Category Archives: draft

draft, Week 7

Retelling Comparison – A Story of an Hour

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For the retelling I picked “The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin, where Mrs. Mallard is told about the death of her husband. In the original story, we get to know the thought process of Mrs. Mallard only and the other characters actions or thought process is just left out in thin air. For the retelling I told the story in the view of how Mrs. Mallard sister Josephine would be feeling in such a situation.

In the original story, we first learn that Mrs. Mallard is told about the death of her husband and how she is feeling when is told about the news. In my retelling I start by showing what kind of day it is and how Josephine learns the news about the death of her sister’s husband. I also show how Josephine feels at the time that she learns the news and how she is approaching the situation. We don’t get to know how Josephine is feeling prior to her telling the news to her sister in the original story, so we cannot assume what she is going through or what kind of feelings are being shown by her.

In the retelling, the part where Josephine is telling the news to Mrs. Mallard there are small details that get added such as how Josephine is feeling really nervous and does not know how to tell her sister about the death of the husband. We also get to know that to calm herself down and tell her sister about the news, she drinks tea and takes her time in telling her in order to not greatly affect her health, in which she has a heart problem. From the retelling, we get to know what kind of character Josephine is instead of not knowing at all in the original story.

After Mrs. Mallard knows about the death of her husband she goes into her room and sits in a chair near the window. In the original story, we get to know how the room is like and what Mrs. Mallard is doing while sitting in that chair. We get to know how Mrs. Mallard is going through the pain of losing her husband to getting happy that she gets to live her life the way she wants to; now that her husband is dead.

In the retelling, we get to see a different view of how the other characters are responding to Mrs. Mallard locking herself in her room. We are first presented that when Mrs. Mallard goes to room to be alone is a standard respond to knowing that a loved one has past away. We get to see the different views when they try to talk to Mrs. Mallard when she is in the room and does not get an answer from her.

In the original story, we know that Mrs. Mallard is going through the process of accepting the death of her husband and how she is going to live her life now. In the retelling of the story, we get to see that the other characters assume that this type of action taken by Mrs. Mallard can lead to one that hurts herself because of her health problems. The only action that is taken in the original story that we know is Josephine calling out to Mrs. Mallard to come out of the room. In the retelling, we get to know that more action other than calling out to Mrs. Mallard is taken. Josephine tells Richard to call the doctor and find a way to open the door. From that we can tell that the other characters are worried to what is happening to Mrs. Mallard in the room since they only thing they know is that she is sitting in a chair without and response from her. From the retelling we get to see the emotions that Josephine is feeling from the moment Mrs. Mallard goes into her room to when she leaves it. We get to know that they took early action in calling the doctor in case something happens to Mrs. Mallard and that they tried to get access into the room instead of leaving her alone in the room.

In the final part of the story, both the original and retelling show is a similar view, when Mrs. Mallard comes out of her room and she goes down the stairs to see her husband which causes her to have a heart attack. The only thing we get to see more in the retelling is how Josephine felt when she saw Mrs. Mallard leave her room and the face she has. We get to see the emotion of Josephine from being worried of what happening to her sister to feeling relieved that she came out of her room just fine. We also get to see that when they walk down the stairs, the emotion that goes on when they see the husband is not dead and the facial expression that Mrs. Mallard express at that moment.

With the retelling of this story, we get to know more about the emotions that the other characters felt during this situation. The goal of this retelling was to show that Mrs. Mallard was not the only one that had to face this painful experience, but the other characters also faced one of their own with how to deal with Mrs. Mallard actions in response to the husband deaths.

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draft, Week 7

Comparative Essay – “The Story of An Hour” and “My Short Lived Happy Ending”

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“The Story of An Hour” and “My Short Lived Happy Ending” both tell the same story, but with different narration styles. “The Story of An Hour” gives the reader a third person narration. In “My Short Lived Happy Ending,” the reader is given an autodiegetic first person narration. The difference in the narration can change how each story is interpreted.  In the original story, “The Story of An Hour,” the third person limited narrator actually shows the death of Mrs. Mallard, gives access to some of her thoughts, and a view of more than one room in the story, while in the retelling, “My Short Lived Happy Ending,” the first person autodiegetic narrator shows the reason of Mrs. Mallard’s death without actually showing her death, gives access to her thoughts, and a view of only the rooms that she is in.

In both the original and retelling the death of Louise was depicted differently. The original states, “It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine’s piercing cry; at Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife. When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease–of the joy that kills.” In this quotation, the narrator is showing the death of Louise, but the characters of the story think she died of a heart attack caused by the joy of seeing her husband alive. The retelling states otherwise. “Then, as we reached the bottom stair, someone opened the front door with a key. My terror returned at the sight of the figure that entered. It was Brently. My heart begins to race and I feel a horrible pain in my chest. I grab my chest and fall, then just pure darkness.” At the sight of her husband, Louise’s heart began to race. She died of fear. Fear that her freedom will be taken away from her once more, since her husband wasn’t actually dead. “My heart begins to race and I feel a horrible pain in my chest. I grab my chest and fall, then just pure darkness.” This line was used to represent Mrs. Mallard’s death. It was difficult to include her death into the retelling, but her heart beginning to race and her chest pain was used to symbolize her dying from the heart disease which she had.

In the retelling, there is access to all of Louise’s thoughts during the course of the story. This shows her true feelings about her husband’s death. “Now that my husband is gone, I have no one to limit me on my actions. I rise from the chair, and fall back down. I begin to feel empowerment, excitement even. Most women that I know would never feel such a way after their husband’s death. ”Free, free, free!” I begin to whisper. My pulses start to race. The terror which had overwhelmed me has dissolved” With this access, the reader can interpret that her relationship with her husband wasn’t something that made her happy. It held her back from living her life. In the original, “Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will–as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under the breath: “free, free, free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.” The reader is given Mrs. Mallard’s thoughts, but only to some extent. They’re told that after the death of her husband, Mrs. Mallard comes to realization that she’s finally free. In both stories, the narrator shows the reader that Mrs. Mallard is full of joy after her husband’s death. One difference is that the retelling shows that joy in more detail.

The main differences between these two stories are the type of narrations. “The Story of An Hour,” is written in third person limited, allowing the reader to know what’s going on in multiple places of the story. “Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door–you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.” “Go away. I am not making myself ill.” No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.”  In “My Short Lived Happy Ending,” this part is told in a different view,” Josephine was behind the door shouting,” Louise, open the door! You will make yourself ill!” I ignore her warning. I am not making myself ill. My husband was who made me ill. “Go away! I am not making myself ill!” I shout in reply.” From Louise’s point of view she doesn’t know that her sister is kneeling behind the door, she only sees the room that she’s in.  In the original, the reader is shown both inside and outside of the room.

In writing the retelling of “The Story of An Hour,” the main goal was to give the reader Mrs. Mallard’s point of view. This helps clear up any confusion about what she’s actually feeling, or the reason for her death. Although, the original shows this, it’s not from Mrs. Mallard’s point of view. Her point of view allows the reader to fully understand her true feelings that she develops after she grieved her husband.

Click here for retelling draft.

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draft, Project #2

Retelling Comparison “A Rose For Emily”

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The original story, A Rose for Emily” = 1st person plural, which transitioned to a 3rd person Omniscient retelling. The writings in the retold piece had very few changes in comparison to the original story. But most importantly the perception varied through intro and remains constant during high facts and important details. The retold gave Miss. Emily the honor she deserves and most of all treated her like the GODLY character she is depicted as by the other members of her town. But the retelling only focused on the first paragraph; the setting events leading to understanding Miss Emily.

The original story was written in a way in which reader must define words to get a clear understanding. From a 3rd person you can easily see the character and understand whom is talking at any given moment based on context. The original story kept Miss Emily life a secret. Miss Emily the main character played a very important role in the story. It may seem as if the story is being told by someone in her vicinity at all-time; yet, never gave any true feeling or show any affection towards Miss Emily. Miss Emily role represent a scroll, special in a way that she must be cared for and treated with sympathy. Readers can easily notice that Emily is a very hard character tot access.

Tobe, her servant created amnesty for us, the readers. I believe Tobe played importantly as a server and has the narrator of this story. The reason for this is because, fourth paragraph he had full access to the room that the Alderman met Emily in. It depicts exactly how she was position and most of all the description of the room setup, including the Alderman. This insight is from someone at the scene that knows how to describe Emily. Paragraph sixth, “they rose when she entered- a small, fat woman in black, with a thin gold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tarnished gold head. Her skeleton was small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in her”. This description explains a lot about Miss Emily, it may seem as if the narrator was checking her out, when the comparison was made.

The retelling mainly focuses on changing text to acquire the point of view of the writer. The writer narrowly executed this by focusing on the understanding of 3rd person Omniscient. Emily went from being a character of interest, to understanding why she’s the character of interest. Paragraph two, “It was a big, 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 the best street. But due to development of garages and cotton gins even the august names of that neighborhood have vanished; only her house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps-a degradable sight to see”. The writer found it necessary to spare is readers the details and cut straight to chase. In the retelling, the writer main focus was changing the reader perspective, and importantly giving Tobe a role as a character without any race association. With that being said, it can either create a problem later on in the story or cause confusion. As the writer I want to changed Tobe role from Negro to just servant primarily because, if Tobe was the narrator has everyone may think, would his perception changed from how Emily was described in the sixth paragraph?

The story started in both pieces the same way. As a writer changing views there was not any significance or words to emulate a similar understanding; so I utilize caution during retelling. What I’ve done was portray Emily as the person of importance with the support of Tobe, just like the original piece. Tobe in the retelling change drastically as a character, he became someone that can attain respect due to the fact that he was no longer a Negro, and he was just a servant. That detail alone creates a new story line. Tobe can now speak freely if needed to and most of all represent Miss Emily more whenever necessary. The Negro in the south does not stand a chance in society alone. So Emily servant was safe as long as Emily was alive; but the story started with Emily being buried in a cedar- bemused cemetery. Not only was the story told in flashback, but it also creates a diversion for important details and how it shall be play out.

To conclude, the first section retelling seem somewhat complex due to the fact that the reader revisit for information during the story due to the flashback effect by William Faulkner. The author brought the reader on a twist before given them a clue that other events led to all of this. But most of all my retelling gave Tobe life. He was no longer a Negro with a negative cognizant for the time period. The retelling gave Tobe a second chance cause now if we think about it, does Tobe still have to run after the burial; when the whole town was digging through the big, squarish frame house that once house the most feared lady of Jefferson or can he obtain documentation to get the house in his name and live his own life.

 

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draft, Homework Instructions, Week 7

Responding to our retelling comparisons

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As with the drafts of the retellings, you’ll post your drafts of Part 2, comparisons of the original story and your retelling here and then as homework for Week 7, write comments on at least 2 classmates’ drafts.

For your post:

  • title: the title you’re giving your comparative essay
  • include a link to your retelling draft
  • paste your comparative essay into the post
  • category: choose Week 7 under Homework AND draft under Project #1
  • tags: choose the tag for the story you’re writing about, plus any others you think are appropriate

In the comments you write to your classmates, reflect back to them any or all of the following:

  • what do you understand is the argument made in the comparative essay?
  • what is the thesis statement?
  • does the thesis statement reflect the argument?
  • do you have any suggestions about the examples chosen to support the argument?
  • do you have any suggestions about the organization of the argument?
  • what do you not understand?
  • what is clear and convincing to you?

Remember that in class last week we decided that the final version is due on Wednesday on our site:

  • post your retelling using the category Project #1
  • tag your post with the story you’re working with plus any other tag you find appropriate
  • for the post’s title, use your retelling’s title
  • in the post, write your retelling’s title, then paste in the retelling
  • next, leave two blank lines and then in the same post, add your comparison’s title and paste in your comparison.

I look forward to reading your Project #1 results and gathering all of your hard work into our anthology using a WordPress tool called Anthologize.

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draft, Week 6

Retelling, 3rd Person Omniscient

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Retelling A Rose For Emily -3rd Person Omniscient (first Posted Under Reply to Project 1)

WHEN Emily Grierson died, her whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, which no one save an old man-servant–a combined gardener and cook–had seen in years.
It was a big, 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 the best street. But due to development of  garages and cotton gins even the august names of that neighborhood have vanished; only her house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps-a degradable sight to see. And now she had gone to join the representatives of those august names where they lay in the cedar-bemused cemetery among the ranked and anonymous graves of Union and Confederate soldiers who fell at the battle of Jefferson.
Alive, she 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–he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman should appear on the streets without an apron-rid her taxes, the dispensation dating from the death of her father on into perpetuity. Not that she would have accepted charity. Colonel Sartoris invented an involved tale to the effect that Miss Emily’s father had loaned money to the town, which the town, as a matter of business, preferred this way of repaying. Only a man of Colonel Sartoris’ generation and thought could have invented it, and only a woman could have believed it.
The next generation came around, with its more modern ideas, became mayors and aldermen, this arrangement created some little dissatisfaction for Emily. On the first of the year they mailed her a tax notice. February came, and there was no reply. They wrote her a formal letter, asking her to call at the sheriff’s office at her convenience. A week later the mayor wrote her himself, offering to call or to send his car for her, and received in reply a note on paper of an archaic shape, in a thin, flowing calligraphy in faded ink, to the effect that she no longer went out at all. The tax notice was also enclosed, without comment.
They called a special meeting of the Board of Aldermen. A deputation waited upon her, knocked at the door through which no visitor had passed since she ceased giving china-painting lessons eight or ten years earlier. They were admitted by Tobe an old servant into a dim hall from which a stairway mounted into still more shadow. It smelled of dust and disuse–a close, dank smell. Tobe led them into the parlor. It was furnished in heavy, leather-covered furniture. When Tobe opened the blinds of one window, they could see that the leather was cracked; and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighs, spinning with slow motes in the single sun-ray. On a tarnished gilt easel before the fireplace stood a crayon portrait of her father.
They rose when she entered–a small, fat woman in black, with a thin gold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tarnished gold head. Her skeleton was small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in her. She looked bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face, looked like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough as they moved from one face to another while the visitors stated their errand.
She never offer them to sit. She just stood in the door and listened quietly until the spokesman came to a stumbling halt. Then they could hear the invisible watch ticking at the end of the gold chain.
Her voice was dry and cold. “I have no taxes in Jefferson. Colonel Sartoris explained it to me. Perhaps one of you can gain access to the city records and satisfy yourselves.”
“But we have. We are the city authorities, Miss Emily. Didn’t you get a notice from the sheriff, signed by him?”
“I received a paper, yes,” She said. “Perhaps he considers himself the sheriff . . . I have no taxes in Jefferson.”
“But there is nothing on the books to show that, you see we must go by the–”
“See Colonel Sartoris. I have no taxes in Jefferson.”
“But, Miss Emily–”
“See Colonel Sartoris.” (Colonel Sartoris had been dead almost ten years.) “I have no taxes in Jefferson. Tobe!” Tobe appeared. “Show these gentlemen out.”

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draft, Project #1, Week 6

My Retelling “A Rose for Emily” by William Faulkner

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“The Late Truth”

I go by the name of Homer Barron. I am a Foreman from the North with a rather large body size with a dark skin complexion, a booming voice, and light-colored eyes. I am a gruff and demanding boss of my company. I consider myself accepted by the town because I was able to win many admirers in Jefferson because of my gregarious nature and good sense of humor. 

It was a scorching hot summer day on the job. Me and my men were hard at work on a sidewalk-paving project in town working towards completing by the end of the week and move on the the next job, because you know what they say “time is money,” well at least thats what I always put my belief in, and it makes sense doesn’t it?

The first day on this project, as me and my men begin digging and shoveling into the ground breaking the concrete bit my bit, the jackhammers prying the hard cement open like a nutcracker breaking open a wall nut so effortlessly making a loud cracking noise like an intense thunder storm rolling into town.

It was part of the job as foreman to inform the locals of our work so I went door to door on the block to let them know that we will be working on the concrete floors not to be alarmed by the noise and apologize for the inconvenience that we may cause. This is how I came across the most beautiful creature that I have ever set my eyes on.  She had beautiful young lady with long brown hair, a beautiful pair of brown eyes that glistened in the light and velvety smooth skin. 

I formally introduced myself and informed her that there will be a lot of noise for the next few hours. A few days later I was taking her around town in my chariot and we were spending a lot of time with each other. I was sure that the towns people were talking about us because lets face it, a wealthy and beautiful young lady like Emily was not usually seen with a man of my stature.

Emily was always skeptical of me coming into her home but one afternoon she invited me over for dinner so I blissfully made my way over to her home. After dinner emily asked me if I wanted a further tour of the upstairs rooms and I agreed. She brought me to the attack room, looked like any normal old room, bed night counter with a bunch of little trinkets. i then took the last gulp of the wine that was on my glass from dinner and little that I know that this would be the last liquid that I would ever consume. Complete feeling in my body had vanished and the room faded to black.

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draft, Project #1, Week 6

The Woman

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There’s a woman in the room, although oddly familiar she is still a stranger. It is very intriguing watching her struggling to break free of the strangling ropes that bind us, how silly it is seeing her indulge her madness.

John, that is the name spoken from her lips, this man he loves her, or so it seems.  I hear bits and pieces of their conversations, sometimes they make sense sometimes not.  She shares her fears he shoots them down, he tries to save her. Is that not love? Even so, I can see the cracks starting to form on her countenance as she continues to divulge into her madness, which is slowly becoming more apparent.

He says, “There is nothing so dangerous, so fascinating, to a temperament like yours. It is a false and foolish fancy. Can you not trust me as a physician when I tell you so? ” She quiets down, but it doesn’t look as if she’s fighting her thoughts, she entertains them, feeds them. Foolish girl! Can’t you see there is no breaking free?

She writes a lot; I always see her writing in secrecy with the madness creeping out of her and seeping into the pages, her foolhardy thoughts out in the open for anyone to stumble upon. The cracks are quickly spreading all over her frail body, I am legitimately concerned seeing her thoughts pushing to break free to pierce into the room and consume the air.

She is much calmer during the daytime and more frantic at night. At night she sees me; am I a threat to her or is she a threat to me? John isn’t around much anymore. Can’t she see she is neglecting her duty of love for him?  There is another woman, John’s sister, keeping her keen eyes on her, Jennie. Can Jennie see the madness that I can see in her clearly now, it’s a shade darker than any black I have ever seen. It swells inside her, building momentum and seeping out of the  now countless cracks.

The black has now completely consumed her seeping out in a frantic rhythm. She’s coming closer, what is this? I cannot help but laugh loudly, I reckon she must have heard it. She is attempting to tear the barrier away. She is indeed the ‘Silly goose’ John claims her to be. This barrier is unbreakable. I will not allow her to consume me, I am happy where I am. This place is where I must remain, it is the only way for me to fulfill my purpose. For the life of me I cannot recall what this purpose is but I must remain here. I am sure of it. She promises to try again. There aren’t any worries on my part, she will never succeed. They never do.

She’s more frantic than ever, peeling off more of the barrier. My pleas are fallen to deaf ears as she desperately tries to break the barrier. Her duties, my duties long forgotten. She is me. I am getting angry enough to do something desperate. To jump out of the window would be admirable exercise, but the bars are too strong even to try. Besides I wouldn’t do it. Of course not. I know well enough that a step like that is improper and might be misconstrued.  I don’t like to look out of the windows even- there are so many of those creeping women, and they creep so fast. I wonder if they all come out of that wallpaper as I did? But I am securely fastened now by my well-hidden rope – you don’t get me out in the road there ! I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern when it comes night, and that is hard! It is so pleasant to be out in this great room and creep around as I please!

I don’t want to go outside. I won’t, even if Jennie asks me to. For outside you have to creep on the ground, and everything is green instead of yellow. But here I can creep smoothly on the floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the wall, so I cannot lose my way. Why there’s John at the door!

It is no use, young man, you can’t open it! How he does call and pound! Now he’s crying for an axe. It would be a shame to break down that beautiful door! “John dear!” said I in the gentlest voice, “the key is down by the front steps, under a plantain leaf!”

That silenced him for a few moments. Then he said–very quietly indeed, “Open the door, my darling!” “I can’t,” said I. “The key is down by the front door under a plantain leaf!” And then I said it again, several times. very gently and slowly, and said it so often that he had to go and see, and he got it of course, and came in.

He stopped short by the door. “What is the matter?” he cried. “For God’s sake, what are you doing! ” I kept on creeping just the same, but I looked at him over my shoulder.

“I’ve got out at last,” said I, ” in spite of you and Jane? And I’ve pulled off most of the paper, so you can’t put me back! ” Now why should that man have fainted? But he did, and right across my path by the wall, so that I had to creep over him every time!

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draft, Project #1, Week 6

The Pink Ribbon

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The Pink Ribbon – A retelling of Young Goodman Brown
Edited by Rena

[1] My sweet husband and I came forth at sunset, into the street of Salem village. After crossing the threshold, he turned around and kissed me with his soft supple lips. I felt the wind playing with the pink ribbon in my hair. I felt him pulling me towards the dark side but I refused. I cannot let this happen. I don’t want to go, not yet.

[2] I leaned towards his ear. “Dearest heart,” I whispered softly and afraid, “pr’ythee, put off your journey until sunrise, and sleep in your own bed to-night. A lone woman is troubled with such dreams and such thoughts, that she’s afeard of herself, sometimes. Pray, tarry with me this night, dear husband, of all nights in the year!”

[3] “My love and my Faith” replied my dear husband, “of all nights in the year, this one night must I tarry away from thee. My journey, as thou callest it, forth and back again, must needs to be done ‘twixt now and sunrise. What, my sweet, pretty wife, dost thou doubt me already, and we but three months married!”

[4] I do not doubt you my dearest… I doubt myself! Please, my dearest, doubt the lone woman, stay with me by my bedside to-night! I wanted to scream these words in my poor Goodman’s ear but he wouldn’t let me. He wouldn’t let me make a sound of my plea.

[5] “Then God bless you!” he forced me to say, “and may you find all well, when you come back.”

[6] It will not be well, and my dear Goodman will never really be back. Neither will I.

[7] “Amen!” cried my poor sweetheart. “Say thy prayers, dear Faith, and go to bed at dusk, and no harm will come to thee.”

[8] I watched as my love pursued his way, until, being about to turn the corner by the meeting-house, he looked back, with a melancholy air hovering behind him.

[9] Then he was gone.

[10] “He’s chosen…” thought I as I walked back into the house, for my heart smote me.

[11] I closed the door behind me and headed towards the window in my dimly lit room.

[12] “The devil!” I screamed as I felt a serpent tail-like stick on my neck.

[13] I turned around and there he was, about fifty years old, with an indescribable air of one who knew the world. I saw his staff, which bore the likeness of a great black snake, so curiously wrought, that it might almost be seen to twist and wriggle itself like a living serpent. This, of course, must have been an ocular deception, assisted by the uncertain light…

[14] “He has chosen, and so have you my sweet girl!” said he of the serpent.

[15] If my dear Goodman choose to walk with the Devil tonight, I will walk with him as well. I will sell my soul to the devil if it means being with my sweet love.

[16] Just seconds later, I felt trapped in my body. I felt like I was gazing through the eyes of a stranger’s withered body. “Oh how weird this feels” I thought. I was no longer in control as I watched the scenery change from the familiarity of my bedroom to the meeting house where I last saw my love, and finally to the wicked dark forest.

[17] “With Heaven above, and Faith below, I will yet stand firm against the devil!”

[18] “Who was that?” thought I. “I know that voice. I know that is the voice of my dearest love. My sweet husband has changed his mind. What am I to do, there is no turning back now!”

[19] “Goodman, my sweet sweet Goodman, oh do please hear me! Come take me home with you my dear, so we can sleep in our own bed to-night, and forget about this nightmare!” I uttered with uncertain sorrow.

[20] But his voice was drowned out in the wind and before long I was before a sheet of flame; the smile of welcome gleamed darkly on every visage.

[21] The fiend-worshippers surrounded the flame chanting or screaming … but I couldn’t hear anything. I just looked for my dear Goodman, as hope came into my heart, I trembled.

[23] Then, a wretched man held me with his trembling hands.

[24] It was my dear Goodman. “Goodman, dear, oh how great it is to see you! Take me away from this nightmare, I beg of you” I kept screaming at him.

[25] His mouth seem to be saying my name, but I couldn’t hear anything.

[26] “Look up to Heaven, and resist the Wicked One!”  Resist the wicked one… resist the wicked one…

[27] I lifted my head up.

[28] Twisting and wriggling in a pink ribbon, I saw the great black snake.

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draft, Week 6

Two Men in My life

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Project#1
Retelling of the story “A Rose for Emily” in First person narrator
Two Men in My Life
I am Emily and I live in a small town where my father has influent in old generation and he is also influent my life when I was in younger age by not allowing any young men in town to approach me. Because of him, many town people in the community believe I am pride and stubbornness. Some saw me as very distant person and living in the past. I believe I am a very strong person never change my mind and give up what I want to do.
I loved my father because he was the only man that I met in life until he died and at the same time I hated him so much for bringing me up so lonely and not thinking long enough for my future if he was unable to accompany me one day . He believes that none of the young men were quite good enough to me. Now, I am all alone by myself in this old house with nothing left. How should I do with this big old house with no one to talk to? The complex feeling of love and hatred to my father strike me so hard that caused me sick for a longtime after his death. Although I have two cousins in Alabama, we were not too close due to the estate of my great aunt when my father was alive. Furthermore, they didn’t even show up at my father’s funeral and I am not close enough to them to talk about my feelings. The fears, the loneliness and sleepless night cause me sick for a long time but I do not want the town people to see my weakness since my family has a reputation in town and I don’t want people take advantage on me since I am alone and I have to protect the dignity of my family’s tradition and myself.
I met him in the summer after my father’s death. His name was Homer Barron. He was a Yankee–big, dark skinned with a loud voice. He was a construction foreman who came to the town with the construction company for pavement of the town sidewalks. After I met him, I felt myself like a different person and the most enjoyable time of my life. The most memorable time for me was spending the time with him on Sunday afternoon driving in the yellow-wheeled buggy around the town despite of the gossip of the town people and the warning of the minister that I made a bad example to the young people. He also gave me the type of joy that I ever had and I was dreaming and planning of the upcoming my wedding.
After the street sidewalk construction have finished, I thought he gave me opportunity to ask my two female cousins to leave the house and he will be back within a couple days for preparing our wedding. He did back in town after three days my cousins left.
All my dreams and happiness were not last for too long when he said to me that he cannot marry me. He said he enjoys drinking with young men in the Club and he was not the type of marrying person. He is the man that I love most in my life after my father. I hate him as if I never met him in my life and at the same time I don’t want to lose him forever. I must decide to do something so he will with me the rest of my life whether dead or alive. I went to the drug store to buy the best available poison. The local law requires buyer to tell for which purpose use, but I don’t want to answer and just said give me the arsenic then I saw “for rats” on the package.
I have prepared one room above the stair for our wedding. Inside the room, everything was set up for bridal including rose color curtains, rose-shaded lights, dressing table, man’s toilet silver sets, men’s outfit clothing including the nightshirt. I want the man I love to lay on my wedding bed for ever. I will have opportunity to fulfill my wishes to sleep next to him who is alive or not. Since my health gets deteriorating, I know I will not live longer soon. I will leave unanswered question as question mark for the poison that I bought and the corpse that people will find in one room of my house after I die because I don’t like to admit that I committed the crime.

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draft, Project #1, Week 6

“POOR EMILY”

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When Miss Emily’s father died Tobe was worried about her.   “God knows how this poor woman will survive without her father,” he muttered to himself.”  He had worked as the Grierson family servant since Miss Emily was a little girl.   He never knew her mother.  When she became a young lady he could not understand why her father never allowed any of the men who were interested in her to court her.  It seemed in the eyes of Mr. Grierson, no man was good enough for her.

“Tobe,” Mr. Grierson would say.  “Show this young man to door.” This happened several times.

The young men would fidget nervously with their hat and would manage to say, “thank you for your time Mr. Grierson,” as if showing Mr. Grierson respect would change his mind.

He and his daughter had a close bond.  Now that he was gone Miss Emily was alone, husbandless and with no family or friends in town, this meant she was bound to be lonely.

He watched her sitting next to the bed on which her father took his last breath.  His body still lay there. He could hear her whispering, “father!”  “Father!”  “Can you hear me?”  “Please wake up.”    Several hours after Mr. Grierson’s death he cautiously approached her.  “Miss Emily,” he said, “should I fetch the coroner to take the body now.”  She turned her head and tears ran down her cheek.  Then she spoke with anger.  “No one is to touch my father!” she screamed.  “No one,”  “Do you hear me Tobe!?”  It was as if the grief she felt was making her mad.   He had never seen her so upset before.  “Alright Miss Emily,” was all he said.

The women folk from town came calling on the second day.   With great effort she manage to pull herself together.   When she met them at the door she was well dressed and very composed.  They had no idea the grief and pain she was feeling.  No one was admitted inside the house.    After Tobe opened the door she would look her visitors in the eye and in a curt voice she would say, “my father is not dead.”

One day after she abruptly closed the door she sat down in the parlor and wept.  Through her sobbing she said, “Tobe, I am alone.”   “Why did he have to leave me?”  He was unsure how to respond.  He was not use to her expressing her personal feelings to him.   Finally he said, “I am here Miss Emily, you are not alone.”

On the second day the ministers and doctors were admitted in the house by Tobe.  They did their best to persuade Miss Emily to let them bury her father.  She would not relent.   Just as they decided to use the law to force her to release the body Tobe appeared at the coroner’s office.   “Miss Emily is ready to bury her father.” Was all he said.

It was not an easy task for Tobe to get Miss Emily to relent.   “This is wrong Miss Emily,” he said to her earlier that morning. “Your father need to be put to rest.”  She turned from her position at her father’s bedside.  He saw the grief in her eyes, but he also saw that she was more subdued.  “You are right Tobe,” she had said.  “Fetch the coroner.”

 

It took him days to get the smell of death out of that house.   Miss Emily never acknowledge the smell.  It was as if it did not bother her one bit.

After she buried her father she became a recluse, barely leaving the house.   Tobe heard some of the gossip when he went to town on errands for her.   “That’s her negro,” they would say.   “Did you hear?”  a woman said in the grocery store,  “she is broke.”   The other woman chimed in, “I heard all he left her was that old house.”   As the conversation continued he heard yet another woman saying.  “The Griersons always act like they’re better than us, now she will see what it’s like to live like the rest of us.” “Poor Miss Emily,” they all said in unison.

In his mind he visualized himself going up to these women and defending Miss Emily.   He would tell them what a wonderful person she was.  Of course he could not.  He was her servant and there were different rules for people of his race.

One day while they were inside, a noise from outside interrupted the silence of that big old house.  “What’s going on Tobe?” she asked.  “Oh Miss Emily it’s that man Homer Barron cussing those Niggers.” “Who?”  She said.    “Homer Barron,” he repeated.  “He is out there with some niggers paving the sidewalks.”

“Tobe!” she yelled as the noise became even more bothersome.  “Fetch me my hat.”  He was surprised she wanted to go out and quickly fetched her hat.  He opened the door for her and watched as she ventured to the gate.

He was unsure about the conversation that transpired but when she came back inside, he thought he saw a faint smile on her face, something he had not seen in years.

He was shock when the doorbell rang that Sunday and Homer Barron stood there.

He had seen him in town on many occasion since work started on the pavements.  From what he knew he was the foreman of the contracted construction company.  He was a Yankee, a big, dark ready man.  He had a big booming voice and eyes lighter than his face.  He was charming.  The ladies liked him, the little boys followed him around and the men respected him.    Everyone knew Homer Barron.

Tobe! He said with hat in his hand.  “I am here to call on Miss Emily.”   Tobe was unsure what to say, but he quickly recovered and said, “wait here.”  He closed the door.  He was surprised all over again when he saw Miss Emily well dressed and wearing her favorite hat coming down the stairs.  Her face looked bright, she was beaming.   “She looks happy.” He thought to himself.   Despite the fact that she seemed to be expecting Homer Barron Tobe still informed her.  “Miss Emily, a Mr. Homer Barron is at the door.”  “Thank you Tobe,” she said as she waltz through the door he held open for her.    He watched as he held her hand to help her into the yellow horse drawn buggy.

This became a routine.  Every Sunday Homer Barron came by with the horse buggy to pick up Miss Emily.  The women in town now had new events to fuel their gossip machine.   Many were happy for Miss Emily.  Even Tobe was happy.   He noticed Miss Emily was in a pleasant mood since she started to spend time with Homer Baron.

It seemed the town folks especially the women could not make up their minds,  this minute they were happy for Miss Emily and the next minute they gossip about her relationship.   They felt it was not a good example for the young girls in Town for Miss Emily to spend so much time with Mr. Barron without a chaperone.   They forced the minister to speak with her.   Tobe admitted him.  At the end of his speech about moral standards Miss Emily merely said to him.  “What goes on in my life is nobody’s business.”  Then she summoned Tobe and said, “kindly show this gentleman out.”

A few weeks later when her cousins showed up at her house she was upset and told them in no uncertain terms that they too should stay out of her affairs.

By that time all the sidewalks had been paved and Homer Barron left town.   No one knew what to make of it.  After all the whole town thought they would be married.

Even Tobe thought they were to be married.  He had seen them together and saw how happy they were in each other’s company.   When Tobe picked up a man’s toilet set and men’s clothing and a night shirt that Miss Emily had ordered, he felt sure they were to be married.

The cousins left town and sure enough Homer Barron returned.  That Sunday he took Miss Emily on a buggy ride just like old times.

Tobe saw her when she returned to the house.  She did not look happy.  “Are you alright Miss Emily?” he asked.   She did not reply.   Next day she insisted that she have to go to town.  She returned with a package from the drug store.   She placed the package in the kitchen.  Tobe could not resist opening the package.   He read the label out loud, “for rats.”  He was puzzled because he had not seen rat in the house for a long time.

One day at dusk Homer Barron came for supper.  Tobe admitted him through the kitchen door.   He could not understand why he did not use the front door.  “Hi Tobe.”  “Miss Emily asked me to use the kitchen door.”

When Tobe walked by the parlor he overheard Homer Baron talking to Miss Emily.  “It’s the same as we discussed before,” Homer said.  “I am not ready to get married.”   Miss Emily was quiet for a moment then with grace and dignity she rose and looked at Homer.  “Would you like something to eat,” she asked.”  She excused herself and went to the kitchen.  She returned later with a tray.

As they ate she did her best to seem light hearted, but deep down she was hurting.  After the meal Homer Barron just sat there as if he could not move.

“Tobe!” Miss Emily said, “Take Mr. Barron upstairs to his room.”  He knew exactly which room she spoke of,  for earlier that day she had asked him to lay out all the items she brought for him in that room.

The next day he thought Homer had left town.  He brought Miss Emily her breakfast.  Her faced looked sad and withdrawn.  It reminded him of when she lost her father.

He noticed the room he had put Homer Barron in was locked with a key.

Then the smell started. At first it was faint like when Mr. Grierson died.  Then it got strong and overpowering.  It was the smell of death he thought.   He was not sure what to make of it.   Sometimes she would open the door to the room she had set up for Homer and stay there for a long time.

The smell went away in a couple of months.   Tobe was glad.  He was too old to track down where that smell was coming from.

After that Miss Emily never went out again.  She got older and frail from lack of fresh air and sunlight.

When she took sick and died Tobe felt sorry for her.  She had not experience the joy of marriage and family.  He left soon after her death.  He had family in another town he would be staying with.  He did not go to the funeral and he was not there when they broke open the door to Homer Barron’s room and found the man lying there.   Strands of grey hair and the impression of Miss Emily’s body was on the bed.    Poor Emily,  she could not have him in life, but she certainly had him all to herself in death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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