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Cover : Donovan Woods
2012 Cynthia DeFord Adams Literary Competition Winners Prose, First Place………………………………………...…………………………………………………… Allen Strader Prose, Second Place……………………………..………….…………………………………………….. Anna Cheshire Poetry, First Place…….………………………………………..………………………………………… Nathaniel Jones Poetry, Second Place………………………………………………………………………………………… Angela Lopez
“Bye, Punkin’. I’ll bring you home a surprise.”I knew exactly what he’d bring me, a Sprite in a bumpy green bottle. I never knew what I liked more, the soda or the bottle. Or maybe it was just that Daddy knew it was my favorite and never forgot to bring me one on days when he got paid. My father kissed me, got into his pickup truck, and backed down the driveway. He waved as he drove off. “Heart-on.” I said aloud, scrunching up my nose. “Must have something to do with love. Yuck!” I wandered back into the house and found my unhappy puppy, Sam, standing at the door with his tail between his legs.
“I’m sorry, Droopy Dog. Did I leave you behind? It was just an accident. Don’t be cranky.” I kissed him on the top of his head, and he swiped his tongue across my forehead. It was a comfortable and familiar dance. “Want some breakfast?” The little dog jumped to attention and began pacing, his tiny paws making tick-tick noises on the tile floor. “Well, let’s go see what we get today.” I skipped into the kitchen, bent over, and peered into a cardboard box covered with glittery purple
finger paint, crayon colored black paw prints, and the words SAM’S FOOD in green magic marker. Sam stood up on his hind legs, his front paws resting on the lip of the box. Pulling a cellophane-wrapped Gaines Burger out, I said, “Oh, lookie! Cheeseburger!” I crumbled the round food lump into a green, plastic butter bowl and filled an identical bowl with cold water. My daily chore complete, I climbed up on the counter, grabbed a frosted cherry Pop Tart from the cupboard, and opened the white foillined package. I plopped down on the floor next to Sam’s bowls because Captain Kangaroo taught me that it was always a good idea to have breakfast with a friend. Sam was my best friend. “I think you should have done it a long time ago,” Tippy said. “He’s a simple country hayseed, and he’ll never change. He’s so far up his Mama’s ass, he can’t see straight. And you’re never going to get out of this hick town while you’re with him.” replied.
“I know, but he’s a good daddy, and I do love him,” my mother
“Yeah, but he ain’t your daddy! And honey, there’s plenty more fish in the waters ‘round here. Hell, I got plenty. Take some off my plate.” “Speaking of, do I want to know what you done to get that coat?” “Oh, that old thing?” Tippy giggled. “Nothing that you wouldn’t have done first. Why, you like it?” “It is pretty, pretty, pretty. Of course, I would have picked a different color, but still, it’s nice.” “Well, I sure didn’t get it from no sawdust-in-his-shoes handyman. I got it from Vernon Tubbs. Maybe I’ll let you borrow it sometime.” “Jack’s a contractor,” my mother nearly shouted, “not a handyman. And who in hell is Vernon Tubbs?” “You remember Vernon. He runs that car lot out on 210. He was Danny Chadwick’s friend back in school.” “I know who you’re talking about. He drives that black Camero,” Mother said lighting a cigarette.
“What about Danny? What’s he up to these days?” “You ought to know what he gets up to, and into. You never forget that first one, do you?” asked Tippy, picking up the lighter. “Well, Danny wasn’t actually the first. But we don’t need to upset THAT apricot. I wanted to ask my mother if she meant to say “upset THAT apple cart.” But I was too amused with the image of a crying apricot to bother. “True, but he was the first one that counted. Am I right?” My mother nodded her agreement, blowing smoke towards the ceiling in her much practiced, casual but trying to be sexy way. She crossed the kitchen and pulled a round pan of cinnamon rolls out of the big double oven built into the wall. “I do hate that son of a bitch sometimes,” she said, slamming down the pan. “Which one?” asked Tippy. “Jack?” “Of course,” said mother, reaching into a glass fronted cupboard and pulling out two plates. “He never lets me buy anything, and he’s so uptight. I didn’t tell Georgia to ask him about hard-ons Anyhow, how’s Danny?” “Hell, she’s a girl. I think Jack forgets that! She has to learn what men like soon, anyway. Danny’s just fine. He got out of the Army some time back. I don’t think he likes to talk about it because Vernon says they accused him of something he says he didn’t do. I don’t know. I don’t give a shit. What matters is he’s back home now, working as a bartender at that new bowling alley in Fayetteville. I bet he makes pretty good money. He’s some kind of manager. We ought to go out there one night and see him. Am I right?” “Don’t you think I need to pack my house up and find a place to live first?” Mom asked. “Well, of course, we need to do all that. That’s what I’m here for. But we can’t look for apartments at night, can we? And it would be better on Jack if you and me weren’t here when he is, right? So, maybe we can just have a girl’s night out. And if we happen to run into Danny and Vernon, well, then we wouldn’t be rude and send them away, would we? Free drinks. Catch up on old times. Am I right?” Tippy’s voice was singing, but
her face looked almost scary as she pressed my mother. “I suppose that might work. But now, we really have to get going.” Mother slid a cinnamon roll into her mouth. “My God, I’m getting so damn good at this. These are delicious. Best ones I ever made.” “I think I’ll hold off for now,” said Tippy. “They look good, but you know what they say. A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. I’m gonna use your powder room, sweetie.” Tippy and her stilettos clippieclopped across the tile and headed up the stairs. Angela picked up the plate of cinnamon rolls, threw them into the sink, and flushed them down the garbage disposal. “Shit,” she said to no one as she stared out the window above the sink. “Shit, shit shit.” Days after Tippy left, I had to drag out Winnie the Pooh again. This time, the little red bag would hold much more. I was watching Sesame Street when my father took me aside. “I need to tell you something really important. But I need you to be a big girl and listen hard, okay?” “Okay.” I wandered over to my father and put my stubby fingers in the palm of his huge hand. It always fascinated me that no matter the size difference, the two hands were always a perfect fit. I looked up at the person I loved most in the world and said, “What’s wrong, Daddy? Are you mad at me?” “No, Punkin, I’m not mad at you at all. Mommy and I,” he sighed heavily, “your mother and I have been talking, and we’ve decided that we need to live in different houses for a little while.” “All of us?” I asked beginning to panic. “All of us have to live in different houses?” “No, no, your mother and I need to live in different houses. We’ve not been getting along so well lately. We still love each other, but we don’t think we can live together in this house anymore.” “Why not?” “Because we need to live apart for a while.” “Are you gonna stay here?” “No, none of us are staying here.”
“Somebody else I suppose, some other family. None of us will live in this house.” “Not even me?” I asked, now near tears. “Where am I gonna live?” “Well, either you can live with me or you can live with your mother. Probably it’s best if you live with your mother. But, if you want to live with me, you can.” “But where will you live, Daddy?” “I don’t know yet. But we’ll all live very close to each other. We’ll see each other all the time. I’ll come and pick you up from school. We’ll play together like we always do. We’ll have dinner, we’ll go to the park, we’ll go swimming. Maybe Daddy can find a house with a swimming pool. And you can always call me if you need to talk. You can tell me all the good jokes you learned that day. We’ll still be a family. We’ll always be a family. We just won’t live in this house.” “And we won’t live together.” “No.” “But, but,” my bottom lip was quivering, and hot glassy tears slid down my face. “But, why Daddy? I don’t understand!” “I don’t understand either. I guess because sometimes grown-ups can’t live together. Because sometimes grown-ups have to spend some time apart to remember how much they like spending time together. But we still love each other, right? And we still love you. And it’ll be okay. Everything’s gonna work out fine. You’ll see.” “Okay, Daddy.” My strong and brave father leaned his head against the doorframe. I looked on in horror as dark spots slowly spread and multiplied on his blue shirt with the penguin on the pocket. Barely able to breathe, I went to him, put my arms as far around his back as I could get them, and squeezed as tightly as I could. He reached back and stroked my hair. We stood crying and consoling and contemplating for what seemed like hours. With one last kiss, Daddy and I let go of each other.
Beth Martin
My mother, my father and I spent the remainder of the day sorting through the clutter of our lives and shoving it into neatly taped and labeled boxes As I lay in bed that night, I lost myself entirely to a sadness so profound I can still call it up today and wear it like a warm blanket. I cried in violent waves, choking and gagging on the thousands of tears that sprang directly from my heart to my eyes. My mother eventually came to check on me. She wailed, threw herself onto my bed, and gave in to her own theatrical fits of anguish. She scooped me into uncomfortable arms. Squeezing me, urgently, painfully, anxiously, she begged. “Baby! Do you know how much your mommy loves you?” “You’re my precious little girl, and I would die without you!” “Mommy would be very sad if she didn’t have her little girl with her. You have to want to live with me. You know I’ll always take care of you.” I didn’t know. But still, I reluctantly said, “Okay, Mommy, I’ll live with you. Please don’t cry. But, can Sam come too? I can’t go without Sam.” “What do you mean ‘Can Sam come too?” Of course, Sam can come. We’re a team aren’t we?” Mom hugged me. I could not hug her back. I had both arms wrapped around Sam. A couple of hours later, my dad carefully tucked me in. He pulled up my blankets, laid Sam on my pillow, and tucked my tattered Raggedy Ann under my arm. Leaning in to kiss me, he gently placed a bumpy green bottle of Sprite on my nightstand. I looked up at him, and whispered sleepily, “Don’t turn my Bert and Ernie nightlight on. I don’t like them anymore.” The last time I saw Winnie the Pooh, I was busy playing in the dirt with my friend, Jill. It was a bright, warm Sunday afternoon, and we had just left our secret hideout at the high school across the street. On the weekends, we had unlimited access to the parking lot, the cafeteria loading docks, and most importantly, the abandoned school busses. The busses sat lined up at the far end of the parking lot, a crooked line of discarded banana peels. And, like little ants, my friends and I wound
our way through them. We held secret meetings about issues that seemed terribly critical at the time; we found buried treasures like gum, keys, and sometimes even money hidden between tattered seats; we pretended to be police cars in hot pursuit, Indianapolis race car drivers, taxi drivers; and we took solemn oaths to never tell about our classified missions. On that particular Sunday, once the busses had been raided and the pressing business had been taken care of, we rode our bikes around the smooth parking lot for hours. We flew up and down the ramps of the loading docks, had races and relays, and reminisced about the days before our training wheels came off. Henry Johnson said, “I had a sleep over last weekend, and my dad killed a black widow spider in the garage.” Beverly Cobb excitedly said, “Yeah? Well some dog threw up in a ditch at my house last night. Daddy said it was a booze hound. I saw my Aunt Rita out there. She must have been looking for the dog.” And Charles Griffiths said, “That’s nothing. I went hiking, and me and my Daddy found Big Foot’s grave.” We were impressed. A barrage of questions quickly followed. Eventually, the excitement gave way to thirsty exhaustion, and we decided to walk next door to the police station where they had a soda machine. Along the way, Jill and I told the story of how we tried to give her cat a bath. “She jumped out of the tub,” giggled Jill, “and ran down the hall to my room and then jumped all the way on top of my canopy bed. When we tried to get her down, she used her claws to grab onto the wall. We got in trouble ‘cause she peeled off some of my wallpaper with the red roses that mamma said costed more than her first car.” I finished the tale saying, “Yeah. And then we played the best game ever. We had giant worms and they were attacking Barbie and Skipper and then we had to put them in the toilet to save them. But we got in trouble again for bringing worms in the house. And Jill’s mama said we’d have to pee outside if we don’t stop putting dolls in the potty. She made us go to bed early ‘cause she said we were acting like heathens. ” Laughing hysterically, we took turns getting our drinks. Forcefully but merrily, I pulled a bottle of Sprite from the guts of the vending machine. Walking back to Jill’s, I held the bottle tightly in my hand, the
comforting condensation running through my fingers, the bumps as familiar as old friends. Unexpectedly, I saw my mother’s car. It was full. The Winnie the Pooh suitcase was wedged into the back window, staring at me, sending a silent warning of the things to come. I dropped my bottle. The clear, sticky liquid poured out onto my naked feet, and the lovely green, bumpy bottle shattered into big, jagged pieces. “Oh, did you drop your Pepsi? Don’t worry. We’ll buy you another one. So, baby. I know you’re supposed to spend this weekend with Daddy, but I thought it would be nice for you and me to take a little trip to the beach. How does that sound, baby? We can stay in a really nice motel with a pool. I know how much my baby loves to swim.” I felt guilty. How could I explain to my Dad that I’d rather go to the beach than spend time with him? Would he understand? Would he be mad? Disappointed? Sad? “So let’s just get in the car and go. You don’t want Mommy to be by herself, do you? We’re a team. Me and my baby.” I said goodbye to Jill and her momma and climbed into my mother’s car. I would never play busses, hear more about Big Foot’s grave, or lay eyes on any of my friends ever again. Two hours into our trip, my mother told me that the beach we were going to was the Pacific Ocean. She explained that Daddy Danny, her boyfriend, my nightmare, was behind us with our things in his pickup truck. I was 3,000 miles away from my North Carolina home when I took that Winnie the Pooh suitcase out of the car. I lay it on a bed in a rickety Motel 6 near Seattle, Washington. The room had vibrating beds; a moldy bathroom; scratchy, yellowed towels; and a television bolted to the wall that you had to pay to watch. “Why?”
As we sat in the dark, I asked my mother, not for the last time,
“Because your Daddy wants to take my baby away from me. And my life would be over if I ever lost my baby” was the lie she offered. “And what happened to Sam? I don’t understand. How do you mean he died? How could Sam die?” “These things happen, baby. Don’t worry. We’ll get you another
Sam one day.” Drying her tears and staring out the window of the dismal box that would be our home for six weeks, my mother smiled and said, “Look, baby! There’s a pool.” So I could see. It was all my fault. I’d been selfish. I picked the beach over my dad and my dog. And God was very mad at me for it. My punishment: no father, no home, no red roses on wallpaper, no bumpy green bottles. And no Sam. But there was the anonymous blanketing reassurance and constant cleansing of the heavy water in the crowded pool. It was a good thing. Because once Daddy Danny got his hands on me, I would need gallons of water to ever come clean. 30 years have passed. It’s Mother’s Day. And like every other Mother’s Day I remember, this one feels like more punishment from God. All I see, from every angle, around every corner, sitting smugly in every room is loss. I see my own childhood lost in painful memories and unfortunate circumstance. I see the child I might have been, were I given the opportunity, now damaged and hiding, afraid of anything real. I see the girl within who could have, should have, might have become a better woman than the one I turned out to be. I see a thousand possibilities lost in a handful of bad choices made by a woman who should have never had a child. Like every Mother’s Day, I don’t just recall the past, I inhale it with every breath. I feel Daddy Danny’s hands on me. I see my poor, dead Sam, knowing that his last moments, trapped with Danny, were likely horrible. I see the look of horror on my father’s face when he heard what had happened to me during the five years I was away from him. I hear the refusals of my mother to apologize. Her excuses like venom traveling forever through my ears. True to form, I scream at myself, saying, “You do NOT have to call that woman! You do NOT have to wish her a happy fucking Mother’s Day! You do NOT have to make her feel better! You do NOT! YOU WILL NOT! Fuck that bitch!” Also, true to form, my conscience, still convinced it was 100% my fault for being stupid and selfish enough to get in the car with her, dictates
that I must be a responsible, good girl and pick up the phone. So, as in every year of my adult life, I dial. But I also scream to my empty walls. “Winnie the Pooh should have been my fucking friend. Not a siren screaming out an apocalyptic warning. If I had a daughter, she would have been allowed to make decisions without fear, guilt, madness, or tears. My daughter would know nothing of vibrating beds and Daddy Dannys. My daughter would have been loved and protected. I hate that bitch, and I will always hate that bitch. AND I HATE MYSELF!” I put the phone down. Realization dawned. Why me? Why hate me? I was a baby. I was tiny. She was supposed to protect me. She. Her. HER FAULT! It’s perfectly okay for me to hate my mother. There is no law that says I owe her anything. I’m allowed to feel, to hate, to regret without guilt. And Danny needs to be in Hell. Or in jail. Or both. I don’t hate myself. I hate THEM! For the first time since the Motel 6, I knew it was not my fault. I knew I was always an innocent. Even after (or maybe despite) what Danny did. I bowed my head, and my long-trapped tears fell. They scattered like bumpy, green glass onto my naked feet. I walked into the kitchen, still crying, grabbed a bottle of Sprite from the fridge, and picked up my dog, Ernie. We sat together on the couch, him licking the tears from my face and reminding me of Sam’s tender affections and all that I’d had before I was forced to understand real loss. I hugged Ernie tighter. I picked up the phone. It was time to make the call. Day.”
“Hey Daddy,” I said when my father answered. “Happy Mother’s
Nathaniel Hawthorne’s, Young Goodman Brown; The Psychological and Mythical Analysis of Young Goodman Brown
Tahnne Porras
Nathaniel Hawthorne’s, Young Goodman Brown, is a short story about a “faithful,” young, Puritan man who, in his attempts to show his faithfulness, ironically ends up losing his faith in the human race. The setting of the story further exemplifies the dark nature of Hawthorne’s tale. It is set in the town of Salem, a town known for having a supernatural and dark history. Hawthorne’s uses of the town’s history and the many elements of literature help to further guide the reader along Brown’s tragic journey. One such element is the use of irony throughout the story. He also incorporates mythological symbols to further strengthen the power the Devil has over Brown. The use of allegory is also used within the story in a way to make it seem as though Brown is living through a nightmare, which he cannot escape and gives a sense of duality to the entire story. The dualistic aspect would portray the story having multiple layers and therefore make it seem as though nothing is what it appears to be on the surface. As he tries to confront the Devil on his own terms, Brown is shown the true face of humanity; he sees that the human psyche is fragile and that humans, by design, are evil and easily corrupted. Young Goodman Brown’s downfall is not just a sudden fall from grace; it is in all essence a process in which Hawthorne elegantly portrays through the use of irony, duality, and symbolism. In the short story, the tale takes place around the 17th century in the town of Salem, Massachusetts. It is a town riddled with fear of the supernatural forces of witchcraft and devil worship. The protagonist in the tale is Young Goodman Brown who, in the beginning of the story, is about to make an errand run into the woods in the middle of the night for some unknown reason. This is where Hawthorne gives us just enough information about Brown that would later see to his downfall. Brown is described as a “faithful” Puritan man in the beginning, with his name alone hinting to some form of innocence. The fact that Hawthorne refers to him as “Goodman” denotes that Brown is a moral and responsible man. This allows the reader to put themselves in the shoes of the character that is Brown. The “Young” in his name, however, would denote that he is a naive man who knows little about what it means to be truly faithful. Whereas his
name, “Brown,” hints to the fact that though he is a young and innocent man, his soul or his faith is soiled in a “brownish” color. This would also indicate that Brown would be easily tempted and exercise poor use of his faith. Every culture has its interpretation of evil and for the Puritans living in the new world in Salem, there was no greater evil than evil itself, the devil. Hawthorne breathes life into the prince of darkness in his short story by making him the prime antagonist and pits him against one of God’s “faithful” followers. The devil, once known as Lucifer, “the Light Bearer” was in the beginning, according to Christian mythology, one of God’s most favored angels until he had fallen from grace and became known as Satan (The New Jerusalem Bible, Rev. 12:7-10). In the short story, Satan is seemingly the opposite of Brown, but in reality, he is merely the other side of the coin that is Young Goodman Brown. Hawthorne bestows the devil with mystical powers one associates with angelic beings. He is able to change his shape in order to disguise himself in order to further lead Brown into temptation. Furthermore, as the former angel of light, Satan is able to use his superior knowledge in order to confuse and approach Brown in a way that does not hint to his real intentions of destroying the foundation of Brown’s faith. Hawthorne’s first use of the elements of literature is the use of irony. The definition of irony is the expression of one’s meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite. The name of Brown’s wife, Faith, is an ironic character. This is because in the story, Hawthorne says, “And Faith, as the wife was aptly named, thrust her own pretty head into the street, letting the wind play with the pink ribbons of her cap, while she called to Goodman Brown” (92). Hawthorne states that Faith is aptly named, which in itself is an ironic statement because as the story progresses and Brown is brought deeper into the Black Mass, it is his wife Faith that becomes one of the converts into the satanic rituals. Another example where Hawthorne uses irony is when he describes Faith as “pretty” and with her “pink ribbons”. This hints to Faith being pure, innocent and free from sin. She is portrayed as someone who values life and, as her name would suggest, not be let astray so easily. The setting too ties in with Hawthorne’s use of irony. The majority of the tale takes place within a dark and desolate forest. In the story, Hawthorne says, “There maybe a devilish Indian behind every tree. What if the Devil himself should
By Lauren Pitt
be at my very elbow!” (93). This statement is ironic because it is indeed the devil that Young Goodman Brown encounters while in the forest. Symbolism is the second element of literature that Hawthorne uses throughout the tale. Symbolism is when the author uses an object or reference to add deeper meaning to the story. These symbols can be obvious or subtle. They are often used to tie in the theme of the story in a subtle way. Hawthorne encompasses the use of symbolism throughout the whole story. He uses this technique with his characters’ names and with the setting of the story itself. One of the most important symbols used is that of the character Faith. She is literally and figuratively the living embodiment of Young Goodman Brown’s faith. She is a key character for Brown and many times her name is woven into the story in a way that could be referring to her as the character or as a personification of Goodman’s belief. An example of this is in the story when Brown is in the forest and meets the old man who he has kept waiting and Brown replies, “Faith kept me back awhile” (Hawthorne 93). This single line can be interpreted in two ways. The first is that he was literally held back by his wife faith. However the other interpretation is that his faith or belief tried to hold him back as if he was already struggling with his inner demons. It was as if something in him kept telling him to not venture any further. This also foreshadows what would happen to Brown as the story progressed. The next theme Hawthorne uses is that of duality. Duality, in literature, is when an author writes more than what is simply given to the reader. With the use of duality, nothing is what it seems to be on the surface. Hawthorne’s story is rich in dualism and as such is one of the most important ideas of the story. It would seem, in the beginning of the tale, that Young Goodman Brown simply going to take walk into the woods, but there is deeper meaning in that action. The duality is that he goes out to confront the enemy by attempting to further strengthen his own faith. Another figure that uses duality is the devil himself. The devil comes disguised as Brown in their meeting. The idea here is that the devil is really a “Goodman” because of the fact that he takes the form of Young Goodman Brown. This can be interpreted as either because Brown has a dualistic personality where he is also full of darkness or that the devil can simply fool around with Brown’s sense of good and evil.
The mythological aspect of Young Goodman Brown is apparent from the beginning. The main antagonist, the devil, once was an angel of the Lord. As such, he is given other worldly powers that make taking control of Young Goodman Brown easy. He first appears to Brown as “a man in grave and decent attire” (Hawthorne 93), and as they continue their walk Brown begins to realize that this man is beginning to resemble Brown more and more. Here the devil uses the infamous serpent that has been mentioned in all the stories associated with the devil. His staff begins to take the form of a serpent and this is where the allegory of the serpent and Eve comes into play. In the creation story of the Bible, when Adam and Eve are in the Garden of Eden, Eve is the one who is tempted by the devil, who again, has taken the form of a serpent. Hawthorne has taken that same scene and written it into his tale. In the story, we have Brown, who is as seemingly innocent as Eve, about to be tempted by the same malevolent creature who will once again destroy another one of God’s children. Brown, just like Eve before him, succumbs to the devil’s temptation and now must suffer the consequences as well. It seems that through the course of the story, Brown shares the same fate as that of Lucifer. Brown has also fallen from grace as he attempted, with his foolish pride, to fight the very thing all men fear. Hawthorne has portrayed Brown as a man who has lost all faith in humanity. With the complete destruction of his mind in the end of the story, Brown is thrust into a state of despair where he can no longer discern right from wrong. But could it be that none of this was actually caused by the devil? Could this have happened through the manifestation of Brown’s own evil heart? “The pervasive sense of evil in the story is not separate from or outside it’s protagonist; it is in and of him. His “visions” are the product of this suspicion and distrust, not the Devil’s wiles” (Hurley 411). Or could it be that Brown is simply a lost hero as stated by Predmore, “From an archetypal point of view, his failure results from his inability to rescue the maiden from a Puritan version of the terrible mother, witchcraft” (256). Whatever the case, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Young Goodman Brown is a wonderful piece of literature that ties together the meaning of faith and the human race. He showed us through his work that even the mightiest can fall into temptation and that the struggle between good and evil is a never-ending battle. This does not mean, however, that we are far from salvation. There is still hope in human kind, but unfortunately for Brown and the people of Salem, salvation does not exist. With his journey
Brown has proven that man, no matter how faithful, can still be tainted and have their souls doomed for all eternity. Works Cited Apseloff, Stanford, and Marilyn Apseloff. "'Young Goodman Brown': The Goodman." American Notes & Queries 20.7/8 (1982): 103. Academi Search Complete. Web. 26 Oct. 2012. Ferrara, Davon. "The Dual Nature of Man in "Young Goodman Brown". Personal Centenary. 16 October 2012 <http:// personal.centenary.edu/~dferrara/portfolio/ygb.html>. Hurley, Paul J. "Young Goodman Brown's "Heart Of Darkness." American Literature 37.4 (1966): 410. Academic Search Complete. Web. 26 Oct. 2012. Kennedy, X. J. and Gioa, Dana. "Literature: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetr y, Drama, and Writing." Hawthorne, Nathaniel. Young Goodman Brown. 12th. Upper Saddle River: Pearson, 2013. 92-101. Predmore, Richard. "'YOUNG GOODMAN BROWN' Night Journey Into The Forest." Journal Of Analytical Psychology 22.3 (1977): 250-257. Aca demic Search Complete. Web. 26 Oct. 2012. Robinson, E. Arthur. "The Vision Of Goodman Brown: A Source And Inter pretation." American Literature 35.2 (1963): 218. Academic Search Complete. Web. 26 Oct. 2012. The New Jerusalem Bible. Ed. Henry Wansbrough. New York: Doubleday, 1985. Print. Tritt, Michael. "'Young Goodman Brown' And The Psychology Of Projection." Studies In Short Fiction 23.1 (1986): 113. Academic Search Com plete. Web. 26 Oct. 2012. Zhu, Xian-chun. "Allegory And Symbolism In Hawthorne's Young Goodman Brown." US-China Foreign Language 6.1 (2008): 58-60. Academic Search Complete. Web. 26 Oct. 2012.
She Jennifer Wells
Disquiet Anna Cheshire His silence was screaming Her nerve endings raw A flash-frozen nightmare That never would thaw The bruises were forming The blood almost dry All vision was leaving Her blackening eye She threw up a mixture His evil, her shame Head stuck in the puddle Dumbstruck and lame No way to get up Her girlhood in shreds Young innocence leaking Fat ribbons of red Now lost in madness Days dripping with pain A predator prancing Inside her spent brain Surrounded by darkness Eyes see only him Outlook nonexistent Prognosis is grim
Storm Battles David W. Dublin (Faculty)
The battle had been waging for almost three centuries. It is not a battle of physical weapons; no blades, no cannons, no spears. There are no “modern” Weapons of Mass Destruction; no assault rifles, no artillery shells, not even the insanely popular threat of thermonuclear bombs. This battle is of wills, of spirit, and of conscience. A small battle in
the ongoing war of “Good vs. Evil,” if you believe in such things. For millions of people, most of them thankfully unaware, it is of extreme importance. On all the earth, there are only a few thousand people who even know it is taking place. Others suspect something, but would not believe the facts so clear to so few. If they were shown proof, they would look for other causes. Their computing machines and “scientific” outlook could not quantify what is happening, based as it is on a purely physical concept of creation. Now At only 160 odd years old, Abrota was one of the youngest at the truce meeting. He hurried along through the mists of the mountain, a robe of muted blues and golds providing some shelter from the dry chill marking the end of sunset. He crossed an open fire, the steady flame more ceremonial then practical. The heat, casting a ruddy glow on his slender, but muscular frame, was welcome in the thin, cooling air. Walking straight across the circle of dwellings, long strides swishing his robe, he moved without seeming to hurry. He gave the greeting of peace to several of the older women who were robed snugly against the approaching night. Several people were still out, moving shadows in the deepening purple sky, scattered with jeweled stars. It was mid-Autumn, hence the truce. The battle could not be fought out of season. All around one felt the weariness of the last months of fighting. Pushing aside a long, earth-colored hanging, he entered the largest of all the dwellings, made notable by it's size and position near a rugged cliff overlooking the ocean. An even wider opening lay directly across from the entrance. As he stood just inside the structure, he looked at this other opening to the outside. From where he stood, still and erect, Abrota saw out to the upward slopes of the mountain, the now-quiet ocean, and the darkened sky. A full moon spread its reflected rays through the single chamber that was the dwelling. He voiced greetings to those gathered early, mainly younger ones like himself. The one called the Eldest, his personal name is Ashandi, was sitting on the subtly interwoven mats of greens, browns, and blues.. His only badge of office was the Elder Staff, constructed at least twice his age of almost 300 years. His face was delicately strong, gray white hair adorning him like a bowl of fine white moss. It reached around his head to circle just
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above the ears and nearly meeting his snowy brows. His neatly bearded chin, was strong. His body was still wiry underneath a flowing ebony robe. “Sit and relax young Abrota,” the eldest whispered to him with piercing eyes. The strength in his voice seemed as if he had spoken much louder. He followed the sweeping gesture made by the Eldest to show empty mats circularly arrayed so that the Eldest's back was framed in the moonlight of the ocean-side opening. “Thank you, Eldest,” he replied with the same level. “My voice too is stern!” he thought, sitting as close to him as was proper. There were other Elders coming who deserved the right to sit closer. He looked at, then through those gathered. A respectful murmuring filled the place. He sat crossed legged, staring at his hands clasped across his lap. He looked back out to the dark, star-speckled beauty of the moon silvering on the black velvet of creation. “Behold the only thing greater than thyself,” he thought in the ages-old language of his people. His mind was not in full blocking mode, as would be the case in battle. So the Eldest, if he so desired, could have read these thoughts in the second or so he faced his way… Could have read all but the innermost thoughts. Abrota was skilled enough, after decades of learning, to block these core thoughts. But it would not have been necessary. His position was known. ”Eldest, you are the cause of this battle, and have been singularly responsible for the last 200 years of needless grief, death, and destruction.” Others of the council came in, spreading a warmth of body and spirit to the heat of the fire and monitoring instruments. He began gathering himself to listen, as the Eldest prepared to speak. Three Months Before Now Abrota had been at the top peak of the mountain for many weeks, battling with many others, silently, quietly. The intensity of spirit and will that drained body, mind, and soul was as palpable as the sun in the middle of summer. He sat joined with hundreds of others, robe less in the cold. They were all as silent as the mountain. Only the light wind’s continuous moaning echoed their silent moans. Steam smoked off their bodies, but there was an inner energy keeping all unmindful of the near freezing rockiness. No animal, insect, or bird shared this battlefield. Only scatterings of gray-green lichen and a few gnarled, spindly vegetation broke the
charcoal colored bleakness of rock. The battle waged here, here and a thousand miles distant, as the Eldest and his diminishing contingent of councilors fought the slight majority of the other councilors for control of the storm. “We are winning!” rang through Abrota's mind as they continued blunting the will of those who sought only revenge. The few hundred women and men sat silently giving their lives, as needed, fighting for what they believed to be right. There had been at least a dozen deaths in the last month, though dwelling on that thought would weaken already depleting wills. The dead lay in the large depression, surrounded, but not hidden by clumps of scraggly bush. Their bodies shrouded in their robes, lay stiff and silent. During the brief times when they all rested, eating the smoked meat and vegetables brought in, they had made time to wrap the bodies and give them final prayers. They were a reminder, an inspiration, and a reason that right must win over revenge. The strategy that Abrota had proposed to defeat Ashandi's plan was working. He was not overly happy, but it was agreed that it was the best they could do, even though hundreds of lives would surely be lost. “But better hundreds than thousands!” he thought again, as another of the Eldest's forces collapsed onto the hard, dark ground. Bracing his body and mind, he breathed deeply once from his core in in a manner not visibly noticeable. “Now!”, his mind screamed, and as one his forces exerted all the mental and spiritual might within themselves to move the storm northeasterly. The sheer scale of the storm caused slightly less than a degree of shift, but it was enough. The city that was the seat of power of that distant land would be spared. The wrath of the storm would now swing through less densely peopled areas. Abrota screamed in his mind, fell over from his seated position, collapsing to one elbow from the pure pain of the effort. To his left, through tearing eyes he saw his aunt crumble forward. Her death would not be for nothing Her life would not be forgotten. They had won against the major thrust of Ashandi's attack! He needed to rest. They all needed to rest. There were many stilled, steam clouded bodies scattered among the pair of half-circles that marked the opposing councilors. Those left living languished in sadness, sadness and a temporary release. Saddest of all was the hatred that still lived in the Eldest.
As he stumbled, crawling, feeling the iciness on his still sweating chest and arms, he counted. Seventy five newly dead, mostly Elders loyal to Ashanti. All, regardless of allegiances, would join the now crowding depression with the men and women already lost. He began wrapping, with weakened hands, the once supple body of his aunt, folding her gold and green patterned robe reverently. The time for real mourning would come later, but he managed a few customary prayers for her soul. Others were performing the same ritual. Only Ashandi remained sitting, having food and water brought to him. The anger and hatred still radiated from him, only diminished by his weakness from the battle. His grandson, wrapping him in the black robe of his office, placed the Elder staff in his limp hands. “My beloved wife Ashame is dead,” the Eldest said with a weakened, gasping voice. “Yes grandfather. I have taken care of her wrapping and prayers,” his grandson said, looking back, to the now crowded depression, at a small body wrapped in a black robe swirled with gray. “Three wives they have taken from me!” he said, the hatred adding some semblance of strength to his voice. As his grandson began helping him to food, he stared straight at Abrota, managing to sit more erect. “You have become as hated as they are to me!” Abrota had began staggering back from the low depression, robing himself against the slow chill of the coming evening. Standing erect with a respectfulness taking all the restraint he could manage, he gritted out between clinched jaws, “Your hatred will soon be all you have, Eldest. How many more will die? You will not heal from this sickness of hate.” He continued returning the stare as he sat to replenish spent energies. More quietly now, “You will be defeated. You will be shrouded with little sympathy,” he added, “... or love.” He finished eating in silence, knowing that any further talk was a waste of energy that would be sorely needed soon. The next several hours seemed to crawl on for more than a night. This fight was not done. Less weak now, with the half-circles reforming much smaller and tighter, both sides braced themselves again. All were robed, their frosty breathing outlined by the last ruddy rays of the setting
sun. For almost a full lunar cycle, everyone seated on the mountain had attached themselves to this storm. Only a deep understanding of the metaphysical powers inherent in all humans would explain how they could be attached, but they had done it. Since the day they first saw it, first felt it, and somehow sensed it as a monstrous tropical depression forming off the coast, they were able to couple their powers of mind and spirit to it. Those first few days, they pushed hard at it, managing to nudge it some, and wrestled each other to influence its course. Even acting together they would not be able to control it, only influence it. As is swept across the ocean, they used their monitoring devices to help visualize what their minds were doing. Few died then, but only because it was a time of calculating and planning by each side. It was clear that Ashandi wanted to wreak as much destruction on the densest population centers along the opposite coast. Abrota, despite having less than two centuries experience, was leading the opposition. His plan was simple: help steer the growing power of the storm in a path to minimize destruction of life. These wandering thoughts of the recent deaths were helping build his resolve and that of those with him. Now they began joining in a way perhaps best described as a melding of personalities into a single, unified mind. It would be easier now; they had a greater advantage in numbers. But Abrota remembered that hatred is also a powerful weapon. The joining was done. The goal was to hold the storm on its present course as much as possible. It would weaken over land, making this task easier. As the two sides reengaged, the small part of him that was still an independent entity began to sense a strengthening of hope among the men and women fighting with him. As the opposing forces began to surge with renewed energy, the last light shone on sweat-glistened figures with tightly lidded eyes. Small fogs of breath accompanied the sounds of labored breathing. A strong aroma of anger and determination began to flood the mountain top again. For over twelve hours, this small group struggled as humans have seldom struggled before. More died. Some collapsed, dying later. In the end, the path of the storm was ever so slightly steered to keep it from causing a major catastrophe. The victory cost a dozen more lives, but the living were made stronger in a way that could only be seen from within.
“We Have Won!” thought Abrota. “We have won this time, and we will win again and again, until we no longer have to battle. All of the warring energies will then be used only to help as many as we can.” Now The Eldest began to speak. Though defeated (this time), he began to talk of old victories, somehow relishing the destruction wrought. The gleaming eyes and defiant smile were the outwardly visible signs of what burned evilly in his mind. But, all could feel it with senses much more revealing than mere sight. It was both frightening and worthy of sympathy. He started, “I have the right to avenge us! I have the right to fight those who still fight us, still rob us, still rape us and our lands.” He began looking around until he caught the eyes of all present. There was not a murmur heard, only the slight hum of the monitoring equipment, and a muted crackling from the fire's warmth. “Eldest,” Abrota began, pausing and seeming to sit taller, though he had not moved. “No one has a right to slaughter the innocent indiscriminately, no matter how much they have lost.” He looked around slowly, seeing if anyone else would interrupt. His voice quieter now, “We have all lost. You more personally than all, only because you are the oldest of all. Eldest, the fighting must cease. Too many lives, too-” “Abrota,” said the Eldest, cutting him off with fire in his voice, leaning forward and bringing the point of the Elder Staff through a mat with surprising force, “... you know nothing of pain! Five wives now I have lost, two brothers, too many children and children's children to name. They were innocent! They were taken! Killed!” Using the Elder Staff, his slender, wrinkled hands pulled him up until he was standing. The dim light of the nighttime sky silhouetting his dark form wrapped in the midnight colors of his robe made him appear as some lost spirit of the past, trapped between the living and the dead. “I am the ELDEST!” “You are, now,” Abrota replied, not standing. To do so would be a challenge to the authority of the Eldest. He was not ready to take the staff. Not now, maybe not for the next ten seasons. But soon! The war must end. “But there will come a time when we all will be doing only good, not harm. I
have said what most of us now know.” He looked down at his hands, remarking to himself that they were still relaxed on his lap. There was a silence that meant nothing else needed saying, will be said. “The meeting is ended,” Ashandi said with a commanding voice, pulling out the staff and turning his back to those assembled. As one, everyone present began rising, forming small groups as they started back to their own dwellings, their own private thoughts. The Eldest walked slowly out after them, leaving Abrota alone. He walked quietly to the curved wall housing the monitoring equipment. His long, slender fingers gesturing over a screen, he called up a display that showed the storm from birth to death. Twisting both wrists outward and separating his hands, he expanded the image until it hovered frozen, a half meter before his tiring eyes. The coastline of northwest Africa was past his right shoulder while most of North America curved slightly up and away from his left side. The track of the storm glowed as a thin red rope across the Atlantic. He still grieved for the deaths on the Caribbean islands lying beneath the crimson path. As his eyes followed the line, he remembered the effort expended to steer it from Ashandi's attempt to target Washington, D.C. Still, their efforts could not quite save New York City from the hard, glancing blow of the storm. “It could have been much worse!” he thought. Next season it might be. The planet is still being unbalanced by the greedy blindness and ignorance of too many who treat the earth as if they owned it. As he cleared the image, the last word he read, the name they had given the storm, rekindled the same troubling thought. “How ironically similar are the names Ashandi and Sandy.” Two Ways to Break Up With a Girl Kyle Kelly Have you ever been in a relationship with a girl and didn’t know how to get out of it? There are two ways to do so: either tell her face to face or send a quick text message. Both ways work and you get the same outcome, not being with that person. Whenever you want to end a relationship the best way is to do it face to face. Not only does it show respect for the other person but it shows her that you care enough to end things the right way. Timing is
important when breaking it off with a girl in person; I have found that the best time to do it is after a long days work about 6:00 p.m. This way she is already tired after working all day and she want have the energy to fight with you about it, even though she is going to do a little bit of crying. The best way to tell her that you are done is to simply say “Let’s just be friends” or “I think we need to just need to go our separate way.” If she starts to cry, don’t just leave her there, you should still hold her but not as tight as you have done while y’all were dating. After she stops crying or if she doesn’t cry and just get angry, still you should just leave peaceful without making a scene. In person conversations have always been the best way of communication for hundreds of years. Personally I would much rather break off a relationship in person because that’s just the type of person I am and I want the other person to know that I still respect even if I don’t want to be with them. The worst way to end any relationship with a female is to break up with her through a text message. This way not only shows the girl no respect but it looks cowardly on the boyfriend who is doing it. A text message has no emotion and you cannot really get a since of feeling of what the other person is saying during the conversation. Even though this way is not the best way it still works and timing is also important because you should wait until she home around 7:00 or 8:00, so she is not driving or at work. Once the time is right and you are ready to break up with her, you should send her a first text that reads “Hey, I have something to tell you.” When she replies, sent her the break up text that should read something like “I have thought about it a lot and I just don’t feel the same way about you as I used to feel. I think it would be best if we just ended things now instead of having a loveless relationship.” This way it still shows some respect for her and it want hurt her as bad as a text that just says “I’M DONE!” If she isn’t too upset you should try and give her any of the belongings that you might have, like clothes or other items of hers, back to her in person. I have broken up with a girlfriend though a text before; but that was because she was out of town and as soon as she got back in town I went over to her house and we talked face to face and realized we could work our problems out so we could get back together. Both ways to break up with a girlfriend work, but the best way is to do it face to face. When you’re face to face, you get the other persons full emotions better than trying to type the emotions in a text message. If a
relationship is been going on for a week or so than I could see where a text message break up would be okay because it takes long than a week for most people to be fully in love. Breaking up through a text is ok sometimes but that doesn’t mean it’s the best way to do it. If you are going to break up with a girl take the high road, be a man about it, and do it face to face.
Analyzing Samson’s Secret and Hey There Delilah Roxanne Baker Love is one of the most intense and influential emotions a human can experience. Ideally, love is a wonderful and whimsical experience. However, in the story “Samson’s Secret,” a narrative version of the biblical story of Samson and Delilah by Patricia Summerlin Martin, this is not the case. It tells the story of a man, Samson, who fell in love with a woman named Delilah, but is ultimately betrayed by her. The song, “Hey There Delilah”, written by Tom Higgenson of the Plain White T’s, also focused on a man in love with a woman named Delilah, with lyrics about the singer’s love for her even though she’s a thousand miles away. Even though there are many differences in how both of these works use rhetorical strategies, there are also certain similarities that can be seen throughout. As may be expected, the story “Samson’s Secret” and the song “Hey There Delilah” have differing rhetorical contexts, even though the basic stories are similar. The story “Samson’s Secret,” for example, was part of a collection of other retold biblical narratives entitled Beautiful Bible Stories that was published by the Christian-based Southwestern Company. The text of the story is also simplified; part of the story reads “If my head were shaved, my strength would be gone” (Martin 185). In the King James Version of the Bible this verse reads, “If I be shaven, then my strength will go from me, and I shall become weak, and be like any other man” (Judges 16:17). Considering this, it is ideal for Christian children who may find the text of the Bible too difficult to understand, as they can easily read and understand the story on their own. The song “Hey There Delilah,” however, has far different origins. A USA Today article reported that the song was written after Plain White T’s frontman Tom Higgenson met athlete Delilah Decrescenzo, whom he quickly became attracted to. Though Delilah had a boyfriend at the time and the two never dated, Higgenson decided to write a song about her a year later anyway. “Because I wasn’t with Delilah, I had to imagine ‘If I was with this girl, what would I want to tell her?’” he said (Mansfield). With the
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song’s simple chord structure and sweet lyrics, it appeals to a wide variety of audiences, though the primary listeners would be teenage and young adult women who are touched by the story of the singer’s love for Delilah in the song. Despite the obvious difference between the background of “Samson’s Secret” and “Hey There Delilah,” both of them focus on a younger audience while still appealing to people of all age. The most notable similarity between the two works, rhetorically speaking, is the use of pathos. Both Martin and Higgenson use pathos by focusing in on the story behind a single relationship, thus evoking sympathy for Samson and the unnamed narrator of “Hey There Delilah.” This sympathy is what pushes the messages of the stories forward, and causes them to have a lasting impact on the reader or listener. In “Hey There Delilah,” Higgenson’s most prominent use of pathos is through his assertion that he would do anything for Delilah. Examples of this can be seen in the lyrics, “If every simple song I wrote to you would take your breath away, I’d write it all” and “A thousand miles seems pretty far but…I’d walk to you if I had no other way.” Higgenson also appealed to pathos through his use of hypothetical situations, such as claiming “Someday I’ll pay the bills with this guitar… we’ll have the life we knew we would.” This display of long-term faith in the relationship, despite the distance between them, helps to convince listeners of the sincerity of the singer’s feelings for Delilah. In “Samson’s Secret,” pathos is used by telling the emotional story of Samson’s life in order to inspire the reader. Though destined to deliver the Israelites from the hands of the Philistines, he does not act the part (Martin 182). He even fell for a Philistine woman, Delilah, whom he told his secret that if his head were shaved he would no longer be strong. Delilah tells this to Philistine leaders in exchange for silver, who shave Samson’s hair take him to jail, and gouge out his eyes (Martin 185). At this point in the story, readers may feel angry at Samson for allowing himself to be put into this situation through his careless and sinful actions. While in jail, though, Samson asked for God’s forgiveness. When brought out to the Philistine temple for a ritual, he asked God to return his strength to him so that he may collapse the temple; he does this, killing the thousands of Philistines within as well as himself (Martin 186). The story of Samson provides readers with the comfort of knowing that it is never too late to turn back to God, and He is always willing to forgive. While these messages may seem clear to some, both arguments have some shortcomings in their overall persuasiveness. As for “Samson’s Secret,” the primary issue in the argument for the target audience of Christian children is that children may have some difficulty in understanding the point of the story without help from an adult, though it would be perfect for a Sunday school lesson under the direction of an instructor who can help children with this. In addition, the story is so specialized to its target audience that those outside of this demographic are unlikely to find the appeal in it. Non-Christians will find the message irrelevant and
will find it difficult to relate to the story. Older individuals are likely to find the story too simplistic and be bored by it. The song “Hey There Delilah,” in contrast, has a very different issue with its argument. Even though most listeners will find the song endearing and have no doubt of the singer’s love for Delilah, another question comes to mind: Does Delilah feel the same way? The story is told entirely from the singer’s perspective, with no light shed on the history of the relationship or any response from Delilah. All we know about her is that she’s a thousand miles away in New York City for college. This can be interpreted as meaning that Delilah has moved on. For listeners who believe this interpretation to be true, they may pity the singer for chasing after a love that he will never have, instead of finding it endearing. At a first glance, these two works seemed to have nothing in common besides featuring a man in love with a woman named Delilah. While looking at the backgrounds of “Samson’s Secret” and “Hey There Delilah” only seems to confirm this, similarities are still present. Both Martin and Higgenson use pathos effectively to make readers and listeners feel sympathy for the characters and persuade them of their respective messages. Despite some minor flaws in the arguments, as a whole they are both well-constructed and fulfill their purpose as desired. Works Cited Higgenson, Tom. "Hey There Delilah." Rec. May 2004. Plain White T's. Ariel Rechtshaid, n.d. CD. Judges. The Official King James Bible Online. King James Bible Online, n.d. Web. Mansfield, Brian. "Plain White T's Didn't Get the Girl, but the World Got 'Delilah'" USA Today. Gannett, 26 June 2007. Web. 26 Sept. 2012. Martin, Patricia S. "Samson's Secret." Beautiful Bible Stories. Nashville: Southwestern, 1964. 182-86. Print.
Coordinators Veronda Hutchinson, English Faculty, Johnston Community College Carrol Arnold, English Faculty, Johnston Community College Editor Thomas Howerton, Writing Studio Director Special Acknowledgements On behalf of the faculty and staff here at JCC, we would like to thank the following parties for their contributions to our writing institute: David Johnson, President JCC Foundation DeeDee Daughtryâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;Vice President of Instruction Dale Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill, Vice-President of Institutional Effectiveness Dawn Dixon, Dean of Arts, Sciences and Learning Resources Donald Warren, Director of Programs English, Philosophy and Pre-Engineering