AQWF Writing Response 4: The Animal Inside

Authors Note: Throughout the whole 4th chapter, there were sentences scattered all over shedding light on the animal inside each soldier. The way they hold themselves in battle to their alertness to each detail surrounding them, the author portrays animal like characteristics in these men that not only hide in each one of them, but in every human being.

I don’t want to be the prey.

It hurts but I keep pumping my arms faster and faster; slicing through the air like blades. I don’t look behind me—I don’t dare to—just keep my head down, yet eyes up. My face is neither paler nor more flushed than usual, it’s not more stiff nor frightened—and yet it’s changed. My head is whirling with ideas, ways to escape yet all I pay attention to is the sound of the crunching leaves as they connect with my feet with each stride.

                I don’t want to be the prey.

The moment that his first touch grazes my arm and the roughness of his skin while he pulls me backwards from my stride suddenly, tares through my thoughts, my veins, my heart; a tense surrender, a waiting, a heightening alertness, a strange sharpening of the senses. The body with one bound is in full readiness. His thumbs press up against the back of my forearms as he gets ahold my wired body.

I will not be the prey

He presses himself down upon me long and powerfully when he buries his face and his limbs on my body, backing me up towards a tree. Tensing is not how my body reacts. It’s soft and relaxed while my eyes dart back and forth into the cold night.

I will not be the prey.

Whispering in my ear, he takes one of his rough fingers and traces it up my side. Goosebumps rise but not out of fear nor pleasure. Not a moment too soon. The dark goes mad. It heaves and rises inside of me, blacker than his eyes that rush over me with giant strides, over and then away.

I’m the predator.  

AQWF Writing Response 3: The Beauty in Opposites

               It seems that the good always conquers the evil; abolishes it because it’s weaker, dirtier, fouler. But yet, there is beauty in evil. There is beauty in darkness, in selfishness, in immorality. Without the other half, there is no hope of seeing the difference. If there were no selfish humans in the world, there would be no gratefulness towards the giving. If there were no damp, emotionless darkness, there would be no exquisiteness in the souring light. Appreciating the good must come with appreciating the evil.

                Remarque, author of the novel All Quiet on the Western Front, writes in the beauty of opposites. Diving into the great depths of war, he makes sure to highlight the peacefulness of the trees or the soft glare of the sun to make the readers feel even more affected when they hear the harsh descriptions of the war.  At one point he writes, “The earth is streaming with forces which pour into me through the soles of my feet. The night crackles electrically, the front thunders like a concert of drums.” (17). What’s going on in these few sentences is hidden behind the laced up words of soft imagery. Not once does Remarque tell exactly what is going on in but through the differences in opposites, he can portray a very strong and insightful point.  

AQWF Writing Response 2- Expectations

Expectations are hard to live up to. Anyone knows this. But the sidekick to this concept is failure, disappointments, and heartbreaks. No one can see what is to come but everyone wonders about what they can accomplish in the future; what their calling/destiny is. In the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, the author uses poetic diction to show each and every soldiers disappointment in the expectations they had for this war they are participating in.                  

Beautiful, yet in a saddening way, Remarque portrays a childlike character in each man through motifs and careful choice of wording. The idea of making something horrible sound breathtakingly striking is what Remarque does well in this novel which helps parallel the idea of beautiful high hopes to crushing expectations. One soldier says, “We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also an ideal and almost romantic character”(13). Using the word “romantic” gives off an expectant setting to the scenario while really, there is a bittersweet idea hiding beneath. With the saddening yet beautiful writing of Remarque, the idea of expectations surround the text with an underlying childlike innocence.

AQWF Writing Response 1- Childhood vs. Adulthood Motifs

         When we are young, we live in a world where we feel like we are unstoppable; able to conquer anything that comes towards us because we don’t have reasons to think otherwise. There are no reasons to believe that we will get burned by the hot stove as we inch our 5 year old fingers towards the red glow, or we never expect the outcome of just having our first drink at that party. But when we know the punishments, the scalding of the skin or the probation from basketball, we realize we will never make that decision again. In the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, a group of young soldiers enter the war with a childlike, mind set of being unstoppable. But when they see what the war is really about they, “ distinguish the false from true, and suddenly learned to see” (6). Adulthood is not a time when you turn the famous 18 years, but is when you grow up; grow up from the view of innocence and protectiveness, because just like the war, life doesn’t a have a forgiving, childlike setting.

Don't Move

I don’t move. It’s not because there is only a foot of space between the two walls of dried mud but because it hurts. It hurts to walk; to barely feel the sickeningly, cold mud squish between my toes. It hurts to breathe; to inhale the stenches of gun powder, haunting smoke, and bitter gasoline. It hurts to hold it in; my feelings of my poor family at home, my three children wondering what their father’s doing right at that very moment.

But that’s the reason why I’m here… right? Yes, of course it is. I would do anything for my country, my leader, my citizens…my family.

As I sit here writing I realize something seems off. I’m surrounded by two men that I feel I’ve become close with since the beginning of this hellish war, but I was once surrounded by four. I just looked up at one of my men and when I meet his depressed eyes, I tare mine away quickly.

Not again. Please no. Not again.

Never mind. I was once surrounded by five men.

I want to go home. I do, but I will never let anyone know. I take pride in the fact that I’m making a difference whether I live failing or die trying. I know that there are people back home that look up to me but what or who do I have to look up to?

Dropping my pencil, I try to look up between the trench walls that surround me. The sky is filled with the ghostly remains of smoke.

I don’t move.

It’s not because there is only a foot of space between the two walls of dried mud but because the dark night lights up with a ray of gunpowder. I don’t move even though men rush around me frantically. Instead of grabbing my gun like all the rest, I grab ahold of the questionable last moments of peace I may have left.

Temptations

Author’s Note: The last chapter of Jekyll and Hyde was a lot of information to take in. While explaining what happened to the warmth of Jekyll that was extinguished by the character of Hyde, the author made sure to keep repeating the temptations of evil that was tickling the edges of Jekyll’s sanity. We all have temptations in our lives that always seem to take over our actions. Whether it is the small temptation to cheat on a math test, just to get one specific answer, or a large temptation to commit murder, we all go through it. We all don’t want to be tempted by the evil or even good, but sometimes, it seems it’s just too hard not to give in.

We don’t want to be tempted

But we just can’t help but give in.

We don’t want to smile

But we give into the laughter

We don’t want to smell it

But we lift the lid to the milk carton anyways

We don’t want to taste it

But we dip our finger into the strange liquid

We don’t want to look

But we just can’t help it

We don’t want to know

But we just can’t help but to question

We don’t want to hurt her feelings

But we can’t help but utter just that one judgmental comment

We don’t want to hit him

But we just can’t help it when he gives us that taunting smirk

We don’t want to cry

But we give into that little tickle under our noses

We don’t want to kiss him in front of your parents

But we just can’t help it

We don’t want the side effects,

But we just want to see what one intake of smoke would feel like

We don’t want to lie,

But the truth always seems to hurt too much to bring to the surface

We don’t want to be tempted

But we just can’t help but give in.

Better Off Not Knowing

                Authors Note: Throughout the whole tale of Jekyll and Hyde, everyone seems to want to know the answers to every question and assumption they have. The problem with knowing the answer is how the reaction unfolds when they know what’s hidden inside the cabinet. They don’t know how to react or they don’t even have a choice but to react unhealthily (literally). This post is a spin-off of what is going on in this story while explaining something very personal.

It was better not to know. The curiosity is awful but knowing what is really going on is worse.

Knowing he has it just like my grandpa had it. Knowing my grandpa didn’t survive.

There’s no way to escape it. No way to get past the power of the heart or the pump of one blood vessel, because when one delicate thing goes wrong, everything could crumble around it.

I had no idea that this was the reason I never got a childhood with my grandpa. I never knew that the disease runs in the family and that any one of us could inherit the gene. I had no idea that it was passed down from my grandfather to my dad.

The nurses say don’t worry. My mom says he’ll be just fine. My dad brushes it off as a joke. But there is no joke here. No laughter in this subject at all.

They don’t know. They don’t know it’s hurting me. They don’t know that I’m scared he will never walk me down the aisle.

They don’t know.

But its better this way.

It’s better not to know. The curiosity is awful but knowing what is really going on is worse.

On the Other Side of the Window...

Authors Note: Motifs regarding light, shadow, and fog, scatter around chapter five repeatedly. The descriptive words paint a picture with these characteristics yet they are always controlled artificially. The author of Jekyll and Hyde presents light through fire and candlelight but not once talks about the soft slant of the moon’s light or the drifting of the sun’s shadows. This poem spins off of this concept yet adds a completely new perspective on the effect environment has on the atmosphere of a scene.

What would it be like to feel the sun?

The tenderness?

The warmth?

The light?

Always natural

Always pure

Never made

Never artificial

Through a stained, sealed window,

Moon’s light teases

Separated by a thin glass

Never able to meet

Dye holds tight to the air

Yet slowly softens over time

Smells grow richer with smoke

While flames grow longingly to escape

Never natural

Never pure

Always made

Always artificial

What would it be like to feel the sun?

The tenderness?

The warmth?

The light?

Yet so close

But so far away.

Dimmed and fogged…

My light is buried

Romantic and free…

They’re light shines

Physical vs. Mental

Her nose tickles igniting a soft flame in her eyes. Yet soft, the dry sensation overwhelms her throat, her eyes, and her body as it sighs in defeat. She doesn’t know why. She never knows. The awareness to cry is the only thing that will save her from the exhaustion, the doubt, the heaviness. Already bad enough, the feeling was but a feeling which she could discover no more; impossible to distinguish.

She began to go hopeless, hopeless in mind; and though of course she continues to take a comfort in defeat for relief of her spirit, she sees and she has seen the outcome. There is no reason to feel such angst toward herself, towards the world around her. Her reasons are clueless and jumbled in a mess of wonder… but she still feels it.

Trying to stay intact with her warm skin, the tears drip coolly over her face until dropping in defeat. The pressure in her throat escapes with a soft yet strong gasp of a cry. She chokes on it for the questionable reasons as to why she is feeling the way she is, but that only makes her gasps turn into wails.  

It seems her mental subconscious has no control; no control over what her physical senses project. She is innocent to what her body wants compared to what her eyes desire. Weak and vulnerable characteristics can be controlled with her mind set yet it seems she has no choice but to show the world just those very things. Not realizing what is wrong is the wrong in the first place. Slowly deteriorating under the pressure of what the body desires, her conscious shuts down and finally lets her physical state take over with a great sob of defeat.

Authors Note: Dr. Jekyll might be anything but evil at this point of the story. We’ve only read a few chapters but what I’ve personally took note of was that maybe Dr. Jekyll is being forced to be the man he becomes at night using quotes like, “I have no choice.” Physical urges of Mr. Hyde against the mentally stable conscious of Dr. Jekyll, might be fighting for different outcomes. This story seems to be the only way I can relate to this certain feeling of confusion; feelings, emotions, and physical states take over while your mind and subconscious  sits by and waits patiently for the storm to past.

Anything but Boring

My life is boring. I could easily dress it up by using the word tedious or lackluster, but where’s the fun in that? If my life is boring, why not full fledge it into boringness and skip all the crap that makes it look exciting from the outside. Because, truthfully, underneath all those sprinkles and icing, there sits a slab of white plan cake that is simply made from the box. 

            It would be easy. Easy to laugh when people walk by. Easy to surround myself with things that are anything but boring but will always result in fading. It would be so easy. But no. Instead, I follow my dull timeline and schedule that I call a life and wake up at six every morning and go to bed at 10 at night. Between those distinctions of start and finish to my day, the filling is a blur.      The lines of a faint A marking a test, or a few hugs from my friends barely make it to the surface of what I remember from the last 16 hours. Because every day is the same.

The same boring day.     

            So that is what brought me here. I stand now with my hands stretched out wide. The wind is thrown past my silhouette knowing it won’t land anywhere; always drifting. My toes curl over the rock in anticipation of falling into nothing. I’m not scared because for once in my life, I don’t know what’s coming and oddly, it brings me comfort. There are no answers, no schedule, no guidelines, nor rules. All there is, is me, the unmistakable wind, and the peaceful water below.

            I was always afraid of heights. Not because of falling. It was never because of the fear of falling. That was the exciting part that could never be put under the category of boring. No, it wasn’t for the fear of falling. The fear came from what I was always tempted to do resulting in throwing myself over the edge. It would feel exhilarating, breathtaking and endless.

            And it does.

            I gave the fall my attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without interest in the outcome. My heart swells as I become airborne and my feet prepare for the catch of the water below but it never happens. Once peacefully closed, my eyes spark open in fear. I give the fall my attention, as a I look down as the force of the wind pushes my curls to catch violently behind my presence. I’m only half way down as my once closed mouth opens and lets out a cry that can never be mistaken for anything but fear. The thrill and adrenalin enter my body just like I craved all along but now, all I wanted at that moment was to share with everyone that my life was still boring.

Not life threatening.

 I’m anything but suicidal when I chose to do this. But now I fear it’s too late. My fall is graceful and the moment moves forward taking it’s time before I finally hit the water. I think it’s the end. I believe I have no choice but to greet the overflow of cold, lush, water that envelopes me into her stomach. Rippling upon my face, the separate sounds of waves mock to suck me under for good. Sun shimmers slightly through the murky water, over my eyelids like a reflection of a broken mirror. The expansion of my chest falters under the force of the blow that now punctures the center of my back, interrupting my peace. Shuddering, my muscles strain as I pull myself up from the water, onto the rock. My tears and the ocean water mend together; both soak my face with salty moisture.

Scanning my surroundings, the waves crash over my body, make questioning my balance vital. My eyes start overflowing with hope as I carefully step from rock to rock. I look at the shore on the brink of the ocean, saw the individual rocks, the small dimples and the cracks of each pebble—saw the very dust upon them, the road in the distance, the dark- layered sky, the light moon stretching its light from landscape to landscape.

I’m on the other side now, planting my feet on the soft grass that at one point, I never thought I would feel again between my toes. Tilting and shuddering, the wind once again, outlines my silhouette in the dark night. My feet don’t hesitate to start walking home while my emotions are too exhausted to understand which way to go.

In the few moments, I am introduced on the road near the corner of the dark cliff and behind, a projecting point which conceal me from my impulse for excitement.  The power and control I have over my life hits me as I realize my future can be beautiful. The fall could’ve been fatal, and the beautiful things I have would be left behind. My heart swells as I look up into a bright light; a beacon of hope for a new beginning. As the light comes closer, I realize it isn’t just my imagination and happiness blurring my vision with this brightness. Morphing into two distinctive suns, the lights stare hauntingly at my soaked figure, like a pair of eyes.

Headlights.