Monday, October 25, 2010
October 25th - DIY Gothic Literature
Directions: Each member of each blog group must write their own Gothic Literature short story using their understanding of the tenents of Gothic Literature. For this week only, you have to write and post your Gothic Literature stories for your members to read and discuss. Good Luck!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
CARTER
ReplyDeleteNote: If you copy it into a word document, it will retain original format.
You may see it wrong, you may see it disturbing, you may see my story quite unnerving. It begins with a whisper, and ends with a life. I sought only happiness, and she gave me strife. This woman I tell of was my lovely wife, it was with sorrow that I ended her life.
It started one day as I returned from my work, it was not grand, just a measly desk clerk.
I came home to my love and my sickly son, who would have thought them doomed, not one.
We sat down at the table for our evening meal, potatoes, carrots, and soup with fresh cut veal. After our supper, I reclined to my study grand, with corncob pipe in my mouth and book in hand.
My wife come in weeping, seeping tears of sorrow, she said “Our boy, he shall not see tomorrow
His sickness overcame him, he returned to heaven, he was so young, he just reached age seven.” This news was atrocious, I moped for weeks, my wife took it harder, all could hear her shriek! The house became empty, hollow, and no fun, I had to hatch a plan to bring back my darling son.
I had heard of a man, living out in the dark forests, a master of dark arts, king of all alchemists. He could bring those back from the dark abyss, return to families those lost ones dearly missed. To his humble abode I one day ventured, and he told me “It takes time to have the dead conjured.
His journey is long, the road he takes perilous, but if successful, he will again walk among us.”
My wife was appalled when she heard of my deed, she said I had been taken by greed. Scurrilous was her language, sharp her tongue, she chastised me, and with her words, she stung.
For next weeks, approaching a quarter year, to the old alchemist’s orders I did strictly adhere,
It was almost complete, my dear boy almost here, so I left from my house, the coast all clear,
I was attired in great vestments gilded in argent, but there seemed to be a person wherever I went
This fellow, I soon saw, was none other than the one, the beauty that birthed my darling son.
“You know I can see through your measly façade, you should not tempt the all-mighty God,
for it is he that created you, and he to take you back, so you should stop this inferno-bound track.
With those words I attacked, blinded by ire, soon her heart was on the end of my sword’s spire.
When my senses I regained, my body did quake, and the man told me a choice to make. ‘Now you must choose between wife and son, it must be made wisely, for you can only take one’ I then sat there and pondered till my made was made, I was to save the one who for weeks laid. Then with a chant, a loud crash and some smoke, my son appeared dressed in clothing baroque. “My son”, shouted I, “to me you again return. Let us go, for there is much that you must learn.” The old man said “I wish you two a good life, and when your time comes, may you see your wife
But if you wish to never see that fateful day, then I bid you, that for just a moment, you stay. You see, I have a potion that gives life everlasting, and all you have to do is give it a tasting” Before he could begin to tell me more about it, I grabbed the nearest flask, and began to imbibe it
I began to feel ill, and the world violently spun, and the old man cried, “What have you done? That bottle held a poison, not what you wanted, from your body, you soul will be emancipated.” That bottle was my doom, my folly to drink, into the murky hands of death, I soon began to sink. It spelled my doom, to fire I was damned, and now there I reside, in the inferno crammed.
^ put it in TNR 12 and indent the paragraphs
ReplyDeleteROY
ReplyDeletePeople think I’m crazy for taking my mother’s white van to church every Sunday; the tires are badly inflated, the car squeaks every time I brake, and the sheer smell of the car is horrendous. I don’t listen to these people; I mind my own business, whether I am at home or at work. The people I work with at the Candy Shoppe are simply horrendous, they make fun of that car every day I come to work with it. I no longer care what other people think about me; life goes on. Getting made fun of isn’t really so bad, you get used to it after a while; I have more important things on my mind, like the accident. Her name was Isabel, and the accident took place on the third day after my proposal. I still remember, the day she took my hand in marriage. She left her makeup at home that day and was wearing a Frazzoli’s T-Shirt, one that was two sizes too big for her, with a big white tomato, on top of a red background. She had an old pair of grey sweatpants on, the very same pair she got for a high school play. She never looked better. This was the moment I had decided to propose to her; we were watching the usual Saturday morning cartoons together and eating cereal when I decided to go and get the ring I’ve been stashing away for weeks. I told her I was going to the restroom. A few minutes later, I returned with a ring, a gorgeous ring of white diamond encrusted and surrounded, by blood red rubies. She accepted my generous offer immediately and without hesitation. I was ecstatic, happier then I had ever been before. Only three days later I went out driving with her to shop for wedding ideas and professional consultants on the matter. This, I came to regret terribly. A red car slammed into my mother’s white van and killed my Isabel. I never forgave him for what he did, and I swore that one day I would find him. He took something of mine, so I was going to take something of his. His name was Rick Stanfield, his social security number was 293-24-0912 (Don’t ask), and his address was 5853-tendicca drive. I had everything I need, and he lived only a few miles away from me. Everyday for the past 3 weeks I have stalked him, learned his routine, and examined every inscrutable detail of his life. He goes to work from 8:32 in the morning exactly until 5:39-5:55 everyday at night. He comes home to a warm family, a nice warm meal and his two kids, one a seven year old girl, and another, an eleven year old boy. His name is Robert and her name is Isabel… Her name haunts me, it sends shivers up my spine every time I hear them say her name… Isabel… Isabel… Isabel… I have decided to get rid of this new Isabel in my life once and for all. I put a flyer on in their mailbox one day advertising the candy store that I work at, known as the Candy Shoppe. I see this Isabel every Tuesday at 3:50 PM precisely, on the way back from school. I am constantly tempted to hurt her but her mother is always with her. The mother has always the most affable and gentle aura about her, always smiling and how oh, so polite she is. However, for the past 2 weeks she hasn’t been around, I assume that she has trusted her daughter to get candy by herself now, or at least that is what I had assumed. It was a dreary Tuesday afternoon when she came; it had been raining outside horrendously and she was soaked from head to foot with rain water. I told my co-workers to go out and run an errand for me, as to get them away so I could take revenge.
I told the girl of a, “Special treat” that I had for her at the very back of the store. When we got to the back of the store I immediately tied her up, taped her mouth shut, and stuck her in the back of my van, the very same van that Isabel, my fiancé, had died in herself. I took her to the street she lived on and placed her in the middle of the road. I rung the doorbell and went back into my car immediately. I saw Rick and his wife looking with astonishment, at their daughter being run over by my van. After the deed was done, I placed a letter in the mail for them explaining the situation; they never saw me again. The guilt with which I am burdened eats me up everyday since the accident, which is why I am here before you today, in the court of law, telling to you all, the jury, of my horrible, horrible story. Please don’t think me mad, because I am not. You all would have done the same thing as I had. You all are none different than I. I am not saying I deserve to live, I am not saying that I deserve another breath, all I am saying is: I am worthy of your time.
ReplyDeleteROY
ReplyDelete-To Carter
I thought your poem/story was really good. I loved how you used iambic pentameter and your rhyming scheme that you put in with it. You created a really good story around al ost love, as did I. You had a very different and unique approach to it. You used more of a poetic style while I used a more story-telling type of style. I loved reading yours and it really kept me interested.
CARTER
ReplyDeleteTo Roy:
You had a good story. I thought you would have gone for the new Isabel *and* Rick, because he killed old Isabel.I felt it ended without the narrator losing to his repressed emotions. Is the jury your antagonist?
PS: I saw how you used some vocab words in there, extra credit? :P
CARTER
ReplyDeleteAlso, pertaining to you comment about my story:
I'g glad it kept you interested. I think the poetic-ness of the story made it more appealing at first, but to make it rhyme I had to take out parts of m sentences, so it is kind of choppy. I think your storytelling is better for analysis and deep reading, while mine is more for light reading.
Lauren Steiner (don't judge, its weird i know)
ReplyDeleteI named it Rosemary. This island, this island is different. I have explored for twenty years, discovering numerous islands. I have discovered the best islands honoring me the name "Best Explorer of Europe". Typically I would name each island after different women of the islands. All but my beautiful wife, Rosemary.
It was not the first time it had happen. She was always jealous. This motivated, no, invigorated me to cheat, lie and hurt her. What made me leave so much, and for long periods of time, was her scurrilous behavior. She was always threatening me she would do horrible things, like kill herself, or kill me. It became habitual.
It took her a few islands to realize the significance in the names. The names "Michelle!" "Sahara!" "Susan!" became big bold headlines on the first page of the newspapers: all over the place all over town. She could never recover from the pain of the truth that only she knew. What was I to do? She drove me to it. Now, I wish I could take everything back. Now all I want is she. Now I want to kill what I use to be just as much as she did. She loved me so much and I love her.
Our fights were monumental. She could shout and roar so loud it was like thunder. Her touch and her beatings were electric. Oh and when she cried it felt as if it was flooding, and that is what always hurt the most. Every tear was augmented in my core. But that one night, it was abysmal.
When I arrived at port in Galway, it was the first time she was not there waiting for me. I made my way home unwavering about the occasion. Usually, my home always looks the same upon arrival, lights on, smoke fuming out the chimney, and the aroma of supper waiting. This time the garden was untended, it was dark and cold, it was no longer my home I thought I always had waiting for me. I was expecting an average greeting even though the circumstances already started out peculiar. As I confidently opened the front door, all I saw was her silhouette: looking out the window with two fingers balancing a long knife on the table at the end of the living room. Between us there was an edgy ambience.
“I’ve been thinking, James.”
“Honey, I’ve missed you, how are you?”
Before I knew it I felt the small rush of air by my left ear along with the vibrations of the loud pang in the wood of the wall behind me. That is when Rosemary’s thunder came at me from her for the last time. I have tried to forget about this particular night so much I can barely recall what happened in the middle. Or maybe because of how frightful I was I did not have time to take anything in.
“This is it James. I am done. Look what you have done. You just wait.”
My head was pounding as I blinked my eyes open. The floor was red, my vision was blurred, and my lip was stinging. My beautiful Rosemary was all over the place. To my right were her legs to my left one of arms and ahead of me her face was watching my reaction emotionless and lost.
Needless to say, I scrambled to pack up my things and clean myself up. I was not in the right mind to take careful care of her so I just subconsciously gathered her up and put her in my favorite chest and then into the ground of her garden. My face was cold and it was hard to see as I stole a boat from the port. It was stocked from its previous trip with food and everything else needed. I had a flush of excitement from no longer being tied down, chained to my wedding ring which always remained in my pocket when Rosemary was not present. I decided to go off into the ocean into an area there were only stories about. It would take a few weeks to get there of course, but it was worth it because it was known to be the most wonderful place. We had never gone there because some people were afraid of some of the adverse rumors; poor weather, food scarcity, etc. I have never believed any of it.
ReplyDeleteAfter four weeks of strenuous and deadly sailing I finally arrived at a lonely island with an inviting sense to it. Two weeks into living on the island I almost died eight times, lost my boat, and everything with it. It thunders, lightning, rains, hurricanes, and every other kind of element of weather with the same characteristics of Rosemary herself. When I try to escape she beats me back with her waves and laughs at me with her thunder. If I build something, she is always ready to destroy it simply with a shock. The guilt is overwhelming. The remorse is intolerable. Rosemary reminds me of my sin in every way she possibly can, haunting me from the very depths of my own personal hell.
It has been fifty years now and I finally repeat, “This is it.”
Lauren Steiner ^continued
To Carter:
ReplyDeletei thought your rhyming scheme was awesome. i really liked reading it and seeing how you connected everything, even with all of the difficult words. i liked how you had all of the elements of gothic literature clearly present, but without being too straightforward. i also liked how the protagonist had a choice of who to save and that in general it was kind of mystical. is the potion, the old man, or the wife the villain? with all of the different characters that is the only thing that got me a bit confused, but i can probably figure it out if i analyze it like we do in class.
Lauren
CARTER
ReplyDeleteTo Lauren:
I thought your story is really interesting. I liked how you ended with him finally finding an island suitable to name Rosemary. I have a question though, what is the "small rush of air"? Is it Rosemary throwing the knife?
I am glad to hear you enjoyed my story. I was afraid when writing it that I missed one of the tenets of Gothic Literature (mostly that the setting is reflective of the protagonist). When I wrote it, I meant for the Old Man/potion to be the villain, a symbol of the greed and guilt of the narrator.
Amelia
ReplyDeleteTo Roy-
Your story is....sick. But in that evil, terrible serial killer sort of way. I really liked it! You made the readers have some pity for the protagonist, but then snatched it away as he was driven mad. It was great!
Amelia
ReplyDeleteTo Carter-
I was there as you asked what crazy word rhymed with another, and it made your story stunning, and totally unexpected. I don't know why, but I really liked the line “You know I can see through your measly façade, you should not tempt the all-mighty God"
It suited the story perfectly!
To Lauren-
Comparing Rosemary to the storm was great symbolism. Her voice "thundering" and the fights being "electric" really pulled the entire story together. Awesome story!