The Hand of Death

Author’s Note: I wrote this creative story in response to chapter 4 of the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Remarque. I was intrigued by the earth theme portrayed throughout this chapter, and how we all come from the earth, but also eventually return to it. I also connected this idea back to the main them of adulthood because I believe that in order to truly be an adult, you must understand why it is necessary for you to die, and you mustn’t be afraid to die. I hope you like it!

My nose twitches back and forth, as the smell of death eradicates all other perfumes with its sinister, choking stench. I can no longer pinpoint where in this suddenly piercing sterile enclosure it diffuses; encompassing, suffocating, it strangles everyone, intertwining scent and memories it floats on eerily. Gasping for air, I notice my pulse quicken as my heart surges forward, nourished with adrenaline. My heart gallops alongside my mind, racing with images of cold carcasses and limp limbs. And then I see it – the fog of death reaching its hand out towards my neck, struggling to strain the last drop of life out of me.

And then I run.

I run, not because of nausea, not because of homesickness, but because I shudder at the sight of death, at the thought of it. I am a young woman, barely sixty-five years of age, and yet they drag me to this house of death – this heart hungry hospital. My days on this earth are not yet numbered – they can’t be; I am still in full bloom, my petals thrive and mature with every gulp of air I breathe and every lively step I take. I make it to the bus stop nearby, where I heave myself heartily onto the brawny bench. My heart relaxes as I release a warm mouthful of life-giving air in a generous sigh. I lean back onto the bench, and fixate my eyes on the sorry excuse for a garden a few feet away. A stump of an old tree is being invaded and infested with weeds of all kinds. At first I feel empathy for the old tree trunk, who, after losing his lovely life, is humiliated and harassed by these invasive beasts. But after my brow furrows and my eyes turn to slits, I realize that these so called weeds are really delicate flowers, using the shielding trunk as protection from other natural enemies. As I come upon this conclusion, I hear shouts of worry and relief behind my shoulder and immediately my thoughts veer in the completely opposite direction.

The nurses drag me back to the gloomy prison cell, assuring me that my stay will be much more enjoyable if I act the part of the compliant patient. I roll my eyes. They treat me as if I have regressed back to my immature toddler state, patiently asking if I would like a room with a window, or one near a bathroom. Without thinking, I immediately blurt out that I would enjoy a window room, if that wouldn’t be too much of a hassle. Why I would ask for a window room is unbeknownst to me, but I trudge down the whitewashed hall, perch upon my rickety-railed bed and stare longingly out the window. My eyes fall upon the guardian tree trunk with its frail, vibrantly colored children covering it with their lively leaves and pretty petals.

And then I fall.

And as I fall, I envision my grave – my own tree trunk – from which countless beings of life will sprout. Before my eyes close for the last time on earth, I gaze once more upon the garden. Effortlessly the trunk protects, effortlessly thrive the flowers, effortlessly surrenders my body. And then I see the hand of death reaching out towards me, not to strangle me, but to offer me a hand into the threshold of the earth.

Mimic Lines:

“One can no longer distinguish whence in this now quiet silvery landscape it comes; ghostly, invisible, it is everywhere, between heaven and earth it rolls on immeasurably” (63).

“Monotonously the lorries sway, monotonously come the calls, monotonously falls the rain” (74).

Mosaic

Author’s Note: I wrote this creative piece in response to chapters 1 through 3 in the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Remarque. I was inspired by the theme of growing from a child to an adult, and also by the theme of breaking to pieces. The novel depicts how our lives must break to pieces before we can become an adult, and in order to be a successful adult, we must be able to piece them back together. I was inspired by the quote, “The first bombardment showed us our mistake, and under it the world as they had taught it to us broke in pieces” (13). Those who can build a life off of a broken one truly understand themselves as a person, and therefore they are true adults.

Her hands methodically smoothed the circling clay as her foot relentlessly drummed on the petal down below. Teachers’ instructions swirled through her ears with graceful ease, and her mind reacted immediately, as if these blurbs of sound were manufactured in her own factory of a mind. Shaping and tapering, she altered its silhouette; stroking and caressing, she altered its texture; weeping and laughing, she altered its emotion. The process was grueling, but she worked patiently to finish her craft, her effort, her art. As the wheel decelerated in speed, her piece changed from a swirl of clay to a beautiful pot – one so carefully crafted that it could have passed as the teacher’s model. Lifting her clay ever so gently, she dutifully lugged it to the kiln, where it would be transformed from earthly material to gleaming art.

***

With every waking day, she anxiously rose from her bed, unable to contain her excitement. Racing to the calendar, her finger traced the endless days until her creation would be complete and her art – her soul, really – would make its debut in this world. When at last the day arrived, the woman walked briskly to the sunny studio, and her pursed lips sprouted and grew into a beaming smile. She imagined herself carelessly walking into the studio, tapping her toes and rolling her eyes as others received their ordinary pottery from the kiln. When her name was called, she would waltz gracefully to the teacher and gently stroke the silky side with her forefinger. Some would jealously gasp and glare as she carried her artwork back to her seat, others would stare in awe and praise her talent. But as she entered the threshold of the studio, her daydream was shattered into reality, as she stared her worktable, covered in broken pieces of pottery. Her teacher apologized, said that the kiln quite often proves to be to hot for some pottery to handle. As her mouth hung agape, she sorrowfully stared as her creation lay in ruins; her life seemed to break into pieces, just like her pot.

***

For weeks, she dreaded going home to a kitchen table infested with broken clay. As much ominous depression as it seemed to bring her, she couldn’t bring herself to part with these pieces of pottery – she had invested hours, sweat, and a part of her soul into them, they were a part of her. One day at work, a colleague of hers told an intriguing story about finding your inner self – how one must break the rules occasionally to truly understand who they are as a person. She laughed at this absurd prospect – her, breaking the rules? Never. She was a rule-follower and she intended to keep it that way, so she stashed the conversation into the back of her racing mind. But as she passed her kitchen table on the way to bed that night, something burst inside of her and she paused slightly, turning swiftly on her heel while a sunny smile rose onto her face.

***

The woman has a family now – a husband, two daughters, a son and a border collie, to be exact. They moved onto a farm in the country about three years ago, in order to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city. But one thing did not change from their old apartment to their new home: a grand mosaic still hangs above their glowing fireplace, depicting a gleaming sun rising from the earth.

Foresight

Author's Note: This is a response to Chapter two of the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Maria Remarque. The theme of foresight was apparent in this chapter, and I believe that being an adult often deals with our ability to look ahead in life and to imagine what could happen next.

Youth is merely fancy nomenclature for the fog that surrounds our future and envelops our childhood. Youth acts as a barrier and it prohibits us from stepping beyond our current stage and into the doorway of hope. Youth does not encompass a certain age, but it holds all those who are frozen in time, unable to look ahead. In the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, author Erich Maria Remarque paints the picture of foresight on a canvas of adulthood while swiftly flicking brushes of reverse syntax, thus proving that much more than age is needed for maturity.

Stolen abruptly from their childhood, Paul Bäumer and his school friends are forced into an early adulthood of war, but adults they are not; rather they are scornful boils of immaturity sticking out in a sea of maturity. Barely twenty years old, Paul and his friends feel out of place in a weary world of waning wonder and waxing warfare. Men fill their ears with tales of the past and hopes of the future, while they sit silently still, their eyes blinded to anything but their current situation. As Paul remarks upon his past, he notes that his generation has always seemed stuck in the present, and that, “Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains” (20). Youth blinds Paul from foresight, and his reverse syntax further explains this sightlessness because his words imitate his life – trapped in reverse, unable to move forward towards a bright future. Although Paul’s birth certificate states the age of an able-bodied adult, he has yet to enter his mature years. Without the ability of foresight, he will never cross the threshold from child to adult, because he has yet to imagine where he could go, what he could do, or who he could be.

Torn to Pieces

Author's Note: This was my response to Chapter 1 of the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Maria Remarque. I wrote about the motif of pieces, because it seems that as we grow up, our life has to be torn to pieces at one point or another.

Our life’s purpose as humans is to navigate a path through life by listening and learning, looking and locating. To do so without a map would be foolish, therefore a passel of us often find ourselves sketching a map with the instructions of our elders, constantly drawing from their words our own map of life. This map – one so carefully and eloquently crafted – does not truly belong to us; this map – one full of false turns and dead ends – is only a collection of lessons and stories of others; this map will inevitably be torn to pieces. Erich Maria Remarque uses the motif of breaking into pieces in the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, to prove that our previous view of the world must break to pieces before encountering our own meaning of life.

Paul Baumer, the poetic narrator of the story, trudges wearily through the ominous war, watching as others’ lives are torn to pieces while struggling to piece his own back together. Before heading off to war, Paul attended school and was strongly influenced by his teacher, Kantorek. As a figure of authority, Kantorek filled the minds of his students to the brim with ideas of nationalism and obligations to the country. Paul Baumer heeded the wise words of his teacher, and joined the army, but looks back upon the situation with regret. As he lives through weary war, vicious violence and devastating death, he remembers the Kantorek’s false advice and thinks, “The first bombardment showed us our mistake, and under it the world as they had taught it to us broke in pieces” (13). As his map of life is torn to pieces, Paul comprehends the brutality of life and realizes he must piece together a map all his own. The words of advice from Kantorek that he so carefully drew up a map from were not his own words, and the map was bound to break. Fighting in the grueling war not only leaves Paul’s world in pieces, but also gives him the maturity to piece his life back together. Before the war, Paul was a child because he believed that there was an answer to every problem and his life would always be whole, but now he has become an adult because his life falls to pieces and he realizes that the answers of life will not always leave his soul whole.

A Hemiola of the Mind

Author’s Note: As I finished the novella, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Stevenson, I was amazed by the constant struggle within Jekyll’s mind as he fought between good and evil. He discovered, “With every day, and from both sides of my intelligence, the moral and the intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth, by whose partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful shipwreck: that man is not truly one, but truly two” (104). I was intrigued by the motif of duality, and how each of us has two sides. I believe that although we all have both evil and good inside of us, we also have a choice between which personality we choose to pursue. I was also inspired by the quote, “Terror woke up in my breast as sudden and startling as the crash of cymbals” (112), because I love music analogies. I decided to write a piece in the view of Jekyll but to use music as a symbol of the struggle that goes on in his mind. (The word “hemiola”, which I used below, is the contrast between 2 and 3 in music).

I hear sounds in my ears; some may call these extraordinary auditory creations by the simple name of “thoughts”, but I believe that to be too stringent of a name. I like to believe that my mind is not a mechanical machine operating on austere instructions, but rather an orchestra – where every “thought” is an intricately woven symphony: coquetry comprised of crescendos and swells. For most, this majestic music moves methodically throughout the soul – the major chords always flow smoothly over the crunchy, weak minor chords. I, however, am more perceptive to this underlying bitterness of sound and it is impossible to erase it from my mind.

This orchestra plays emulously to the other, mocking rhythms and dynamics, but failing to copy the grand tone of the previous song. The sound that projects from the fingertips of these musicians rings odiously through the ears of a passels of citizens, scratching the eardrum with its callous tenor and striking pitch, but I take pleasure in this fresh and strange music. It encompasses a completely different sound than has ever pounded in my ears before – it is distinctive, it is sinister.

After I first noticed this malicious melody, I began to listen for it eagerly and block out the other, more monotonous band, opening my ears only for the menacing pulse of tedious trombones and booming bass drums. I craved, still crave, the music of the latter, but the first and second orchestras did not cope well with the thought of sharing the stage of my mind. They fight furiously against one another, increasing tempos and changing piano to forte – creating an immense hemiola that pounds through my head with unimaginable pain. There is not enough room for two conductors in my soul – it has become apparent that I must choose between one or the other. But now that the malevolent orchestra has increased their volume, I no longer have control over which music I wish to reverberate through my ears. As the musicians continue to attempt to outplay each other, the harmonies that once provided me with joy and bliss now split my ears and mind to pieces. All too ready for the quiet of peace and clarity, I decide to end the clashing concert. With a swift flick of my wrist, I cut off the band, and for the first time in years, I breathe in the silence of serenity.

Brass Knocker

Author’s Note: While reading the chapter, “Dr. Lanyon’s Narrative” in the novel Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde, I was appalled by the sense of responsibility that society feels they have to the world. Jekyll asks Dr. Lanyon for a favor, one that could possibly save his life, even though it puts Lanyon in danger. Although he could back out, Lanyon chooses to help Jekyl and decides, “an appeal so worded could not be set aside without a grave responsibility”(96). It made me wonder if those that always help their friends are truly strong people, or just afraid of feeling guilty. This poem is trying to show that sometimes obligation rids us of our free will. I tried using iambic pentameter, so if any of the lines seem off, please give me suggestions on how to fix the wording. Thanks.

Phone rings, sharp prongs pierce ears of those that hear

Eyes shift; timid yet brave, livid yet scared

Exhaust says stay, yet mind floods waves of fear

That move the hand to act, conscience ensnared.

***

Favors are asked by friends and foes alike

Instinct blurts acceptance without reason

The mind restrains its own instinct to strike

And it’s abused season after season

***

The line is drawn at sin and its despair

To shield the ever feeble ego, alas

The soul suffocates from the guilt filled air

And must answer to each knock of the brass

***

When responsibility comes knocking

Is it the strong or weak that are flocking?

The Waiting Room

Author’s Note: While reading chapters 5,6 and 7 of the novel The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, by Robert Stevenson, I was intrigued by the constant struggle between curiosity and disregard. Especially inspiring was this quote: “It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired the society of his surviving friend with the same eagerness” (59). I wrote a short story in response to this motif of curiosity and what effects it can have on us in our future.

I

Hovering uncomfortably on the jagged edge of a molded plastic chair, the man was alone with his thoughts – alone to confront the curiosities of his mind. With nothing so much distracting as aging magazines, the waiting room was an ideal place to think; to think about the future; the future that seemed to narrow and suffocate with every click of the clock. His life was on hold – a constant, nauseating cycle of sitting and fidgeting, questioning and asking – he was stuck in one of those dreadful, slow-motion movies, trudging throughout his life as if the air was suddenly full of molasses.

White-washed walls with colorless lamps and art were his new companions; although faithful and constant, his new friends could hardly understand the cloudy and constant confusion congesting his mind. What was wrong with him, he could not say, for the majority of his time was spent in the waiting room. As much as the doctors claimed to want to help him, they spent little time explaining and clarifying the disease that was nibbling away pieces of him from the inside out.

Connecting and disconnecting, his mind operated as a switch board, frantically shifting from blank to blinking. Clenching and relaxing, his hands fought between the numbness of innocence and the scathing pain of curiosity. Glazing and intensifying, his eyes fluctuated between the focus of thinking to the cloudiness of disregarding.

Finally, after minutes, hours and days wasted while waiting in the waiting room, the man decided to succumb to his inquisitiveness, to give way to his thoughtful mind. At once, the wheels began turning and spinning to no end, full of future possibilities and horrors.

II

Six days later, the man died of an all-consuming brain tumor – a disease that had engulfed his body and soul. For some, this was no surprise. After all, curiosity killed the cat.

The Dizzying Cycle of Knowledge

Author’s Note: While reading the first three chapters of the novel, Jekyll and Hyde, I was inspired by the constant search for knowledge and it made me wonder why we are always encouraged to question when questioning often leads to more confusion and anxiety. I explored the cycle of knowledge and questioning through the Faust theme and the motif of light versus darkness.

Throughout the turbulence of our lives, figures of authority constantly remind us to question the meaning of life: why are we here, what should we do, how can we help? As we continue to scale the mountain of life, the knowledge we retrieve with each increasing altitude uncovers more confusing and complex questions – more crevices and cracks in the side of the peak to discover and explore. For some, this unending quest for knowledge poses itself as a thrilling and exhilarating adventure, but others see it as a confusing labyrinth full of too many twists and turns to navigate. Robert Louis Stevenson warns humanity of the disastrous cycle of knowledge in the novel, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, through the motif of darkness versus light – knowledge versus innocence.

Utterson, a loyal and intelligent lawyer, lives safely in society, away from the constant turmoil of the search for knowledge into which few people fall rapidly. But as he scrutinizes the will of one of his dearest friends and longtime clients, Dr. Jekyll, he too is swept into the whirlpool of the constant search for knowledge. Dr. Jekyll’s will mysteriously and generously gives all of his money to an unknown friend, Mr. Hyde. Baffled and fuming that Jekyll would simply donate all of his savings to a mere friend, Utterson embarks on a quest to find the puzzling Hyde. As his mind arrives upon the ship of questioning, Utterson is drawn out of the light of society and, “it was a night of little ease to his toiling mind, toiling in mere darkness and besieged by questions” (48). According to the Faust theme, those who crave wisdom are forced to sell their souls to the devil in order to comprehend the secrets of life. Although Utterson did not sell his soul, the damp, dreary and deathly darkness he enters through the doorway of questions is merely a motif symbolizing the devilish ways of knowledge. As Utterson begins to question the lives of Jekyll and Hyde, the answers he uncovers only lead to passels of more questions. The circle of questioning and knowledge is a deadly cycle; a cycle that will lead to insanity before it ever reaches conclusion. Stevenson is warning us of this dizzying sequence – warning us to use caution when questioning life because the answers are sometimes more muddling than they are clarifying.

Telephone Lines

I
Convulsing and weeping, a woman – previously a girl, but recent explanations had altered this formality – sat hunched in the dark, dingy corner of her bedroom, realizing all too late the horrors of the naked truth of a parent’s love. Drops of grief, despair, and anger leaked out of her hopeless heart and streaked her once blissful face with trails to remind of her mother’s festering lie and utter abandonment. Ahead, as she stared ominously through the pane of a warped window, danced round, dull globes mimicking gloomily and splashed in patterns of desolation.
A constant buzz enveloped the air around her and seeped uncontrollably into her pained ears; yells of concern too far away to reach, records of messages too repetitive to impact, scratches of claws at the door separating her globe of misery from reality too sympathetic to acknowledge. Scarred with the reflex of retreat, the woman allowed no outside influence to break down the icy walls that were crafting a fortress around her wounded heart. Learning from experience, she created a membrane immune to the pseudo-promising effects of love, for love must not exist if the one who tirelessly lugged her around for nine months did not return her daughter’s unfaltering affection.
Struggling to accept the cold bitterness of reality, the woman racked her mind for endless possibilities: what could have led to the scandalous horror of the lopsided devotion dealt out from mother to children? The idea that her brother was a better, more compliable child couldn’t possibly be an option – that was absurd! She had always played the role of the perfect child, filling her life to the brim with her mother’s needs. Surely there was another, far more reasonable, explanation; surely her mother had the ability to rationalize this absurd prospect; surely she loved her children both equally.
II
The sun radiated beams of cheery, sunflower yellow onto Main Street, where every household swept open their windows to the world, welcoming the warmth into their homes. Sounds of children laughing, parents chatting, and doors constantly swishing open and close echoed distantly throughout the walls of the Anderson house; with the curtains drawn as tightly as Mrs. Anderson’s pursed lips, only sounds could penetrate the weary walls of severity.
With perfect posture, Willa Anderson sat perched upon a stool, vigorously scrawling math facts onto her notepad. Her heart, however, was not fully emerged into her work, for a troubled mind kept straying off task. As her mother scolded her once again for daydreaming, she meekly squeaked, “Mama, why’d you name me Willa?”
Sighing, for her daughter never stopped asking useless questions, Elizabeth uttered, “Willa, that is not of importance now, if you do not focus on your studies, you will never succeed in life.”
“But mama, the other girls were making fun of my name – said it was a boy’s name, they did.”
Irritated that her daughter, with whom she felt no connection, would not continue to work – to stop forcing awkward conversation – she exclaimed, “Well, maybe I wanted a son!”
Cheeks aglow, Willa buried her nose into her notebook. The highly developed ego was instantly pummeled; she still encompassed the curiosity to think, and thinking was scathing. Aligning her thoughts, she inquired, “Is that why you love Tristan more than me, mama?”
“Willa, you know that’s not true. I did not mean what I said before, but you just exhaust me sometimes. Do not tell lies, it is not becoming,” but even as the words tumbled out of her mouth, ring with sincerity, they did not, rather they struck bitter chords of dishonesty.
III
Intent on halting the endless sniffling and sobbing, Willa Anderson arose from her makeshift tomb – one of wrinkled sheets, dirtied tissues, and tear-stained pillows – and resurrected herself to a life of cold, heartless, methodical labor. After hours of scrutinizing the situation, it was obvious that her mother had granted the key of her heart graciously and solely upon her son, Tristan; it was obvious that she could do nothing to win over her mother’s affection; it was obvious that she could, that she must, move on with her life.
Sound from the sturdy entrance of her grand fortress had so intruded and invaded her sanctuary that it imprinted words of remorse never previously heeded. The repentant words of her worried mother evaporated into the intricate tunnels of her ears, “Willa? Willa, dear, pick up the telephone this instant! Neglecting to answer the phone is irresponsible and simply impolite! Oh, I’m so very sorry sweetheart; I am really calling to relay my apologies to you. I cannot be sure of why this has happened, but my psychiatrist explained that it is quite common for a parent to care for one child more than another, it happens-”
“Mama?” said Willa as she bounded out of her dark fortress and out into the cruel and devastating world, snatching the communicating device that had led to such terrible communication, “Mama, don’t go insulting my intelligence by saying you love Tristan more than me, I know it’s not true. Just because you are erroneously choosing to attend his insignificant high school football game rather than my grad school graduation does not mean I was the bad child, leading to your unbalanced love. Maybe he’s sensitive, or has low confidence. I don’t care what the problem is, but there is a different reason that you give more effort to be at his disposal rather than mine.”
“Willa, sweetheart, I know this is a shocking and unfathomable idea for you to process, it took me twenty years to comprehend it myself, but you must understand, it’s not your fault I care more deeply for Tristan, I was just never built to be a mother.”
“No Mama,” said Willa as she choked out an unnatural and eerie chuckle, “No, I don’t – I won’t – believe it. I’ve spent the better part of the last three days enclosed in a room with just my thoughts and myself, so I know you love us equally. I know there is no other explanation, and if you cannot accept that fact, I would appreciate it if you would stop contacting me.”
“Willa,” The word drew itself out of Elizabeth Anderson’s mouth with exasperation and longing.
“Goodbye mother,” And with that, Willa Anderson, once a girl, now a woman, unraveled the wilting ribbons connecting herself and her mother as she corralled the courage to cut the telephone line.

Mimic Lines from “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” by Ambrose Bierce:
“Overhead, as he looked up through this rift in the wood, shone great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange constellations” (197).
“The intellectual part of his nature was already effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling was torment” (195).
“Something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of things never before perceived” (195).

Author's Note:
I wrote this piece for the short story unit in English Class. The mimic lines are from Ambrose Bierce in the short story, "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge". Willa, the main character, utilizes the defense mechanism of denial.

One Compared to Many

Author's Note: I was thinking before about how small a blade of grass is, and how it is almost nothing compared to a field. It reminded me of how small we are compared to the billions of people in this world. So here is a piece that explains what I was thinking:

In this world, there are many things that cannot be done alone. Alone, one blade of grass cannot cover a field. Alone, one drop of water cannot fill an ocean. Alone, one grain of sand cannot create a beach. However, when paired with many, each of these objects can do things that affect the world. This is evident with humans, too. When we work alone, we can only do so much; nothing compared to the work of many. However, if we join together, there are very few things that we cannot do. Right now, we are just blades of grass, drops of water, grains of sand, but soon, with the help of others, we will be able to create fields, oceans and beaches.