A Distant Relative's Gift

Looking straight on, the two left legs were shorter than the two on the right. The dirty, cream, colored paint was starting to peel, and revealed the original layer of avocado-green underneath. There were oversized drawers on both sides of where the chair was pushed in, and they left very little leg room. It was very tall and the flat top stopped just a few inches above one’s waist. Its uncomfortable height made it difficult to use any sort of normal desk chair, and using a stool eventually made your neck sore from craning over for a long period of time. Despite its unattractive appearance and bulky nature, Liza’s parents insisted that the desk be placed in her room. She had only encountered her great-grandmother twice. The first time was when she was seven. All she could remember from that visit was a fifty-dollar bill in her hand after her great-grandmother planted a big, sloppy, red kiss on her cheek. She was rich, and that was the only reason Liza ever regretted not visiting her more often. The second time she saw her was three days ago at the viewing before the burial. 

Her great-grandmother had written her will long before she died. She was very meticulous in delegating everything single thing she owned. Family and friends were surprised with elaborate gifts such as expensive porcelain china sets, and handcrafted, wooden bureaus made from the finest mahogany. Liza didn’t even feel a tinge of remorse for death of her great-grandmother because all she felt was bitter. She was bitter because everyone else received such fabulous gifts, and all she got was a dysfunctional, junk desk. She would have rather received nothing if that meant she didn’t have to look at that massive piece rubbish that now sat in the far corner of the room. 

    Liza walked slowly over to the desk and ran her hand over the worn, chipped desktop. A layer of gray dust was left on her hand and she could still smell mold caused by the dampness of the basement where it had been for some time. She was afraid to open the drawers because she didn’t know what kinds of creatures might be lurking. Liza used one finger to pull on the corroded brass handle of one of the top drawers. With a little extra force, Liza managed to slide the rest of the drawer out as tiny paint chip floated to the ground from the sudden movement of the drawer. 

There was a roadmap of Nevada, a pair of dice, a few blank envelopes, and a couple of mismatched keys. Liza used her hand to gingerly shift the items around. Under the roadmap was a blue sticky note that read, “To Liza, all you’ve ever wanted.” Liza’s eyes narrowed and she felt as though this was some kind of cruel joke. Angrily, she snatched everything that was inside of the drawer she opened and threw it on the floor. She grabbed the drawer with both hands, yanked it out its opening, and let it fall to the floor. Liza looked down at the drawer and saw that there was a small rectangular box secured to the back. There was a keyhole at the top and Liza remembered the keys that she had seen earlier. Hastily, she sifted through the papers on the floor and found two keys. She tried the first one, but it didn't work. The second one was a perfect fit and she heard the satisfying ‘click’ as the box unlocked. She reached inside and pulled out three half-inch stacks of crisp $100 dollar bills.

Samson

The heavy downpour stopped about an hour ago, and now was just a drizzle. He could not lie down without the brown, sloppy mud making a mess of the rest of his coat.  He was parched despite the cool weather. Puddles formed between uneven sidewalk, but the short leash did not allow him to reach the small pools of water. He could no longer gnaw away at the leash. They got smart. They changed the worn-out manila rope to a thick, heavy, galvanized steel chain. The last time he chewed his way out of the binding, they did not feed him. He became so famished that he ate his own feces and drank the murky gutter water. His stomach was queasy and he could not hold down any food. When they put a bowl of burnt, leftover roast, he turned his back on it. Consequently, they started giving him meager portions in response to his lack of appetite.
In months of July and June, there was no refuge from the smothering humidity or the suffocating heat. The 1996 Chevrolet Express passenger van was parked haphazardly in the middle of the yard. He crawled underneath the van in a desperate attempt to escape the intense heat of midday. Unknowingly, he hooked the rope unto something under the van. Within a few minutes, he realized it was much hotter under the van and attempted to crawl back out without success. He was afraid to whimper or yelp. If they heard him, they would surely try to shut him up with their foot. 

He was about to close his eyes and surrender to the smothering heat when he heard the faint sound of footsteps. The noise grew louder and eventually a short, blonde woman came into view. She was wearing a white sundress, big round sunglasses, yellow sandals, and a wide-brim sun hat. She had a concerned look on her face as she cautiously approached the him. She was unsure of his temperament and slowly reached out her hand, palm down.  The woman was careful to not make any quick motions that might elicit an aggressive reaction. The scent of her hand was enchanting, and reminded him of the neighbor’s cherry blossom tree. Her hand felt smooth and tender under his dry, rough tongue. The corners of her mouth pulled up into a friendly smile that showed off her straight teeth and pronounced smile lines. “My name is Adelaide. And who are you? Do you have a name?” He wished he knew his own name. He wished he had a name. Whenever they beckoned to him, he only heard a long string of garbled syllables. In response to her inquiry, his ears perked up. He tried to lift his head before being pulled back by the taut rope. He whimpered softly and he lowered his head. Adelaide, realizing the problem, jumped to her feet. She gave him one final glance before running out of the yard, and across the alley. It was several minutes before she returned. He had grown anxious and distressed when she did not come back right away. She had brought a pair of lock cutters with her and used them to cut the chain around his neck. He immediately crawled out from under the van and waited for Adelaide to stand up. She wore a triumphant smile on her face as she held the broken shackles in one hand and the lock cutter in the other. It occurred to her that someone could be watching, and she turned towards the windows of the house. The blinds, broken and bent, were shut, and the house appeared to be unoccupied. She walked into the alley, opened the garbage can, and threw away the chain and collar. Adelaide walked down a few houses before she turned around to look at him. He was unsure of what to do and stared at her with a blank expression. She smiled her charming smile, patted the side of her leg, and said, “Let’s go.” He took a few hesitant steps before he broke out into a trot. He could not remember the last time he had this much space to move, and he did not know what was outside the confines of the small yard. They walked a few more paces before she stopped and opened a tall wooden gate on the left side of the alley. She stepped beyond the gate and he followed her. 
She called him Samson, contrary to the biblical ending. She was the beautiful, blonde woman who freed him from bondage, and he was the one who survived his antagonists.

Amnesia

The white paint of the ceiling was peeling off in variously sized shapes. It had been this way for seventeen years, and it looked the same every morning. To the old woman, everything was always the same. She used the same 12 ounce box of Arm & Hammer to brush her teeth every morning and ate Quaker 2-minute oatmeal. It took her exactly thirty-two minutes to get out of bed each morning from the moment she opened her eyes to the white, empty ceiling. The old woman did not like the way other toothpaste brands left a minty taste in her mouth. She enjoyed the way the paste felt when she brushed her tongue with the worn out, blue toothbrush. One swish. Two swish. Spit.  She sure did not like oatmeal when there was too much milk in it either. When the oatmeal was more soup-like, she ate it so much faster, and she liked to eat it slow. She liked to eat in small, slow bites. It’s not as if the routine bothered her. In fact, she liked the way everything was always the same. And the ceiling. The old woman liked that ceiling very much. She liked the way the ceiling paint curled downwards towards her bed like angels’ arms reaching to take her away. Her daughter had painted it but never listened when her mother told her she had better put on a coat of primer. The old woman took comfort in her small routines because they were some of the only few things she remembered anymore. She made sure that the rituals she performed were done the same every time.

That day, like all the other ones before it, she was sitting in her favorite plaid green chair. Her daughter had hated that chair so much. It was a subject of disagreement one too many times and the old woman always won. The seat was sunken in from the past few decades and there were bath towels over the arms to cover the thinning, frayed fabric caused by years of friction.

Next to the chair there was a small wooden table that her husband had made.  His initials were engraved into one of the corners. A yellow rotary phone on top of the wooden stand. The old woman could see the thick layer of dust on top of it. She never made calls from that phone, and she never received calls either. She never used any phone, really. She would tell her daughter to disconnect it for her. That’s all. There is no use to a phone if it’s never going to be used. At that moment, the phone rang. The old woman just stared at it as if it was not ringing at all. She stared at it as if she was staring at the ceiling. She was unsure whether or not to pick up the receiver. It’s not that she didn’t want to answer the call, it was just, well, it had been so long since she had. Just as quickly as it started, it stopped ringing and the old woman released a small sigh of relief. She would tell her daughter to disconnect the phone. Throw it away.

            The old woman felt her eyelids heavy. She thought it must have been hours since she sat down on the chair. Her joints ached and her muscles felt limp at the thought of getting up. She knew that if she didn’t force herself up now, she would be spending the rest of the night in the shabby chair. From experience, the old woman knew she would regret her decision to stay when she woke up the next morning. The old woman struggled to lift herself from the comfort of the chair. After much effort, she stood erect, and took pause for several minutes before slowly trudging down the narrow hallway to her room. She pulled back the comforter of her bed and sat on the edge. She slowly pulled her legs onto to the bed and relaxed the rest of her body until her head rested on the pillow. When she finally remembered what she had always forgot, she smiled at the ceiling with content. She watched as her daughter’s arms reached out to take her away as she slowly closed her eyes.

Old Money, New Money, and Everyone Else

In the Great Gatsby, people from East Egg seem to look down on people from West Egg. East Egg residents are shown to possess sophisticated qualities and graces, whereas West Egg residents are shown to lack moderation and taste. A prime example of a 'typical' West Egg resident is Jay Gatsby. He throws over-the-top parties in a desperate attempt to show-off to his guests and attract Daisy to his mansion.
We see at Gatsby's parties that he is genuinely concerned for his guests. Gatsby goes out of his way to be an extremely accomadating host. For example, he provides shuttles for his guests to reach the train. In contrast, Daisy and Tom are not worried about anyone else but themselves. They have secret affairs behind each others' backs.
New money, like Gatsby, seems to not handle finances well, but has a general concern for other people. Old Money, such as Daisy and Tom, handle their finances well, but do not seem to have any consideration for anyone else but themselves.
Are East Eggers really any better than West Eggers?

Thankful

I am thankful for PHOEBE ROSE BLACK-TOBY. She always flashes her BEAUTIFUL smile whenever she laughs...which is ALL OF THE TIME. Phoebe is always so giddy and cheerful that it is contagious sometimes. She doesn't seem to care about what people think about her because she's already happy being herself. Phoebe definitely is VERY charasmatic and is full of charm, her positive energy could light up a whole room. Phoebe has an amazing eye for fashion. It always astounds me how awesome she is at putting outfits together to make them as unique as her. Phoebe is definitely like my little sister. Whenever I see her, whether it be in one of our classes, in the halls, or by the lockers, she always runs up and gives me a hug. Seeing Phoebe always puts a smile on my face because she's just PHOEBE and there's no other adjective unique, or special enough to describe Phoebe.

I LOVE YOU PHOEBE YOU'RE PERFECT.<3

SHOUT OUT TO NAT SCHOLL, LYDIA ALLEN, AND MATT YETNIKOFF.

They're the best group buddies everrr.

Nat always makes me laugh unintentionally and is probably one of my favorite freshman. Nat is a really good writer but he'll never let me read his stuff out loud...(sadface). Hopefully by the end of the year I'll be able to read one of his masterpieces out loud.
NATT YOU'RE HILARIOUS.

This is the second year Lydia is my English buddy and I always admire the way she is able to express her thoughts and opinions without fumbling for her words. Lydia and me basically have the same music taste. Whenever I need help I can always turn to Lydia because she's one if the dependable people I know.
LYDIA IS AMAZING.

Lastly, Matt is super chill about everything and brings up unique points of view about anything we are reading. Matt seems like he's so laid back all the time which is something I wish I could be. MATT YOU'RE AWESOME.

I Celebrate Myself

I celebrate my life.
 
“Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.”

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Just this Veteran's Day weekend I had the bad fortune to attend the visitation of a veteran family friend whom passed away late last week. On a table near the casket, there was a television flashing pictures from throughout his life. I had the chance to watch the pictures chronicle the years he spent on Earth. It suddenly gave me comfort to see pictures of him living the life that made him happy. His young face gleamed as he stood on his army base with a shiny new rifle in his right hand. He looked with admiration at, what was at the time, his brand new Buick.  He smiled gleefully in pictures from vacations surrounded by family. Further on, as I looked around the room, I heard whispers and giggles as relatives said "Remember when..." Sitting in the parlor made me realize what kind of person I want to die as. I want to be the person who says, "I'm ready" when the time comes to pass from my earthly shell. I don't want to be the person to say "I'm not ready to die." or "Dying scares me." Death only scares those people who haven't accomplished or done everything they've wanted to do or say.

 “It is not the length of life, but the depth.”
 - Ralph Waldo Emerson

These people are often referred to as workaholics, hermits, close-minded, and ones comfortable living their routine lives. Breaking routines and habitual activity requires spontaneity. To become spontaneous, one must be ready to explore and be intrigued to discover new possibilities, and excited to face new challenges that make them question their previous perception of things. Spontaneity allows an individual to reach a higher level of understanding about their purpose in this life. Spontaneity allows an individual to celebrate themselves by learning things about themselves they never knew before.

“Dare to live the life you have dreamed for yourself. Go forward and make your dreams come true.” 
- Ralph Waldo Emerson 
 
Not only do I want to celebrate myself during my life, on Earth, I want people to celebrate my great legacy I hope to leave behind.

"To conquer death is said to be the ultimate achievement, but actually, conquering life is the sweetest victory." 
- Jillian Gomez

I celebrate my life after death.

Edgar Allan Poe

Poe's literature has a charismatic darkness about it. The twisted plots, and supernatural occurrences attract readers.  One excerpt from any one of Poe's stories will get the reader questioning the sanity of the author. Though there are many gruesome accounts of death in his stories, Poe never killed anyone...or at least as far as we know. Poe's own cause of death is unknown, but some potential theories include suicide. Aside from the more mysterious side of Poe, I would like to unveil a cuddly side which few know about.

Poe loved his cat Catterina.

The first thing that comes to mind is, "It's probably a black cat." Contrary to popular belief, many people have reason to believe that Catterina was actually a tortoise shell kitten. In an excerpt from one of his stories, he writes, "Pluto - this was the cat's name - was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me throught the streets." The excerpt was taken from Poe's "The Black Cat".

So the next time you read something gruesome written by Poe, just remember he has a fuzzy side.