rose for Emily, Faulkner) “The American and [William Faulkner]…sat at a table in the shade, outside…It was very hot…” (120 Hills Like White Elephant, Hemingway)

American (Hemingway): “It’s pretty hot…Let’s drink beer.” (120 Hills Like White Elephant, Hemingway)

Faulkner: “What’s your name, boy?” (163 Barn Burning, William Faulkner)

American (Hemingway): “Oh, cut it out.” (121 Hills Like White Elephant, Hemingway)

Faulkner: “I was being amused. I was having a fine time.” (121 Hills Like White Elephant, Hemingway) “We are two different kinds…It is not only a question of youth and confidence although those things are very beautiful.” (161 A Well Lighted, Clean Place, Hemingway)

American (Hemingway): “It’s the only thing that’s made us unhappy.” (121 Hills Like White Elephant, Hemingway) “When Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral.” (26 A Rose for Emily, Faulkner)

Faulkner: “I told you…You’re getting to be a man. You got to learn.” (165-166 Barn Burning, Faulkner)

American (Hemingway): “But, Miss Emily—“(27 A Rose for Emily, Faulkner)

Faulkner: “Alive, Miss Emily had been a tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town, dating from that day in 1894 when Colonel Sartoris, the mayor…remitted her taxes, the dispensation dating from the death of her father on into perpetuity.” (26A Rose for Emily, Faulkner)

American (Hemingway): “But…We are city authorities…” (27 A Rose for Emily, Faulkner)

Faulkner: “She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy walnut bed with a curtain, her grey head propped on a pillow yellow and moldy with age and lack of sunlight.” (31 A Rose for Emily, Faulkner)

American (Hemingway): “But that’s not proof. Don’t you see that’s not proof?” (163 Barn Burning, Faulkner)

Faulkner: “This case is closed.” (164 Barn Burning, Faulkner) “Would you please please please please please please please Stop talking.” (123 Hills like White Elephant, Hemingway)

American (Hemingway): “You talk like an old man yourself.” (161 A Well Lighted, Clean Place, Hemingway)

Faulkner: “Are you trying to insult me?” (161 A Well Lighted, Clean Place) “Perhaps…you can gain access to the city records and satisfy [yourself].” (27 A Rose for Emily, Faulkner)

American (Hemingway): “No!” [Hemingway] said violently, explosively.” (164 Barn Burner, Faulkner) “I want some poison.” (29 A Rose for Emily, Faulkner)

Faulkner: “Come on back in the shade…You mustn’t feel that way.” (122 Hills like White Elephants) “Do like I told you…I don’t want to have to hit you!” (173 Barn Burning, Faulkner)

American (Hemingway): “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” (27 A Rose for Emily, Faulkner) “I aim to…leave this country…I don’t figure to stay in a country among people who…” (164 Barn Burner, Faulkner)

Faulkner: “That’ll do” (164 Barn Burner, Faulkner) “The train comes in five minutes.” (Hills like White Elephants)

American (Hemingway): “Would you do something for me now?” (123 Hills like White Elephants, Hemingway)

Faulkner: “Come on stop talking nonsense…” (161A Well Lighted, Clean Place)

American (Hemingway): “You decline to answer that, [Faulkner]?” (171 Barn Burning, Faulkner)

Faulkner: “You do not understand…I want to go home and into bed…I’m sleepy now. I never get into bed before three o’clock.” (160 A Well Lighted, Clean Place, Hemingway)

American (Hemingway): “See you do then.” (173 Barn Burning, Faulkner)

Faulkner: “Don’t you see I can’t…” (174 Barn Burning, Faulkner) “I don’t care anything about it.” (122 Hills Like White Elephants) “Lemme be, I tell you” (165 Barn Burning, Faulkner)

American (Hemingway): “All right.” (123 Hills Like White Elephant, Hemingway)

Andy V. said...

A Rose for Emily, Hemingway Style

Under the cool night sky of the small town of Jefferson, a father and his teenage soon sat together under the night sky. They sat together on their front porch under the luminescent light of the moon, looking out to the direction of the home of Miss Emily. Admiring the cool wind and the scent of the night dew on the leaves around them, they thought about the emptiness of the house.
“You think she finally killed herself?” said the son.
“What I heard, she was sick for a while.”
“I bet she finally decided that it was best for her to die.”
“That’s a pretty cruel thing to say.”
“The whole town saw it coming.”
“I don’t want to think that she wanted to kill herself.”
They both continued to look out into the distance to Miss Emily’s house. The house once stood tall and proud in the best neighborhood of the town. The house has grown old. It looks dead compared to its younger form. The neighborhood around Miss Emily’s home was replaced with cotton gins and garages. Miss Emily’s home is the only one still standing in the lonely neighborhood.
“The whole town was expecting her to die.”
“Since when?”
“Since she bought arsenic for the ‘rats.’”
“Maybe she did use them for the rats.”
“It was better for her if she died. I mean, look at her.”
“She looked decent before. She was even going to marry someone.”
“I can’t imagine her looking pleasant.”
“She was once.” The father got up and started pacing around the front yard.
“Who was that person she was going to marry?”
“Homer Barren, a construction worker.”
“Whatever happened to that guy?”
“I don’t know, maybe he skipped town.”
“He might have been better off leaving her anyways.” The young man said while spreading his body out on the porch.
“I don’t think he ever left the house.” The father said as he rubbed his face as if he was distressed. “I think she kept him there all the time, she was a very lonely person.”
“No, I doubt that would happen.”
“You know, I believe she is not as insane as most people think.” The father suddenly became confident. “She had pretty tough life growing up, maybe her actions wouldn’t make sense to us, but she probably has a reason.”
“Maybe, I wasn’t around to see her when she was younger.” The young man gave gigantic yawn and rubbed his face. “It is getting late, I am going to sleep. He said as he was getting up. “sleeping soon?”
“In just a minute, Son. Don’t think of her as bad person. She must have had a reason for being strange.”
“Maybe, let’s rest, the funeral is tomorrow.”
“Yes, I know son. I hope that Miss Emily will find rest with the people that she loves; I believe she didn’t have a proper chance. Son, make sure you have a rose for Miss Emily tomorrow.”

Stephen said...

Faulkner's "Hills Like White Elephants"

The girl looked across the hills, across the vast expanse of boundless stretches of white. Looking past the hills, she imagined her mother at home, in their cottage garden, in their peaceful, idyllic village in the mountains of Austria, baking fresh smelling bread in their tiny kitchen. She imagined her father working in the fields, and her little baby brother playing on the parlor floor. Why am I here?, she thought. What am I doing in Spain with this man, so far from home? She sighed, breathing out the dust from her nose from almost constant travel. She looked around at the rough wooden beams supporting the ceiling, at the curtain of beads shielding the doorway into the bar. For days, she had followed this man from one hotel to another, doing the things that she knew her mother would have condemned her for. What would she do if she saw me now?, she wondered. And then her attention abruptly focused on the hills, flowing up and down, up and down. What was it that she thought they looked like before? Ah, yes. White elephants. Looking at them more closely, she saw that, in fact, these endlessly undulating hills didn’t look at all like white elephants. Ah, it must be the color, she thought.

“They’re lovely hills,” she said, and told him of her epiphany.

“Should we have another drink?” the man asked. Well that’s abrupt, she thought. I was just trying to agree with you when we always seem to disagree so strongly.

“Alright,” she said. Now, she could just drink her beer and be quiet. That inevitably seemed to placate him. No arguments, no hollering, no vicious fights about the contrasting difference between his wishes and her’s. Please, let’s just sit here and drink the beer. She took a sip, savoring the velvety smoothness of the drink. Glancing over, she was caught by his gaze. He opened his mouth…here he goes again.

“The beer’s nice and cool,” the man said. Oh thank God, she thought…just a comment. She really didn’t want to talk right now.

“It’s lovely,” she said, thinking that this time, finally, she would be able to just sit and reflect on her life’s choices. What did she want out of this relationship? She looked at him, and saw the handsome American man who happened to adoringly court her while aimlessly visiting Austria. She fell in love with his promise of boundless adventure, of exotic and exciting travel, and most important of all, a chance to be his wife and bear his children, in America, by his side, with bright, beautiful lights, and endless opportunities, where all of her happiest dreams would come true. She imagined sweeping back to her family and ushering them away from their hard lives with a hand filled with gold.

“It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig. It’s not really an operation at all,” he said. She looked down. Damn. I really don’t want to talk about this. She put the bottle down. They had been through this exhaustively before. At night, in their hotel rooms, they would talk, and querulously argue about what best to do after they found out that she was with child. He saw the… thing… as an impediment to their lifestyle of having fun. He was scared out of his wits for having to care for that…thing…and how would he get to go gallivanting in Paris and in Rome with a whiney… kid in tow? He demanded that she obtain an abortion. He called it “getting that thing out of you,” and “restoring your ‘natural’ self.” But somehow, having an abortion seemed wrong to her. Mom just wouldn’t want to me get rid of the baby. She’d want me to take responsibility.

“I’ll go with you and I’ll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it’s all… perfectly natural,” he crooned soothingly. She was torn between her love of this man, her lust of the adventure, her travel to exotic places far, far away from her village back home, and the precious life of the child she held within her.

“Then what will we do afterward?” she meekly asked.

“We’ll be fine afterward. Just like we were before,” he said, again in that sweet, soothing voice, promising everything in that voice, a world where they didn’t argue anymore about the baby. A world where they could just…have fun. Very tempting. His confident reassurance didn’t quell her moral impulses. He’s asking me to get rid of the child. He’s telling me to sell my soul for more fun more diversions, more time with him. What am I going to do?
She didn’t know.

CarlaC said...

Carla Castillo
Mr. Gallagher
Period 2
Daedalus, and Icarus as Told by Faulkner
It was a foggy, humid and dreary day at the Military base, you were lucky to see your hand if it was in front of your face the air smelt of gasoline, and paint. Daedalus was always a clever man, his hands were his weapons he could make anything into something better than it originally was. When he saw his nephew was moving up the line in ranking too quickly he feared they would let his nephew Perdix, take his spot in building the fighter jets. When Perdix was chosen to lead the troops in to battle, Daedalus was to build a special jet for Perdix, in a moment of pure jealousy he left the jet with to many flaws for it to work, and Daedalus was so lost in his anger he forgot to cover up what he had done. When Perdix’s jet crashed and he died they discovered why it had actually crashed. As a punishment they left him and his son Icarus stranded at the base that was to be bombed the following day by their opponent. They had no way to escape, until Daedalus found enough parts to construct to functional jets.

When he had finished the jets Daedalus realized that they opposing army would see that they were from the Base and shoot down their jets. So he found cans of gray paint just like the other armies jets were and began to paint them with Icarus as fast as possible. There was just not enough time to let them dry the paint would not stay on the metal because it was not made for metal so they needed to leave as soon as the possibly could. Daedalus new his son Icarus was to young to be prepared to fly it properly, but after instructing him for about twenty minutes he was sure Icarus could handle it. Daedalus had one major warning for his son, that was to fly low so that they could go by undetected and if the sun were to appear the paint would melt off and he would be completely exposed. Icarus told his father that he had nothing to
fear he understood what he had to do.

Since Daedalus had to prep Icarus’s jet for take off Icarus was to go first his father kissed his son and told him that he would be okay and that he would see him soon. As Icarus took off Daedalus found he was wiping tears from his eyes. He had never been so proud of his son as he was at that moment. Suddenly the clouds slowly cleared as Icarus took to the sky it was almost as if the heavens wanted to awake to watch his son become a true man. In the excitement Icarus started going higher and higher in his jet. He got so wrapped up in the moment he forgot what his father had warned him about, and as the sun got brighter and brighter the heat hitting the jet was increasing rapidly. As Icarus stared out to the open sky he saw gray drops of paint sliding down the windshield when he realized what he had done he tried to lower his jet. As Daedalus saw what was happening in the distance he heard the sound of more than ten jets heading towards the base. He cried out to his son and in less then a second, fire and smoke filled the sky and the only trace left of his son was a cloud of black smoke.

As the other jets circled over the base Daedalus thought of what he had done and fell to his knees sobbing, because he let jealousy, envy, and anger get the best of him he made a terrible mistake and took the life of a son away from its parent, and the gods had decided to return the favor. The sky darkened and although the sound of the jets was roaring all around him, it was as if the whole world had been muted, the sound and noise were gone all that remained was the drops of rain and wind that was pounding against his body . As he looked to the sky trying to find an answer to why his son was punished for his wrong doing, balls of black, orange, and red smoke began to fall towards the ground. When Daedalus realized that this was the end that he would not have to bare the pain any longer he smiled to the sky and said to his son in heaven. "I’ll see you soon my son, ill see you soon".

Tzivia H said...

Tzivia Halperin
AP Lit
Mr. Gallagher
October 5, 2008

Story of Icarus, as told in the style of Faulkner

Daedalus, long since exiled to Crete, sat stewing by the sea awaiting an opportunity to return to his native Athens and what more: each time a zephyr rippled over the water, disrupting the calm of his present thoughts, Daedalus’ old regrets again mounted. His nephew Talus was a young boy, obstinate certainly, but no more than any other young, fresh boy brimming with ideals, (He’s deceased! I’ve killed him; my envy was too great). Daedalus’ regret waned momentarily, distracted by the barren terrain of Crete, feeling alien in a foreign country. He peered out at the Aegean cliffs in the distance- ragged, and gray in the diminishing light. Rather than appearing welcoming, the cliffs ever threatening seemed to concentrate less sun on them than their surroundings- their darkness and formidable shape only recalled his Daedalus his present concerns. His anxieties were compounded by the news he must deliver to his young son, Icarus, detailing their imminent move into the labyrinth- into captivity. Upon closer consideration, Daedalus concluded that he again was at fault, irking the king of the country- King Minos. Daedalus, seeing his son Icarus bounding near the lonesome hilltop he now sits, seized the opportunity to call upon his son but not before emitting a powerful wail.

“My son,” Daedalus lamented, “tonight we are to move from our modest but comfortable home by the river to forever be constricted to the labyrinth.”
“But is there not something we could do?”

Daedalus looked at his son blankly: his broad square shoulders, pronounced cheekbones, and a mass of curly brown hair; he seemed to gleam in the sun. He could no more imagine Icarus in captivity than the golden pheonix. Nevertheless, Icarus exemplified his inability to accept authority, what would soon prove to be his downfall.

They moved that evening. Their new home, the labyrinth, was an obscure jumble of twists and turns, each one dishearteningly leading nowhere but a wall- a dead-end, and the very air they breathed was viscid, leaving a rusty, metallic aftertaste in their mouths, that took the men weeks to acquaint themselves with. Their days in the labyrinth soon melted into weeks, into months, into years, yet neither man could discern the difference. Time was simply time, beating them down into the dankness of captivity. Daedalus, squinting out of darkened eyelids, noted a profound difference in his son; no longer expressing an innate joy of life, he seemed to sag. While Daedalus’ own blaze was stymied, it could not be extinguished, forever glowing with the naive hope of leaving the labyrinth and leaving Crete to return to Athens and it was then, looking at the mass that previously was his son, that Daedalus determined they escape immediately. Rousing his son from his light sleep, Icarus glowered at his father.

“Gather yourself, we are leaving tonight.”
“But how, father? You know as well as I it’s impossible.”
“Minos may thwart our escape through land and sea but not even he can prevent our leaving through the air.”

The two men sat silently, side by side, neither feeling inclined towards conversation, innately understanding the task at hand, and rather expelling their energy vigorously gathering feathers that had fallen through the open roof of the labyrinth, squinting in the inky darkness of their prison. The feathers were ordered with great stringency- beginning with the smallest and becoming increasingly long; the white of the feathers gleamed in the pulsating night. The feathers were fastened with wax and a sheer rope at the middle and bottom, so when bent, they resembled the real wings of birds. Icarus on his part, seemed to regain his pinkish glow, a sight so familiar to his father, that he could have wept aloud with joy but instead allowed his old heart to regain some of its childlike vitality, and the two worked with increased stamina. The two sets of wings were completed just as the sun began to peek through the dawn morning splashing interesting patterns of light on the dirt floor of the labyrinth and a light fog proliferated about the labyrinth that dissipated soon after.

Prior to their intended flight, Daedalus, looking at Icarus adjusting the wings, pulled his son close to him: “I must caution you son not to fly too low as the water will weigh on your wings and you will drown, but so too do not fly very high where the sun’s strong beats will burn your wings. You must fly in the middle and closely follow my course.” Icarus, giving his father a familiar grin of both humor, confidence, and skepticism, noticed his father’s hands begin to tremble and eyes grow moist and kissed his father on the cheek for what would be the last time.

Daedalus was the first to take off, flapping his manmade wings, and gaining more and more altitude. It was refreshing among the clouds, which formed in heavy, cotton-like masses. He turned to note the trajectory of his son and, with a deep relief, realized he was following him closely and heeding his advice. After several minutes of uninterrupted flight, however, Icarus, with increased confidence, began to fly higher and higher, despite his father’s warning, emboldened by the gathering of people- an audience that had formed below to watch what they perceived to be gods taking flight. At such a close proximity to the sun’s sweltering rays, the wax, which bonded the feathers of the wings together, began to soften and eventually was ineffectual. Flapping his arms with great force, Icarus attempted to retain his height but, without the wings, failed to do so. He called out to his father: “Father! Father! My wings can no longer support me!” But it was too late, he already began to fall, gathering speed, splashing into the cobalt blue ocean that swallowed him whole. Daedalus looked about the empty expanse of sky for his son, his only son, and called: “Icarus, my son!” spotting the broken wings floating on the ocean far below. He cursed his son for his foolishness and himself for equally indulging him over the years. Daedalus buried his son and traveled onward to Sicily, with a deep, unshakeable melancholy in his breast.