Yay it's July 4th!!!! Here's to my favorite country in the whole wide world. This great nation of mine, the United States of America. Happy Birthday!!!
July 4, 2012
July 3, 2012
Literary Freestylin': Chapter 1
OK, I'm back. Took a longer break than I intended. As I feared, other things have bumrushed my mind and clogged my creative flow. But I said I would do it, and I will. However, it's not a full chapter. I'll say this is more of an introduction (refer to my previous post if you're clueless about what I'm talking about). I don't know, it's rough, but there might be something here. It doesn't have a name yet. I'll see how I feel as it develops. Might end up being something.
Up until Abraham Jackson started working in the communications department, Grace had enjoyed relative comfort in her daily interactions with her coworkers. No one struck her as particularly odd or even particularly interesting; they were your average office workers who mustered smiles and said hellos and goodbyes and sometimes stopped to make chit chat before continuing about their business. But Abraham, her new boss, was different. Grace picked up a strange vibe about him, one that made her doubt her sanity. It was unsettling actually. Tonya, the managing editor, knocked on Grace's cube wall that morning, full of her usual cheer, and introduced Abraham Jackson, assistant managing editor. She felt apprehensive as Abraham extended his hand to her. He said hello, nice meet you. She said the same, and mustered an uncomfortable smile, as he took longer than socially necessary to complete the handshake. Tonya then said something about his previous job, Radar Media, in Chicago. And how she'd call a formal meeting later that afternoon. That's all Grace could recall from the conversation after the two left her work space.
She sat there regaining her composure after what had just happened. While Tonya chattered away, Grace could have sworn that Abraham was saying things to her that Tonya couldn't hear. But Grace heard it. When Abraham first touched her hand, she heard a voice whisper in her ear. It was like an echo of his voice, yet it said something different than hello. It said "Long time no see, Grace. How have you been my love?"
Chapter 1
Up until Abraham Jackson started working in the communications department, Grace had enjoyed relative comfort in her daily interactions with her coworkers. No one struck her as particularly odd or even particularly interesting; they were your average office workers who mustered smiles and said hellos and goodbyes and sometimes stopped to make chit chat before continuing about their business. But Abraham, her new boss, was different. Grace picked up a strange vibe about him, one that made her doubt her sanity. It was unsettling actually. Tonya, the managing editor, knocked on Grace's cube wall that morning, full of her usual cheer, and introduced Abraham Jackson, assistant managing editor. She felt apprehensive as Abraham extended his hand to her. He said hello, nice meet you. She said the same, and mustered an uncomfortable smile, as he took longer than socially necessary to complete the handshake. Tonya then said something about his previous job, Radar Media, in Chicago. And how she'd call a formal meeting later that afternoon. That's all Grace could recall from the conversation after the two left her work space.
She sat there regaining her composure after what had just happened. While Tonya chattered away, Grace could have sworn that Abraham was saying things to her that Tonya couldn't hear. But Grace heard it. When Abraham first touched her hand, she heard a voice whisper in her ear. It was like an echo of his voice, yet it said something different than hello. It said "Long time no see, Grace. How have you been my love?"
June 23, 2012
Literary Freestylin': I'm Finna Try it Again
So it's 2:30am. I'm eating grapes and gyrating to dancehall music. I have Chaka Demus and Pliers' "Murder She Wrote" on repeat and just finished working my thang in front of the mirror like I'm sexy or something. You can't tell me my dutty wine isn't Hall of Fame worthy. Prior to this, I was perusing my blog archives and reunited with a short story I posted on here 3 years ago. I wrote it chapter by chapter over several weeks. It was about the adventure of an overweight bookworm who met a man intent on introducing her to a new world of eroticism and fear. Here's an excerpt:
"Tell me what you desire most."
"Do you have all night? I desire a lot of things."
"As do I. But every list begins with one thing. That thing, or desire, is usually the most important."
Sweety held the phone to her ear the way she would have held his hand to her cheek.
"A man’s touch."
"I see," he said thoughtfully. "That's interesting. Tell me, Sweety, would you say you are suffering from skin hunger?"
"I never thought about it that way, but yes, I would say that."
"What terrifies you the most?"
"Drowning. I can’t swim and almost drowned when I was little."
Raymond, "Papi," took some time before replying. Sweety knew he was contemplating something profound, everything he said seemed like it belonged in a text book. She had discovered his blog Mind Factor two weeks earlier and was immediately intrigued at his eloquence and intelligence in his latest post in which he described the often taboo relationship between fear and eroticism. She left a comment and the link to her own blog, Loserville, Population: Me. Papi visited her blog and over the course of several days generously left detailed replies to all 75 posts. This was her fourth consecutive night of intense phone communication with him. During that short time, he had managed to coax experiences and personal admissions from Sweety that she dared only repeat to herself.
Finally he said “I know what you need. For the two extremes to collide--can you imagine what that would do to your senses? To fear your surroundings, but to squirm in pleasure beneath the hands that confine you there."
And that's when he started to tell her about a special underworld he governed, complete with clients and a collage of "wishmasters" who served those clients' needs.
Read the whole thing here.
Promise me you won't judge me. I'm just a writer relaying a story a character told me.
Well, I was impressed by myself to say it was a literary freestyle. Meaning I didn't think about it beforehand or cut and paste it from an existing document. I just looked at what I last wrote, started a new post, and got to typing whatever came to mind.
I want to do it again. It's a great way to relive writer's block and to get the creative juices flowing as the saying goes. I'm not going to promise a certain number of chapters or anything because literary freestylin doesn't work that way. It just flows. By the end, I hope it will have improved my flow on my short story collection.
So, later on today, after I've gotten some rest, I'll sit down and get started on Chapter 1 of some type of story. It's been a while, I hope the old brain can still do it on the fly. I'll let you be the judge. While I said I don't plan ahead for freestyles, I'm giving myself a start time only to hold myself accountable. I won't cheat, it'll be totally as I go.
Signed,
JenntheEditor (I've never used this handle before establishing it on Twitter. I kind of like it. I think 'JenntheEditor' will be my new thing. It has a nice ring to it.)
"Tell me what you desire most."
"Do you have all night? I desire a lot of things."
"As do I. But every list begins with one thing. That thing, or desire, is usually the most important."
Sweety held the phone to her ear the way she would have held his hand to her cheek.
"A man’s touch."
"I see," he said thoughtfully. "That's interesting. Tell me, Sweety, would you say you are suffering from skin hunger?"
"I never thought about it that way, but yes, I would say that."
"What terrifies you the most?"
"Drowning. I can’t swim and almost drowned when I was little."
Raymond, "Papi," took some time before replying. Sweety knew he was contemplating something profound, everything he said seemed like it belonged in a text book. She had discovered his blog Mind Factor two weeks earlier and was immediately intrigued at his eloquence and intelligence in his latest post in which he described the often taboo relationship between fear and eroticism. She left a comment and the link to her own blog, Loserville, Population: Me. Papi visited her blog and over the course of several days generously left detailed replies to all 75 posts. This was her fourth consecutive night of intense phone communication with him. During that short time, he had managed to coax experiences and personal admissions from Sweety that she dared only repeat to herself.
Finally he said “I know what you need. For the two extremes to collide--can you imagine what that would do to your senses? To fear your surroundings, but to squirm in pleasure beneath the hands that confine you there."
And that's when he started to tell her about a special underworld he governed, complete with clients and a collage of "wishmasters" who served those clients' needs.
Read the whole thing here.
Promise me you won't judge me. I'm just a writer relaying a story a character told me.
Well, I was impressed by myself to say it was a literary freestyle. Meaning I didn't think about it beforehand or cut and paste it from an existing document. I just looked at what I last wrote, started a new post, and got to typing whatever came to mind.
I want to do it again. It's a great way to relive writer's block and to get the creative juices flowing as the saying goes. I'm not going to promise a certain number of chapters or anything because literary freestylin doesn't work that way. It just flows. By the end, I hope it will have improved my flow on my short story collection.
So, later on today, after I've gotten some rest, I'll sit down and get started on Chapter 1 of some type of story. It's been a while, I hope the old brain can still do it on the fly. I'll let you be the judge. While I said I don't plan ahead for freestyles, I'm giving myself a start time only to hold myself accountable. I won't cheat, it'll be totally as I go.
Signed,
JenntheEditor (I've never used this handle before establishing it on Twitter. I kind of like it. I think 'JenntheEditor' will be my new thing. It has a nice ring to it.)
June 22, 2012
An Ode to the Passage of Time
This week, among the many stories that captivated the public's interest, was the story of Karen Klein, a 68-year-old school bus monitor, who was videotaped being verbally abused and bullied by a group of middle school kids until she cried. The outrage over the kids' lack of respect and cruelty has been nothing short of astonishing. Money has been pouring in from all over the world from people who want for Ms. Klein to take a well-deserved vacation. Some would like to see her retire and never have to do that type of work again. As I type this sentence, strangers moved by this poor woman's suffering have donated over $577,000.
The power of the internet. The power of humans seeing one of their own in need.
The power of the passage of time.
Ahh yes, time. The interesting thing about time is that none of us can escape it. Seemingly before those kids know it, they too will be older, and will have to venture out into the world each day, taking their chances that they don't cross paths with people, maybe even children, who for their own reasons find excitement in targeting those who cannot defend themselves. They'll will know how it feels to be easy pickings for cowards.
I'm not talking about karma, just the inevitability of the life cycle. We are born vulnerable, relying on others to see us into the next phase of life. We then repeat our beginnings, relying again on others to see us into our next...and final phase.
Despite all I've just written, I know that kids grow up. And that our actions as children don't define who we are as adults. I remember how mischievous and annoying I was as a kid. I was a good kid, but I went through a phase where I would purposely aggravate my grandfather when my mother wasn't around. I was an only child, and perhaps saw him as a cure for my boredom. I didn't know then all the wisdom that sat before me. All the stories of what it was like to grow up in rural Louisiana in the 1920s. I was just too young to appreciate him.
I've strayed so far from the point of my post, or maybe I haven't. I just wanted to add a voice in support of Ms. Klein. And then I got to remembering the grandfather who I annoyed and pestered. The grandfather who by the time I was old enough to finally ask all those questions, was gone.
If only we could appreciate our elders while we are young. There's no guarantee they'll still be around when we've entered into our next phase.
Love,
JenntheEditor
The power of the internet. The power of humans seeing one of their own in need.
The power of the passage of time.
Ahh yes, time. The interesting thing about time is that none of us can escape it. Seemingly before those kids know it, they too will be older, and will have to venture out into the world each day, taking their chances that they don't cross paths with people, maybe even children, who for their own reasons find excitement in targeting those who cannot defend themselves. They'll will know how it feels to be easy pickings for cowards.
I'm not talking about karma, just the inevitability of the life cycle. We are born vulnerable, relying on others to see us into the next phase of life. We then repeat our beginnings, relying again on others to see us into our next...and final phase.
Despite all I've just written, I know that kids grow up. And that our actions as children don't define who we are as adults. I remember how mischievous and annoying I was as a kid. I was a good kid, but I went through a phase where I would purposely aggravate my grandfather when my mother wasn't around. I was an only child, and perhaps saw him as a cure for my boredom. I didn't know then all the wisdom that sat before me. All the stories of what it was like to grow up in rural Louisiana in the 1920s. I was just too young to appreciate him.
I've strayed so far from the point of my post, or maybe I haven't. I just wanted to add a voice in support of Ms. Klein. And then I got to remembering the grandfather who I annoyed and pestered. The grandfather who by the time I was old enough to finally ask all those questions, was gone.
If only we could appreciate our elders while we are young. There's no guarantee they'll still be around when we've entered into our next phase.
Love,
JenntheEditor
June 15, 2012
50 Shades of Say What Now?
Photo courtesty of cnn.com
I refuse to read it.
Typical Jennifer. When the world seemingly enters into a state of excited delirium at the hottest new movie, clothing item, reality show, restaurant, pop culture term, song, and yes, even book...I shun said flavor of the week, refusing to have anything to do with it. Sometimes this lasts until the excitement dies down. Or after I've stopped caring, and happen to stumble upon some reference to it and dare to investigate.
And here comes the point of this post. I've been hearing about the 50 Shades book for a few months now. It's supposedly the book to read. Book clubs are going nuts. As you can see, I'm not. That's why I've said nothing about it's actual content, I haven't even read the thing. I'm choosing to remain in blissful ignorance. Sometimes it's fun to not know about something, yet proudly speak on it and hurdle stones of judgment. Anyway, I wanted to acknowledge an interesting article I found on CNN, "Fifty Shades of Confused: Why do people like this book? ," I was so intrigued by the title, and so surprised that a naysayer dare show himself. Who is this person who would ask "Ummm, what's so great about it?" to the book's devotees? Give the article a read. Maybe you can chime in on what's so great about it. Or what's not so great about it.
I don't know. Perhaps one day I'll read it. After I read the million other books that actually matter to me and sit collecting dust. When I finish those, I'll gladly open this book's pages to read about torrid sexual encounters, fantasy play, and other things that women and men are raving about.
Signed,
JenntheEditor
June 9, 2012
I'm on Twitter!!!...I Can't Believe It
After running away from popular social networking sites for as long as I could, I decided it was time to take the plunge and become one of those people who does something called "tweeting." After abandoning Facebook not too long ago, I figured it was best to anchor myself to some sort of social networking medium so as to not look like a complete weirdo. Well, I do have this blog, if that counts for anything. And I suppose Twitter is another way for me to meet other writers and to showcase myself. And hopefully soon, to promote my book.
Here's my Twitter page: https://twitter.com/#!/JenntheEditor
Check me out....y'know...if you're into that sort of thing.
All the best,
JenntheEditor
Here's my Twitter page: https://twitter.com/#!/JenntheEditor
Check me out....y'know...if you're into that sort of thing.
All the best,
JenntheEditor
May 19, 2012
Writer Beware ® Blogs!: Editing Clauses in Publishing Contracts: How to Protect Yourself
Writer Beware ® Blogs!: Editing Clauses in Publishing Contracts: How to Protect Yourself
As a writer researching which literary journals and magazines would be a good fit for my short stories, I find articles like "Editing Clauses in Publishing Contracts: How to Protect Yourself" very informative, and appreciate what blogs like Writer Beware are doing to educate folks like me. Give it a read. When you send your work out into the world, it's with a small sense of anxiety over possibly entering into an arrangement that can become a nightmare. We are fortunate indeed to live in a time where information like this can be shared with millions, giving them much needed heads up and armor to empower themselves. Life is quite a journey, I'm thankful we don't have to travel it alone. There are always others out there.
In other news, I'm going to the writer's conference. My friend Stacy who I met at the one in 2009 gave me a call and said she's on board, so that's the final push I need. Yay!!! Perhaps I'm a writer with a small network after all.
As a writer researching which literary journals and magazines would be a good fit for my short stories, I find articles like "Editing Clauses in Publishing Contracts: How to Protect Yourself" very informative, and appreciate what blogs like Writer Beware are doing to educate folks like me. Give it a read. When you send your work out into the world, it's with a small sense of anxiety over possibly entering into an arrangement that can become a nightmare. We are fortunate indeed to live in a time where information like this can be shared with millions, giving them much needed heads up and armor to empower themselves. Life is quite a journey, I'm thankful we don't have to travel it alone. There are always others out there.
In other news, I'm going to the writer's conference. My friend Stacy who I met at the one in 2009 gave me a call and said she's on board, so that's the final push I need. Yay!!! Perhaps I'm a writer with a small network after all.
May 16, 2012
Rest In Peace Chuck Brown
I'd been meaning to see you perform. For years I put it off because I either didn't have anyone to go with at the time or a lack of money. And sometimes I wouldn't know about it until after the performance. When I heard you were in the hospital recently, I sent an email to my boyfriend saying that when you got out, he and I should go. I knew that even though you canceled your show at Howard Theatre, you'd be back on the stage in no time, and that I'd get a chance to see a newly remodeled piece of black history (Howard Theatre) and you at the same time. But I won't have that chance. Honestly, I'm not even a big fan of go-go music....the bands that I've heard just seem to be making a bunch of racket to me...but when I heard you play, I got it...I understood what made people love it so much. It was because you loved it.
So, thank you for your contribution through the decades, and though I was late in learning of you, it doesn't lessen my appreciation. What a legacy you left, what a life you led.
Farewell.
Signed,
Jennifer Singleton
----------------------------------------------------------
After being saddened today by the news of Chuck Brown's passing, I recalled my first impressions of go-go music when I first came to the DC area 10 years ago. Coming from Louisiana, I already had an appreciation for music specific to a particular region and culture, and was feeling homesick at the thought of not being able to easily listen to zydeco and bounce music. I soon began hearing the locals and radio hosts mention something called "go-go" and a man named Chuck Brown. They said he was godfather of go-go. I was unfamiliar with this genre of music, but I could definitely hear similarities between what we loved back home and this new music that seemed so near and dear to the hearts of many DMV (DC, Maryland, and Virginia) residents. Through the years, when I've heard people refer to go-go, the only person who came to mind was Chuck Brown. I could listen to anything he and his band performed. I'm deeply saddened that I didn't have the chance to see him perform. Time is so precious. Just when you think you have it, it has a tendency to prove you wrong.
I've been rambling for a while now, I suppose I should go to bed now. Just wanted to say something about Chuck.
This is one of my favorite Chuck Brown songs, the go-go'd version of the theme from 'The Godfather.'
Oh by the way....since I mentioned zydeco, how about I let you listen to some of it. This clip's from 2009's Crawfish Festival in Breaux Bridge, La., a small town I spent a lot of time in with my friend Joanel and her family (RIP Joanel). The Crawfish Festival is a very important occasion in south Louisiana by the way. Man I miss home!!!!!
Do you hear any similarities?
May 15, 2012
The Power of Music
This video touched me. Elderly patients in a nursing home, who seemingly have withdrawn into quiet, private places in their minds, are treated to music from their era. Henry, the focal point of this video, will steal your heart with his reaction. To see his eyes light up and grow so big....to hear him recite the lyrics to his favorite song from long ago. Music is truly a gift to us all. I especially admire those who are able to write it, to sing it, and to manipulate the right keys and strings to produce the sounds that have the power to stir us into a frenzy of emotion. Of all the songs I've loved during my lifetime, I wonder which one will give me the reaction Henry had. Will it be Donny Hathaway's cover of 'Yesterday'? Mary J Blige's 'Real Love'? Simply Red's 'Holding Back the Years'? Sheila E's 'Glamarous Life'? My god, which will it be?
May 7, 2012
I'm a writer without a network.
There I said it. I'm a writer....yet I have no writer friends or associates. How is that possible? How did I manage to create such a solitary existence for myself? These are questions I ask myself, among many others like my usual "who am I and why I am here?" This year I attended a writer's conference at Medgar Evers College, but I really didn't get as much as I was expecting from it. I suppose I was hoping to experience something like I experienced in Las Vegas in 2009 at the Black Writers Reunion & Conference, where I met some talented up and coming writers who inspired me. And now, the 2012 Black Writers Reunion & Conference is right around the corner and I still haven't made up my mind on whether or not to attend. I'll have a lot going on around this time, saving for my fall tuition being one. I have to prioritize. I attended in 2009 and still think about, it was just that rewarding. Worth every penny. In looking at the photos from last year's conference, I recognize some faces and see how attending every year builds lasting friendships and professional connections. I want that....no, I need that. I'll make my final decision by the end of next week after punching a few numbers in the calculator. Check out the sessions below. How can I not make this happen, seems pretty interesting, right? Friday's lineup is going to be awesome.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
6:30 pm – 7:30 pm Telling Your Tale: Writing & Publishing Your First Novel
7:30 pm – 8:30 pm Meet the Author Reception
Thursday, August 30, 2012
7:00 am – 7:30 am Senses at Sunrise Dr. Anita Heiss
8:00 am – 3:30 am Registration
8:00 am – 9:30 am Welcome Breakfast — Opening Session
9:00 am – 7:30 pm Exhibitors
9:30 am – 5:00 pm Agent Pitch Sessions – By Appointment Only
Morning Workshops
9:35 am Writing Faction
Staging the Page
Judging Your Book By Its Cover
11:10 am 5 Senses to Impactful Fiction
Landing a Book Deal in 2012+
Gritty Writer’s Website Strategies
Afternoon Workshops
1:30 pm Get Media Coverage Now
Mastering the Art of the Book Pitch
It All Adds Up
3:05 pm Journaling as a Writing Tool
Plotting Boot Camp I (3 hrs)
Formatting Your Novel for ePublishing (3 hrs)
4:40 pm Clarity & Depth
Evening
6:30 pm – 7:30 pm Poetry on the Roof
Friday, August 31, 2012
8:00 am – 2:00 pm Registration
9:00 am – 7:30 pm Exhibitors
Morning Workshops
7:00 am – 7:30 am Senses at Sunrise
7:30 am Yoga on the Beach
7:30 am Plotting Boot Camp II (3 hours)
9:00 am M.A.D. Writing (Making a Difference)
Structure & Style
Powerful Writing: Spirit, Nature & Experience
10:10 am Conquering Writer’s Block & Silencing the Inner Critic
Using Test Readers
Comedy Writing
11:20 am Balancing Life & Writing
Characters, Emotion, Viewpoint & Voice
Your Writing as an Investment in Others’ Growth
Network the Write Way
Afternoon Workshops
1:30 pm Anatomy of a Bestseller
Live the Writer’s Life AND Pay the Bills
Legal Matters that Matter to Writers
Writing for Television
3:05 pm Bios, One Sheets & About Pages
Making the Most of Your Editing Experience
Screenplay to the Silver Screen
Evening
5:00 pm – 6:30 pm Reception
6:45 pm – 8:00 pm Sex On The Beach — Erotic Fiction Readings
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
6:30 pm – 7:30 pm Telling Your Tale: Writing & Publishing Your First Novel
7:30 pm – 8:30 pm Meet the Author Reception
Thursday, August 30, 2012
7:00 am – 7:30 am Senses at Sunrise Dr. Anita Heiss
8:00 am – 3:30 am Registration
8:00 am – 9:30 am Welcome Breakfast — Opening Session
9:00 am – 7:30 pm Exhibitors
9:30 am – 5:00 pm Agent Pitch Sessions – By Appointment Only
Morning Workshops
9:35 am Writing Faction
Staging the Page
Judging Your Book By Its Cover
11:10 am 5 Senses to Impactful Fiction
Landing a Book Deal in 2012+
Gritty Writer’s Website Strategies
Afternoon Workshops
1:30 pm Get Media Coverage Now
Mastering the Art of the Book Pitch
It All Adds Up
3:05 pm Journaling as a Writing Tool
Plotting Boot Camp I (3 hrs)
Formatting Your Novel for ePublishing (3 hrs)
4:40 pm Clarity & Depth
Evening
6:30 pm – 7:30 pm Poetry on the Roof
Friday, August 31, 2012
8:00 am – 2:00 pm Registration
9:00 am – 7:30 pm Exhibitors
Morning Workshops
7:00 am – 7:30 am Senses at Sunrise
7:30 am Yoga on the Beach
7:30 am Plotting Boot Camp II (3 hours)
9:00 am M.A.D. Writing (Making a Difference)
Structure & Style
Powerful Writing: Spirit, Nature & Experience
10:10 am Conquering Writer’s Block & Silencing the Inner Critic
Using Test Readers
Comedy Writing
11:20 am Balancing Life & Writing
Characters, Emotion, Viewpoint & Voice
Your Writing as an Investment in Others’ Growth
Network the Write Way
Afternoon Workshops
1:30 pm Anatomy of a Bestseller
Live the Writer’s Life AND Pay the Bills
Legal Matters that Matter to Writers
Writing for Television
3:05 pm Bios, One Sheets & About Pages
Making the Most of Your Editing Experience
Screenplay to the Silver Screen
Evening
5:00 pm – 6:30 pm Reception
6:45 pm – 8:00 pm Sex On The Beach — Erotic Fiction Readings
May 3, 2012
hello...is it me you're looking for?
So, what have I been up to you ask? Well, since my last post I've finished with my spring classes with two Bs; gotten Employee of the Month at my job; kicked my sugar addiction; met a great guy who's now my boyfriend; been on a cruise to the Bahamas; and decided that I want to teach writing classes.
Not bad.
Right now, I'm gearing up for the summer term in my management program and just trying to keep myself on the right track. I have a ton of stuff I want to do, but I can't do it all, I must prioritize. I'm reading The Game of Life and How to Play It, which is helping me to understand the power of my own thoughts and words.
I'm also researching which literary journals are best suited for my short stories. I want to begin submitting them this year. My hope is that publishing credits will strengthen my queries to editors, and of course provide me with a much needed sense of personal fulfillment that my work was deemed worthy of publication.
February 11, 2012
I'm In School: That's My Story
Howdy folks,
I'm coming to you live from my kitchen table/workstation. I've been juggling two classes, marketing management and organization design, this semester and boy have they been pushing my multitasking abilities to the limit. But wait, another one starts up next week, graduate research skills. Oh how will I do it all. And did I mention that I'm on the public relations committee for a community service organization? And of course, I work full time. So given that, please understand, gentle readers, that while I'm a bit extended these days, writing my musings is still my desire. I'll be sure to chart my progress, and report on whatever else intrigues me.
Wish me luck, I have three assignments due tomorrow. Yikes!
January 19, 2012
Running to a Phantom Exit
I was talking to my mother the other day when the subject of hamsters and gerbils came up. I think I was trying to make some sort of analogy to a hamster wheel that goes nowhere. From there I began to wonder if the little hamsters and gerbils that jump on these wheels and other apparatuses for "exercise" are actually making a futile attempt to escape their confinement. As a living being, they clearly have feelings, and perhaps a sense of awareness that there's a bigger world out there. They are directed to mate and replicate themselves, just as humans, so why wouldn't they be driven to seek a better quality of life? Though I doubt they are able to process why they are being driven to do so?
For years now I've seen the little guys on those wheels, seemingly running for dear life, and found the sight to be cute. But with this new realization, I can't help but feel a little sad to know that they could possibly be moving at such a feverish pace because they think an exit is imminent. Some sort of way out. They know not, however, that for them, there is no escape. The wheels, tunnels, and mazes that they endure are merely for our amusement.
I also wonder if they have any plan on what to do if they escape? I mean, where would they go, what would they do? Wouldn't they need to find the others? As they run toward that phantom exit, only we humans understand that they are actually safer in their confinement of bedding, a wheel, a pellet bowl or dispenser, and a source of water. Outside of that cage is a world of rats, mice, cats, car wheels, birds.....and worse, an even bigger space to live a life of solitude in.
Oh why do we enjoy confining creatures for our pleasure? And why must they run on a wheel to nowhere? Just questions that I'll probably never find the answer to. I watch a lot of the original Twilight Zone episodes, where the show's creator, Rod Serling, touches on different aspects of the human condition such as our wondering where we are....why we are here....what is 'here'?....what's in that big world out there? Could these little creatures possibly ponder such things as well. Mr. Serling attempted to answer these questions by presenting various scenarios in which man, the animal with dominion over all others on Earth, was in fact the captive for an even bigger species. In this series, we get to see what it would be like for humans to exist in a pretend world where nothing is real; where we are simply fed, manipulated, and monitored. And allowed to run feverishly toward phantom exits.
January 18, 2012
The Masque of the Red Death
Hello out there. Yes, it's been quite a while. Oh what can I say....work, extracurricular activities, holidays, computer viruses that hijacked my computer, reading, just not feeling enthused, pick any one of those reasons and that's my reason for being absent. But I'm back now.
I decided to dedicate my first post of 2012 to my most favorite short story "The Masque of the Red Death" by Edgar Allan Poe. I just recently bought 50 Great Short Stories, and upon discovering Red Death in the Table of Contents, I got very excited. *here comes a spoiler* It's my favorite because of what I feel is its central theme: death evasion is futile. I was in middle school when I was first introduced to this tale, and even then I knew it had a deeper meaning than death simply crashing a party. Being born and dying are the two things that we humans can't control. And despite our material wealth, our good deeds, or the social class assigned to us, we all one day meet the great equalizer.
I introduce to you Prince Prospero:
THE "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal -- the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour.
But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the "Red Death."
It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence. It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven -- an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have been expected from the duke's love of the bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue -- and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange -- the fifth with white -- the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet -- a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire that protected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room. And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.
It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.
But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not. He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great fete; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm -- much of what has been since seen in "Hernani." There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these -- the dreams -- writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away -- they have endured but an instant -- and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments.
But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise -- then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust.
In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood -- and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.
When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.
"Who dares?" he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him -- "who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him -- that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise, from the battlements!"
It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly -- for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.
It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince's person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple -- through the purple to the green -- through the green to the orange -- through this again to the white -- and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry -- and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.
And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.
Courtesty: http://www.online-literature.com/poe/36/
I decided to dedicate my first post of 2012 to my most favorite short story "The Masque of the Red Death" by Edgar Allan Poe. I just recently bought 50 Great Short Stories, and upon discovering Red Death in the Table of Contents, I got very excited. *here comes a spoiler* It's my favorite because of what I feel is its central theme: death evasion is futile. I was in middle school when I was first introduced to this tale, and even then I knew it had a deeper meaning than death simply crashing a party. Being born and dying are the two things that we humans can't control. And despite our material wealth, our good deeds, or the social class assigned to us, we all one day meet the great equalizer.
I introduce to you Prince Prospero:
THE "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal -- the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour.
But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the "Red Death."
It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence. It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven -- an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have been expected from the duke's love of the bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue -- and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange -- the fifth with white -- the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet -- a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire that protected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room. And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.
It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.
But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not. He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great fete; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm -- much of what has been since seen in "Hernani." There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these -- the dreams -- writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away -- they have endured but an instant -- and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments.
But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise -- then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust.
In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood -- and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.
When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.
"Who dares?" he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him -- "who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him -- that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise, from the battlements!"
It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly -- for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.
It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince's person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple -- through the purple to the green -- through the green to the orange -- through this again to the white -- and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry -- and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.
And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.
Courtesty: http://www.online-literature.com/poe/36/
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