A Short Story and (Bad) Love Poetry

Some people have read this before. But I just thought of posting it. Written circa junior year in HS, it happened to fit a CW requirement. :)

The night was cold as the wind rattled through the rafters and shingles of the houses near London’s East End. During days of trade or days of worship, the town turned into a restless marketplace with people of all professions and predilections. Nights, however, were almost deafeningly silent. The year was 1888, and it was the seventh day of August. The moon was full and bright, its beams illuminating the deserted cobble-stone streets. A lone wild bird circled stealthily overhead. The last of the panhandlers have retreated into the recesses of the side streets. It seemed an ordinary night, like any other night in England… but, as the clock struck twelve, a bloodcurdling scream resounded in the cold air. Then, as abruptly as it started, the scream faded back into the silence.

They found her body the next day, sprawled on the stairs of an inn called the Whitechapel. Her throat was slashed; her blood pooled around her like a macabre shroud. Her face was unrecognizable with the post-mortem swelling of the soft tissue. The bones of her nose were broken in perhaps three places; the side of her head was obtrusively caved in. But the sadism did not stop there—her belly was cut open with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. Her innards were exposed, yet her kidney was nowhere to be found. Stab wounds ran the length of her body, and, where there was no blood, there were bruises and horrible welts. It was without doubt the work of a bestial, merciless killer.
She was identified as Martha Turner, a scarlet woman. The police started an investigation right away… but it was all in vain. They could not find the cold-hearted murderer, and there were no witnesses. Day after day, the police combed the streets hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who bestowed such a grisly death to the unfortunate victim.

Or, at least they thought there were no witnesses. Someone saw everything… Actually, I saw everything. I watched as her throat was ripped open, I saw her struggling and begging for mercy. I was the one who gazed upon her futile attempts to escape the clutches of death. How, you ask? Because I was holding the knife that snatched her pathetic life away. I dragged her into her death… I did society a favor! I savored the moment that the light was extinguished from her helpless green eyes. I felt exhilaration as her ravaged soul escaped into the gloomy, gelid air, as only an angel of death could. Women like her do not deserve to live… They are the breeders of pestilence! They pollute civilization with displays of immorality... They are the unchaste, the unclean... they show no respect for themselves... and for what? Is it not to no avail? Surely, you must agree with my quest to purify the earth of worthless, libertine scum? Oh, je suis desolée, I almost forgot to say... my name is Jack the Ripper, and on that fateful night of August, I committed my first murder.

(Poetry Attempt 2. She should really stop making us write love poems. I suck, bigtime.)

In the chapel of my sacred art
The stage is black, one spotlight bare
The singer stands in the smoky beam
No other leaps to join her there.
The trombone leads the prelude’s note
The piano peals, Do-Re-Mi-Do
Her voice follows but falls short
The rhythm is lost on the soprano.
The chorus chants, their notes move
She looks up and tears at fugue
She sings the aria, strains her voice
She is a baffled ingénue.
Fast forward past the interlude
Tenor appears, out of tune
He hits a sharp, she sings furioso
The critic writes “Sang too soon.”
Second interlude, he offers a rose
Neglects to remove the sharp thorn
Her finger bleeds, the petals fly
The score pities not the forlorn.
Climax unfolds, neither understands
Sense fades from the libretto
The violin cries, the clarinet gasps
Two voices reach their false-etto.
The climax passes, tragedy done
The onlookers gaze on, upset
They try to make the most of when
Two solos do not make a duet.
The cello weeps, the snare drum sobs
The coda does Do-Re-Do-Mi-Do
The singers exit, voices asunder
As their hearts let the opera go.

Metisse!

Metisse!

Metisse est à propos de une femme, Lola, et sa grossesse. Lola ne sait pas le père de l’enfant, parce que elle a deux petit-amis—Jamal et Fèlix. Jamal est Muslim et noir, Fèlix est Juif et Blanc. Je pense Lola est Chrétien. Aussi, Jamal est le fils des diplomates pendant que Fèlix est... pauvre. Alors. C’est très, très amusant. Drôle et touchant. Je recommande celui-ci. Il a passé TV5Monde hier soir.

Realiser par: Mathieu Kassovitz (1993)
Avec Julie Mauduech (Lola), Hubert Kounde (Jamal), Mathieu Kassovitz (Felix).

CW 10 Poetry Assignment

Believe it or not, this is a love poem. And it's supposed to look like this-- the homework is all about the use of jargon to make a poem that "kind of makes sense."

In the impartiality of my opinions
I find the paradigm shift you
Away from my tyranny
Settling for Oligarchy
Waiting for Democracy
Forgetting that Monarchy
Is not as bad as it looks.
Are you aiming for a polity
Dismissing the Utopia
Of Marxism or Anarchy
Looking for equilibrium
In this unreasonable rapport?
Why was I Bourgeoisie
While you were Proletariat
And where was ideological Third Way
When I was Atomism
And you were Socialism?
But now you're Classic Liberal
And I'm hopelessly lost
In a sea of categories
And rationalization
And vindication
Of the incomprehensible.

Pensées Aléatoire

Vraiment? C’est 9 h 5 et je devenis folle. D’abord, ma main droit a brulé à la vapeur parce que l’eau a été très chaud. Ensuite, la même main a été électrifié par la prise de courant (ouverte, je n’ai pas vu!!!).

Enfin. La derniere semaine, jeudi je pense, j’ai vu le film Marie-Jo et Ses Deux Amours, a comme vedettes Ariane Ascaride, Jean-Pierre Darroussin, Gérard Meylan, Julie-Marie Parmentier, et Yann Tregouët. Le film a réalisé par Robert Guédiguian et sorti en 2002. J’ai regardé le film avec mon ami Mico qui a tout son temps, apparemment, l’étudiant de première année. Je plaisante!

Enfin encore, le film a été interessant. De quio ça parle? La vie de la famille de Marie-Jo et Daniel et la liaison de Marie-Jo avec Marco, un pilote. Le cadre a été Marseilles. Mon lieu préféré a été le piquenique sur la plage! Très gênant. Et quand Julie est arrivée en la maison de Marco pendant que sa mére a été la-bas. Il a été fin bizarre mais pas autant pour moi après l’article de la réaction.

Je l’ai ecrit en Anglais, bien sûr. L’article de la réaction en Français et pour Français 13.

Il y a un film Français, Martyrs (après la traduction). C’est trop bizarre! Mais j’aime la plupart de Marie-Jo et Ses Deux Amours. Il demande, pourquio fait-elle trompé quand elle est heureuse avec son mariage? Et pourquio sont-ils mourir? Encore, il a été fin bizarre.

Le résumé du site Web officiel:

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Ces deux amours sont impossibles à vivre. Il faut bien pourtant continuer.

La lame sur son poignet n'est pas une solution. Les saisons se succèdent, Daniel construit des maisons, Marco conduit des bateaux...

Et comme le soleil naît et meurt chaque jour, Marie-Jo a deux amours...

Sur le chemin des contrebandiers, un jour de pique-nique, Marie-Jo applique la lame d'un couteau sur son poignet.

Elle aime profondément Daniel, son mari, et aime aussi fort Marco, son amant.>>

Oh, voyez. Ce n’est pas très difficile maintenant, ecrire en Français. Bien que de temps à autre je veux abandonner... La grammaire est pas pour le coeur faible. Si j’etais couramment en Français écrire va aller vite. Je “saigne” toujours! Je plaisante.

Mes amis je ne fait pas écrire comme pour mon amusement. Je révisé pour l’examen long à mardi.

Publicité: Lisez le livre “Gem Squash Tokoloshe” par Rachel Zadok. Il est engageant étonnamment, et mémorable aussi. J’ai rêvé de Faith, le personnage principal. Elle a été une vie perturbant. Zadok écrit bien.