I awoke to the sight of a thousand stars exploding. My head rocked to escape the flashes but to no avail. This continued for what seemed like hours; at any other time, I’m sure my mind would likely have suffered as a mother bearing child, however, I oddly felt very little (if any) pain.

          Honest vision slowly flowed back to my eyes. I examined my surroundings hesitantly, careful not to recall the previous aural torture. The flickering streetlight overhead reflected off what looked to be blades of shattered glass strewn about the murky pavement on which I lay. A liquid, too dark to be identified in such scarce lighting conditions, seeped through the cracks below. Directly behind me sat what appeared to be a Chrysler LeBaron convertible…my LeBaron, cast in a deep blue shade reminiscent of the sea. It had apparently received substantial damage; the hood had folded in upon itself several times against a worn brick wall. Not five feet away from its rear, I discerned the silhouette of another unfamiliar automobile, clearly in much better condition than my own.

          What had occurred was now obvious, further reinforced by faint memories from when it was still taking place: I had survived a vehicular disaster, but…how did I end up outside of my car?

          My eyes seemed to open wider; my examinations became tenfold more rapid. The glass scattered across the pavement most likely would have matched the serrated frame of the windshield on my convertible, had a forensics team been available. The strange liquid; blood, I assumed.

          Beginning to fright, I immediately examined my figure for any sign of injury (my absence of pain could have betrayed the reality). The whole of my hands were stained rust-red and embedded with countless crystalline fragments. My neck locked up as I tried to probe the rest of myself. I was now in a panic. Had I broken my spine? Was I paralyzed? My hands scurried to support my attempt at standing, ending unsuccessfully without any sign of strength in my legs. I screamed…or, at least, I thought I would have. However, in its place came a low and fluidous moan. I reached for my face in shock.

          I was engulfed in a sense of surreality as my fingers wrapped around the nearly-severed chunk of bone and flesh that was once my lower jaw. The joints had ripped in twain. Muscles dangled loosely and separate; a tongue danced rebelliously among them. Perhaps it was this discovery that had triggered my later behavior, or maybe it had something to do with the sight of my lower half barely slumped over the mangled window-wipers, intestines et al; of that, I’m still not quite sure.

          I believe my mind then raced to find an emotion of with which to react and rage came out dominant. I clasped my fingers to form claws and dug them into the grounds before me, dragging the rest of my body in this manner, directed towards the rival vehicle of my undoing. If anything, it’d have done me good to see the driver dead or dying; to know that I hadn’t suffered alone. Bits of glass caught on my torso as I neared the driver’s side door. Anchoring myself with my left arm, I threw up my right and managed to open the lever. The driver was unconscious but seemingly uninjured; his head had slunk backwards and rested against the top of a leather seat. With whatever strength I still contained, I hoisted myself up and pressed my forehead against his, gazing into his now-fading visage. Vain as it may be, I so desired my blood-crusted face to be the first thing he would see. My eyes grew dark and heavy, and my body grew limp, but had I still had the ability, I’m sure I would’ve passed painted in a grin.

          Ricard loosed a faint gasp of awe as the Queen reached the floor of the Challenger Deep. At approximately 36,000 feet below sea level, it was the lowest pit to be found in the Earth. Had it not been for the Queen's pressure sphere, the awesome force which permeates deep places would've inevitably crushed both Ricard and his colleague, Maria. Both were employed with the task of recording all forms of life they witnessed via the Queen's prominent porthole.

          A band of quartz bulbs compensated for the utter lack of light, shedding a milky white glow over the dark blanket of ooze spanning as far as they could see. Several gatherings of sea cucumbers laid carelessly amongst themselves, while shrimp cast in ghostly white hues attended to the few fish corpses scattered across the ocean floor. The sound of graphite on paper filled the chamber as the pair painstakingly jotted down each subtle feature of their observations.

          The porthole went black. Maria struggled to locate the source of the problem, checking every possible gauge. Ricard set in disappointment; a shallow frown smeared across his face. He assumed the Queen would be forced to resurface prematurely.

          Suddenly from the porthole cast a brilliant emerald glow, very much unlike that created by the Queen's lanterns. The pair instrinctively raised their palms to their eyes.

          It took no more than a minute for Maria to realize that this new lighting was harmless to view. Her hands slowly released her sight: now one of absolute confusion. No part of the vessel was capable of casting such light, nor had she remembered seeing anything above-ground to compare it to. Ricard, however, remained more enthusiastic. He theorized aloud that the light could've been a factor of some peculiar natural function in the Earth's structure (much like the Auroras of the poles), and that he and Maria may have been the first to witness such an event.

          His eyes widened from the possibilities dashing through his imagination. He reached to the porthole as if to confirm his reality. The glass was unnaturally warm.

          Maria watched in terror as Ricard's body spontaneously convulsed against the curved steel wall. His thrashing figure destroyed several gauges before falling into a slump, stained a lush green by the light. His breath turned heavy and began to follow unnatural rhythms. Maria sat motionless. Not only was she unable to make sense of the recent happenings; she also had a grave feeling that Ricard's apparent instability could very well cause him to attack her without provocation.

          A stalemate was born and died within a matter of minutes. The thick heaving which had become of his breath was soon lost to the silence of the deep. Maria hesitated, though not without repressing her worry for Ricard's well-being, before attempting to check his vital signs. She knelt over to grasp his wrist.

          "Touch the glass, Maria." Though spoken in Ricard's voice, Maria knew it hadn't come from his own mouth.

          A bell sounded and rang out through the tired maze of cubicles in the offices of Mayard & Packett, LLP. It was the sound that signified the end of shifts, but to the firm’s humbled employees, it served a much greater purpose: it was the signal which brought them their daily bouts of freedom, to live apart from the corporate mechanisms their rapidly-advancing society so craved. To Richard Wheaton, the firm’s assistant manager, this was no different.

          Richard strolled about the office, making conversation with coworkers he knew as friends. Though not at all the outgoing type, he was arguably the easiest person in the firm to speak with; someone who would respect your thoughts as he did his own. He was also known to recite the dumb joke which could dispel the most awkward of silences. Richard proceeded towards the entrance, mindful of the quickness in his steps.

          The traffic had been mercifully scarce as he rode the highway back to Cranston. It took no more than fifteen minutes to reach the simple burgundy one-story house he so gratefully referred to as his own. He was greeted by the raspy purr of his cat and his wife’s snug embrace. Stroking his cheek, she reminded him to pick up a bag of cat food before he left for the gig. Richard gathered his equipment and again made his leave.

          His heart fluttered against his seatbelt as he thought of what might unfold that night. For  as long back as he’d been a singer, he had always adored performing; unlike many so-called “artists” of his day: ego-driven and/or money-hungry opportunists with no real love of their craft. Richard arrived at the venue 30-minutes early; plenty of time for him to get ready.

          In the restroom, he began his preparations. From a leather pouch, he withdrew two containers. He dipped his hands in the first and applied the white, pasty substance to his face, covering it in the stuff. He then reached into the second container and once more applied the substance inside; this time: a smooth cream of obsidian. With his fingertips he created intricate designs amongst the matte white skin. Satisfied, he removed a suit of dark leather armor from a larger sack and donned it. Richard looked in the mirror with a grin, though not in the manner which many of his acquaintances might expect of him. No, this was sinister; this was impure. It was time for the show. The massive hall of the venue seemed impossibly black as he joined his bandmates on stage.

          The scene of the hall flashed ablaze. From the speaker burst brooding melodies comparable only to orchestras of the deepest pits in Hell itself, then met with roars of both obsessed reverie and mindless frenzy. Richard clutched the microphone to his lips and met the audience’s screams with ones much deeper, and to the fiendish rhythms, grunted stories of all things macabre; of all things obscene; of the feasts of cannibals; of civilian slaughter; of decomposition in human corpses…no subject was sacred.

          An audience member was carried off by paramedics, who had been beaten to the point of near-death in a mosh pit. To this, Richard only laughed. To him, the two most obvious signs of the band’s success were men in stretchers and women revealing their breasts; the latter of which occurred several times throughout the night.

          During an instrumental, he felt it the appropriate opportunity to attempt a stage-dive. With a run and a jump, he submitted his mercy to the sea of hands holding him below, cackling all the way.

          “If only to have inspired myself toward my mission, I reflected upon the seeds of my cause. The seeds which had been planted so many years ago, when the accursed she-troll first came to my home desiring to seize it for her own; this, she fulfilled. I remember her eyes, ash-gray with scorn; she destroyed my very way of life in a night. Fearful, I had taken to my cellar and dared not to leave, lest I be thrashed in an encounter with the thing. I remained imprisoned in this manner for sixteen arduous years. In this time, I had, as you may only imagine, developed a mighty hatred for her and her oppression. I often imagined scenarios in which I would satisfy my vengeance, each more involved than the last.”

          “It had been only a week ago that I had managed to escape. I believe it to be due to God’s very mercy, for I know that had I spent an hour longer trapped in that room, I’d have gone wholly insane with desperation. Having spent the day before in reverie of my success, I realized my purpose: I had to destroy the she-troll and reclaim my land. If I was to complete my mission, I required a suitable weapon.”

          “I entered the shed resting upon the land which formerly belonged to myself. Brushing aside the various trinkets and gadgets hanging from the grimy wooden wall, I discovered an axe which had been employed by my family for generations. For such an aged tool, it still bore an edge which could chop the thickest of woods. I knew this to be the fated weapon. I grabbed it and left the shed. I then strode towards the backdoor of my former abode, taking notice of its shining beauty against the night sky. I had no trouble forcing the lock.”

          “The interior was as dark as it was outside. Nevertheless, I made my way through the narrow halls, careful not to trip over any unseen objects. The familiar creaks of the shoddy floorboards seemed to further my motivation with every step, reminding me of the time before the she-troll‘s arrival. I rounded the staircase and ascended towards my former bedroom. With the delicacy only seen in surgeons and painters of portraits, I turned the knob and nudged the door open.”

          “Illuminated by a bedside lamp, the she-troll was revealed to my eyes. She was a pitiful thing, with a gut which hung over her thighs and hair like the wool of a filthy sheep. She lay on her back, her elephantine mouth drawn to a faint smile, clearly unaware of the imminence of her doom. A thunderous snore broke the silence otherwise permeating the chamber.”

          “In unison with the rhythm of her snoring, I paced my footsteps as to be unheard amongst her noise. I continued in this manner until I was at her bedside. I grasped the hilt of my axe and raised it high above my head, and I paused. Perhaps it was out of pity, self-doubt, fear…I cannot say, but I remained like this for a few moments. It was during this pause when the she-troll stirred into waking. Seeing my figure upon her, she let out a piercing shriek. Panic coursed through my mind and within an instant the axe had fallen into her neck, severing the throat and spine entirely. Though satisfied with my mission’s completion, I must’ve entered a mild state of shock at the thought of taking a life, no matter how vile it had been.”

          “I awoke a few hours later inside of this dungeon”, Simon explained.

          “Uh-huh, trolls…right”, Officer Bundy muttered. Of all the criminals he had questioned, Simon was by far the most imaginative.

          "Turn your goddamned head before I do it for ya."

          Sophie's face was like those of the dolls posed upon her mantle: a delicate frame in cherry blossom skin; tufts and feathers of auburn hair falling to a face with eyes of flawless copper; eyes that stared with such helpless abandon, they betrayed her. Two fingers came upon her temples and pressed lightly. "Did ya not hear me?" Her head twisted. From her ear to her left eye, she was submerged in the ruffles of her pillow.

          The truth was that her eyes had terrified him. Of course, there was nothing inherently disturbing about them. They were beautiful. It was what they had broadcast that gripped his gullet like a noose. In their gaze, it was not she who choked him so; indeed, it was the awakening of such a self-loathing that his own throat forbade the passage of air. He looked upon her eyes as the guilty look upon the judge, and when he pushed her head to the pillow, it was the same as when the guilty turn to hide their faces. He regained his composure shortly after and continued his task.

          Sophie was still and her breath unusually calm. There was a sock tied in a foible knot upon her lips. It was unnecessary. She didn't cry; she didn't make a sound. She lay limp and docile, completely separate from her body. In her mind, what was happening was nothing but the nightmare the dreamcatcher had missed. She still fought to contain herself, for whether it was fantasy or not, she was afraid.

          He didn’t take long to begin, nor would he take long to finish. He bore down upon her with his formidable weight, moaning as they did in movies he’d watch. He was fulfilling himself and satisfying an urge forbidden by the many prospective partners who did him the injustice of seeing past his various façades. Perhaps that’s what lead him to Sophie: in her innocence, she was incapable of judging him as absolutely as others had.

          His head tilted downwards,  Sophie’s face once more. She was as his left her, still folded into the pillow and staring intently past the side of the bed. He followed her eyes toward their mark.

          They were focused on the armoire.

          It was a bulky thing, out-of-place in a child’s room. It stood well over six feet and spanned laterally another three. The burnished walnut doors and drawers were carved in simple elegance, distinguished respectively with brass knobs and knockers. It looked old, though in a very fair condition. A few dings and scrapes were scattered amongst the grain.

          Feeling that he had digressed more than enough, he began to turn his head back towards his current agenda, when he noticed a mild peculiarity on the doors of the armoire. In the center of the left cabinet, there could be seen two knots which bore an awful resemblance to a pair of human eyes; like a pair of lemons withered in the sun. The very grain between them fell and widened, and the culminating form vaguely recalled a nose.

          The coincidence was uncanny and not at all lost on him. They chilled him thoroughly; he lost his concentration once more. He tried to continue his motions, to reach his climax, but couldn't resist looking back to the visage. He faltered.

          Sophie lay as still as she always had when he reluctantly pulled away. He retied his belt and zipped his shaggy jeans, looking to the floor for no further judgment. That night, he was thwarted by the knots of a walnut armoire.

          The rain fell lightly upon shuttered windows, casting a pleasing staccato on the walls of the studio apartment. Mickey rested upon his recliner. He'd have been completely oblivious to the world outside, if not for the brief intermissions the television presented. Nothing strange was to be seen of that day, and all throughout the town, it was a time of repose.

          Mickey was helping himself to a jar of pitted black olives when he heard a truck pull up not too far from the closest window. He stuffed another several of the pungent morsels in his cheeks. Slowly rising from his seat, he wiped the residue on his raggedy jeans and peered out the window. An unfamiliar blue hatchback was parked in the driveway, with no driver to be seen.

          He sat back down, thinking they had come for someone else. Seduced by the television, he again found himself lost in its numbing glow.

          The grating sound of the buzzer startled him. His figure twitched in his recliner, and once more, he was up and headed to the door. He opened it so the chain of the lock remained taut, and through the crack, he commanded “Who’s there?”

          “An old acquaintance.” It was a young woman’s voice. She sounded old enough to only have just finished her schooling. “Please let me in.”

          Sensing no danger and curious who this woman might be, Mickey undid the lock and swung the door open, greeting the stranger with a strained smile. “Come in, just mind the carpet.” (A sort of lie, as he had never thought to maintain it until now.) “Can I take your jacket?”

          “Yes. Thank you.”

          Mickey was instantly captivated by the stranger’s appearance, first by her figure. She was certainly ample, though the loose sweater revealed beneath her dampened trench coat did her no justice. She stood a few inches beneath him, making her about 5’6”. She ran her fingers through her hair to void the rain. It came down and hung past her chest. It was thick and ebony; her eyes, like coins of polished copper, stood in the midst of the desert sand that was her skin. Her lips moved airily as she thanked him and handed over her coat.

          Mickey would be ravished in comparison, homely as he was. He knew this, and the fibers of his confidence rattled with every word she spoke. He regretted this position in the wayfaring of human attraction but accepted it just the same. Like any good host, he offered her a chair at his kitchen table. “It’s not much for comfort, but I suppose it’s better ’en standin’.” They sat at adjacent sides of the table. “Now what makes you wanna come up and visit ol’ Mickey, miss?”

          She explained that he had known her as she was growing up. He had apparently been an old friend of her father‘s, and used to be about their house often. She reminded him of what he used to look like, what he would do with his facial hair and such, as if presenting proof of her sincerity. Her voice wavered and nearly stuttered on occasion, yet Mickey didn’t seem to notice. Expressionless, he continued to stare directly into those copper eyes, basking in their warmth. Oh, the things he’d do to have them to gaze back with admiration.

          She had apparently come from out of state to visit her father. She was a currently a student of an out-of-state university and only had the chance to see him every few weeks. They no doubt put a good deal of effort into keeping up a healthy relationship, and she was proud of that. He continued to remain in his hometown, confident that he would never be abandoned.

          Her voice intermittently trailed off, and silence began permeated the kitchen. There was a faint sound of the television left on, and the rain outside still trickled down the shutters, but otherwise, there was nothing. Mickey cocked his head in curiosity. “Something wrong, miss?”

          She didn’t respond.

          Mickey leaned forward. “Why’d you come visit me of all people, anyway?”

          The taste of olives was still fresh on his tongue; she winced out of her idle stupor. As she looked to the tabletop, her eyes flashed with new emotion. She cleared her throat. “I need to talk to you about something that happened long ago."

          Mickey withdrew his neck, provoking her with his expression.

          “You did something to me that I’ve only recently come to terms with,” she continued. Mickey’s jugular sank into his neck and his tired eyes widened in astonishment. “When I was a girl, you...” Her voice trailed off again, though Mickey knew exactly what was to be said. His breath was lost to him.

          “You took my innocence,” she finished. “You raped me.”

          Mickey nearly convulsed in his seat. He couldn’t fathom it; that the girl from so long ago would someday come to accuse him of his transgressions, let alone remember them.

          Sophie sat silently in her chair, though her heart beat like the drum of a kingdom under siege. Her ceaselessly convicting stare scarcely held back her tears. His face twisted as the realization battered his psyche.

          Mickey rose drunkenly from his chair and stumbled towards the counter. His belly hit the corner and folded; his chin fell to its surface of faux marble. Sophie lifted off her seat and stood facing him. “I need to talk about this, and I‘ve never had the courage until now. You owe me so fucking much. What the fuck were you thinking? What the fuck did you do?” Her voice now boomed with passion. The captive tears freed themselves of the corners of her eyes and cascaded down her flushed cheeks. She took a step towards her broken opponent. "I've waited so long. Look at me."

          An instant after her foot touched the next vinyl square in the flooring, it was recoiled. Mickey wasn’t alone. As a child caresses their dearest stuffed toy, he fingered his previously concealed pistol. He brushed the grip lightly with his fingertips, eyeing the barrel up-and-down.

          She gasped and instinctively shrank downwards so as not to be noticed, to no avail. Mickey turned his focus toward her, though his hands (and weapon) remain positioned on the kitchen counter. He glared. “Is that right?" His biting sarcasm dispelled the flushness in her cheeks.

          With what courage lingered in her throbbing chest, Sophie made a break for the door, ignoring her trench coat. Mickey pounced at her, but fell short. He tripped over her chair.

          She would’ve cleaved the hinges of the door in twain had it not opened so effortlessly. She sprinted down the stairs and to her car situated in the parking lot, searching frantically for her keys. They were still in the inner pocket of her coat, though their absence was no matter to her, for her father’s house was no great distance from where she then stood. She took off as the prey of a predator, with the sound of Mickey‘s footsteps trailing in the distance.

          As I read "The Grindstone" by Robert Frost, I took careful mental note of the many stylistic elements found within. The intricate rhythmic structure used throughout the poem was the most prominent; he intermittently made use of rhyming, though that’s not to say it was random. Indeed, it served to highlight lines important its to allegory. This was one of Frost’s longer works.

          From the start, the grindstone is personified as a pitiful character. The grindstone only spins when guided and can never leave its place. Frost mentions the other farm-tools as having been brought into shelter for the winter, while the grindstone maintains its position. If the grindstone represents man, this man would be helpless and possibly forsaken by either his fellows or God himself.

          The narrator goes on to reminisce about having worked the grindstone in younger days; at this point, the poem switches from an observational standpoint (during the winter) to one of memory (of the summer). It's certainly not a pleasant memory, as he describes the tear-bringing effort required to work it. Shortly after this change of setting, the poem’s allegorical nature becomes apparent, and a new character is introduced. “A Father-Time-like man got on and rode/…He turned on will-power to increase the load/…I abruptly slowed." To the narrator’s dismay, the “Father-Time-like man” goes on to demand the blade honed by the grindstone be furthered past the point of sharpness, wasting the edge entirely with each spin.

          I took the metaphors as follows: the blade is life, the "oblate/spheroid" of the wheel is the earth, and Father Time is time itself. As the world spins underneath the narrator's feet, he is carried further from the time his "blade" was "sharpest." The dismay of the youth as Father Time continues the motion of the wheel after the blade was sharpened is the dismay the narrator felt as he realized his peak of life was passing.

          One of the most striking aspects in Nâzım Hikmet’s poetry is his careful placement of repetition. It is evident in more than several of his pieces, though he never seems to be bound by any tangible formula. In each instance, the repetition seems to accent the poem in a manner specific to its content; in this way, it is seamless amongst the frame (which, of course, is magnificent in itself).

          To summarize: the poem tells the story of a giant who loved a “tiny woman”. Though tall and strong, as giants are, his stature forbids him the privilege of achieving the delicate feats his love desires of him. He is neither able to “make the building” nor “knock on the door”, and his “long strides” wore on her nerve. To his dismay, the tiny woman leaves him for a man of her own size and the couple’s home is built to her aforementioned fancy.

          The plight of the dejected giant is an obvious allegory for Hikmet’s first marriage (and subsequent divorce), though the individual metaphors leave a bit of room for debate. The very fact that a giant is used could have a few different meanings: the size (and the problems associated with it) may be a metaphor for his inaptitude towards commitment,, ego, disinclination towards sensitivity, or any combination of the three. Judging by the line regarding “the giant’s long strides”, I would place my bet upon the former. I imagine Hikmet’s near-nomadic lifestyle (though not always in his choice) to have taken a mighty toll on their marriage. The poem ends on a grave note, with the giant questioning whether his flawed person could ever satisfy another. Hikmet, of course, would prove his own doubts wrong later in his life.

          In Nâzim Hikmet's poem "A Piece Left in the Middle", the narrator laments with us the fact that he sits in his home during the finest days of Spring. As a poet, he has no muse in his work, and he speaks regretfully of his position as an editor "forced to read two thousand bad lines every day for two liras". He ponders why, instead of keeping to a publisher's composing room, he shouldn't be outside, experiencing the world in its finest season. He tells us of his desire for the prosperity of the writers he assists in publishing and how he could be what they are, if only he were given the chance; he envies their fame.

          However, it is within his grief over the chance he was never given and his reasoning of why he isn't the accomplished poet he wishes to be, that the allegory (for me, at least) comes into focus. Nâzım isn't to be taken completely seriously in this poem; instead, I believe that he's satirizing the would-be writers of his day. In the narrator's excuse that "the piece [that] got left in the middle" is at fault for his inability to write, he pokes fun at the jealous and pompous "starving writers" and the tribulations they fashion for themselves.

          Wistawa Szymborska writes of many concepts, both of worldly matters and ethereal nature. She tends to favor perspectives often ignored by other poets. I believe this to be one of her finest and foremost defining qualities, though this isn't to exclude. Indeed, her careful yet fluidic choice of wording seems to be on brazen display in all of her pieces.

          A peculiarity is to be of note, however (one which I had noticed inadvertently), and that is her repeated employment of cats in her poetry. This may be a very minor point as she may just have a fancy for them in reality, but due to the symbolism commonly associated with felines (such as independence, wisdom, and mysticism), it seems to be worth mention.

          A fine example of Szymborska's use of cats would be the titular character in "Cat in an Empty Apartment". In this poem, the narrator discusses the fate of a feline once the man who keeps it has passed away. The cat must cope with his absence. The comfort he had once provided it is gone within the instant. We are lead to sympathize with it; a poor creature, alone, confused, and wanting. It seeks him for some time and finds the search in vain. The cat becomes depressed.

          She speaks almost in a critical tone, as if to accuse the owner of fault in his passing. This can either be seen as simply the clouded view of the mourning narrator or as an allusion towards a literal fault (which in this case would be that his death was by his own hand). In either case, I admit that I don't believe that the cat is the only one the narrator speaks of. In my opinion, she uses the cat as a mean of projection of her own grief; a helplessness caused by the death of a loved one, perhaps. Even the feline's search for its master can be seen as a metaphor for the narrator's denial (and in a grander scheme, the human means of coping commonly categorized into stages, where denial is the foremost).

          As evidenced in many pieces of his writing, Philip Larkin wasn't a man determined foremost toward the sale of his craft. He carried himself and his narrators without restraint, expressing ideas which may have been thought a tad unpalatable for the average reader. Indeed, some may consider him rather cynical, but it is within this quality that his sincerity becomes apparent; within misery, he could show beauty.

          There is no better example of this than in his poem "The Explosion". Within, the narrator tells us the story of a group of miners who trekked to the pit of a mine foreboden by shadow. On their path, they speak, chase a rabbits, and find the eggs of a lark, and in line nine, their fate is decided. "Through the tall gates standing open" refers to their passage then through the very gates of heaven. They were caught in an explosion which rattled the ground and greatly disturbed nearby livestock. It's explained that in their death: "wives saw men of the explosion/larger than in life they managed - Gold as on a coin, or walking." Yet the eggs of the lark they had discovered are revealed to be secure and undamaged.

          Larkin's mention of the man who wandered off to chase rabbits seems to imply of the group's overall immaturity; that some of these men were still yet children. The disturbance of the cows in the wake of the explosion (and the pause in their chewing) may signify the explosion's effect on the rest of the world, as if within that aforementioned second, the world was empathic toward the tragedy. With respect toward the dead, Larkin quoted some biblical text in his italicized sixth stanza. The wives of the men see the fleeting apparitions of their husbands in a glorious golden hue, and the eggs they had found were unbroken, assuring us of the consistency of life. Where much may be lost, there will undoubtedly come to the world existence anew.

♥Ji Wrote:why do we not have a writers board again?

Quote:and do you mean "creative writing" as in a class?

Providence Wrote:If I recall correctly, there used to be one that no one ever posted in. :C

Quote:Yes ma'am. I have the coolest professor in history, too.

          A bell sounded and rang out through the tired maze of cubicles located in the offices of Mayard & Packett, LLP. It was the sound which signified the end of shifts, but to the firm’s humbled employees, it served a much greater purpose: it was the signal which brought them their daily bouts of freedom; to live apart from the corporate mechanisms of which their rapidly-advancing society so craved. To Richard Wheaton, the firm’s collator: this was no different.

          Richard strolled about the office, making conversation with coworkers he knew as friends. Though not at all the outgoing type, he was arguably the easiest person in the firm to speak with; someone who would respect your thoughts as he did his own. He was also known to recite the dumb joke which could dispel the most awkward of silences. Richard proceeded towards the entrance, mindful in the quickness in his steps.

          The traffic had been mercifully scarce as he rode the highway back to Cranston. It took no more than a quarter of an hour to reach the simple burgundy one-story house he so gratefully referred to as his own. He was greeted by the raspy purr of his cat and his wife’s snug embrace. Stroking his cheek, she reminded him to pick up a bag of cat food before he left for the gig. Richard gathered his equipment and again made his leave.

          His heart fluttered against his seatbelt as he thought of what might unfold that night. For  as long back as he’d been a singer, he had always adored performing; unlike many so-called “artists” of his day: ego-driven and/or money-hungry opportunists with no real love of their craft. Richard arrived at the venue 30-minutes early; plenty of time for him to get ready.

          In the restroom, he began his preparations. From a leather pouch, he withdrew two containers. He dipped his hands in the first and applied the white, pasty substance to his face, covering it in the stuff. He then reached into the second container and once more applied the substance inside; this time: a smooth cream of obsidian. With his fingertips he created intricate designs amongst the matte white skin. Satisfied, he removed a suit of dark leather armor from a larger sack and donned it. Richard looked in the mirror with a grin, though not in the manner which many of his acquaintances might expect of him. No, this was sinister; this was impure. It was time for the show. The massive hall of the venue seemed impossibly black as he joined his bandmates on stage.

          The scene of the hall flashed ablaze. From the speaker burst brooding melodies comparable only to orchestras of the deepest pits in Hell itself, then met with roars of both obsessed reverie and mindless frenzy. Richard clutched the microphone to his lips and met the audience’s screams with ones much deeper, and to the fiendish rhythms, grunted stories of all things macabre; of all things obscene; of the feasts of cannibals; of civilian slaughter; of decomposition in human corpses…no subject was sacred.

          An audience member was carried off by paramedics, who had been beaten to the point of near-death in a mosh pit. To this, Richard only laughed. To him, the two most obvious signs of the band’s success were men in stretchers and women revealing their breasts; the latter of which occurred several times throughout the night.

          During the instrumental inspired by Cannibal Holocaust, he felt it the appropriate opportunity to attempt a stage-dive. With a run and a jump, he submitted his mercy to the sea of hands holding him below, cackling all the way.

          “Man, I really don’t want to go to work tomorrow”, he thought to himself.

          Ricard loosed a faint gasp of awe as the Queen reached the floor of the Challenger Deep. At approximately 36,000 feet below sea level, it was the lowest pit to be found in the Earth. Had it not been for the Queen's pressure sphere, the awesome force which permeates such deep of places would've inevitably crushed both Ricard and his colleague, Maria. Both were employed with the task of recording all forms of life they witnessed via the Queen's prominent porthole.

          A band of quartz bulbs compensated for the utter lack of light, shedding a milky white glow over the dark blanket of ooze spanning as far as they could see. Several gatherings of sea cucumbers laid carelessly amongst themselves, while shrimp cast in ghostly white hues attended to a few fish corpses scattered across the ocean floor. The sound of graphite on paper filled the chamber as the pair painstakingly jotted down each subtle feature of their observations.

          The porthole went black. Maria struggled to locate the source of the problem, checking every possible gauge. Ricard set in disappointment; a shallow frown smeared across his face. He assumed the Queen would be forced to resurface prematurely.

          Suddenly from the porthole cast a brilliant emerald glow, very much unlike that created by the Queen's lanterns. The pair instrinctively raised their palms to their eyes.

          It took no more than a minute for Maria to realize that this new lighting was harmless to view. Her hands slowly released her sight: now one of absolute confusion. No part of the vessel was capable of casting such light, nor had she remembered seeing anything above-ground to compare it to. Ricard, however, remained more enthusiastic. He theorized aloud that the light could've been a factor of some peculiar natural function in the Earth's structure (much like the Auroras of the poles), and that he and Maria may have been the first to witness such an event.

          His eyes widened from the possibilities dashing through his imagination. He reached to the porthole as if to confirm his reality. The glass was unnaturally warm.

          Maria watched in terror as Ricard's body spontaneously convulsed against the curved steel wall. His thrashing figure destroyed several gauges before falling into a slump, stained a lush green by the light. His breath turned heavy and began to follow unnatural rhythms. Maria sat motionless. Not only was she unable to make sense of the recent happenings; she also had a grave feeling that Ricard's apparent instability could very well cause him to attack her without provocation.

          A stalemate was born and died within a matter of minutes. The thick heaving which had become of his breath was soon lost to the silence of the deep. Maria hesitated, though not without repressing her worry for Ricard's well-being, before attempting to check his vital signs. She knelt over to grasp his wrist.

     "Touch the light, Maria." Though spoken in Ricard's voice, Maria knew it hadn't come from his own mouth.

♥Ji Wrote:riveting! i take it the Queen is a sort of submarine?

Quote:it was quite "in medias res" (dense/thrown into the action) so it took several tries to figure out what was happening... what is the mariana..? or is that part of the Queen's name?

Wikipedia Wrote:bathyscaphe

Providence Wrote:quartz bubls

Providence Wrote:Yeah, that's the only thing that bothers me about the class. I'd like to explain things more thoroughly but I'd need to cut too much away from the actual story to do so.

♥Ji Wrote:what are these? /twoyearold

Opeth Wrote:I'm not like educated in poetry and whatnot, but these seem pretty pro. Did you spend a lot of time on them? You could be like Edgar Alan Poe, man.

I felt bad with the 46 views but no posts. ;-;

MasPan Wrote:[color="#cc8899"]I had to copypaste into word and replace the filtered words to take them seriously

L > No filter in Shady Tree.[/COLOR]

Providence Wrote:Nah, when I get an idea, I can make something within the hour. "Shifting" took me 20 minutes, at most. Don't feel bad if someone doesn't post, though. Knowing people took the time to read is a compliment in itself. In regards to Poe, I don't believe I could ever compare in even the most insignificant respect to him, nor any real poet. I just enjoy stringing words together.


Oh man, I didn't think of that. . . XD

Kurtle Wrote:I loved it. The imagery of Stanza 1 is beautiful. The proceeding self interrogation proves an awe inspiring point. Wonderful conclusion as well. Also, your rhythm is interesting.

TobiasBlack Wrote:imagery is awesome, and i enjoyed reading it, but the punctuation made my eyes a bit weak. there's too many semicolons manq.