Thursday, April 8, 2010
From 'A School Story'
There was a house with a room in which a serious people insisted spending the night. In the morning, you fund them kneeling in the corner, having enough time just to say, “I’ve seen it” and died. Then there was a man who heard a noise in the corridor late at night, so he opened the door. Before him he saw someone crawling towards him all four, and his eyes hanging from his cheek. This house took a life of man who was found dead in bed with a horseshoe mark on his forehead, and the floor under his bed was covered in horseshoe marks. Also, there was a lady who heard a faint voice near her curtains, “Now we’re shut in for the night.”
The Friends
Many unfortunate events took place in our town. A flood cut us from the town centre, and for two months we were not able to go school. The following year a typhoon took my aunt, she was our schoolmistress. And in less than a month, 40 more casualties took place; the entire town was in mourning.
Cornelio and I lived in the same house, though he lived in the upper floor. We were both seven and found ourselves more like bothers than friends. We went to school together. Understanding lessons were easy for him, but I knew he generally hate school. While with me, I loved school but I found learning difficult. Out of us two, Cornelio was the more favoured one. Our mothers assumed he was bound to become a saint. Though, whenever I caught him praying he would always try covering it up as if he was embarrassed.
Whenever I would upset Cornelio, he always retaliated with violence. He got angry when I took his pencil case one day, so he hit me and then scratched my face. Cornelio then said to me that if I ever touched his belongings he would pray for me to die, I laughed. To convince me, he said that the fatal events that occurred were his doings. He prayed for the typhoid to kill my aunt so we wouldn’t have to go to school. As soon as I had the chance, I went and told my aunts they laughed at my worries. Except for Rita my cousin that looked like an old lady, stated that Cornelio made a pact with the Devil. She asked me to retrieve Cornelio’s bible and so I did. When we opened his book, we found strange characters written and demoniacal scribbles.
To prove there was a pact between Cornelio and the Devil, I would have to get him angry. So instead of putting the book back into his drawer where I got it from I placed it in my pocket and took the thing that was most value to him, a watch with moving plastic hands. Then Cornelio walked in the room, I threw the book and watch at him, he stood there in silence. He reached for his things and knelt down. He was eagerly reading through the pages, he didn’t seem to be ashamed this time. So I took a step back, and the floor board creaked than gave way. I hit my head against the iron bars of the railing.
It took two months for me to fully recover, supposedly Cornelio prayed for me. Things went back to how it was before the incident; Cornelio being praised over me. However people began to see state that he was either a saint or a warlock. One day we went to Willow Brook and I remember after muttering a few words, he made a man collapse. After this, when Cornelio and I walked down the street people whispered.
I wanted to punish Cornelio for the things he’s done, but I was afraid the cost would be my life. So we found ourselves at the Willow Brook again so we decided to swim. There was a spot in the brook where we couldn’t touch the bottom, I knew where it was because it has sort of whirlpool. We were running along the bank until behind I saw Cornelio fall onto his knees. Cornelio was struggling in the water he couldn’t swim, he was sinking. After many years did I understand that Cornelio changed his prayers to save me, instead of asking for my death which might have been granted, he had asked for his own.
Cornelio and I lived in the same house, though he lived in the upper floor. We were both seven and found ourselves more like bothers than friends. We went to school together. Understanding lessons were easy for him, but I knew he generally hate school. While with me, I loved school but I found learning difficult. Out of us two, Cornelio was the more favoured one. Our mothers assumed he was bound to become a saint. Though, whenever I caught him praying he would always try covering it up as if he was embarrassed.
Whenever I would upset Cornelio, he always retaliated with violence. He got angry when I took his pencil case one day, so he hit me and then scratched my face. Cornelio then said to me that if I ever touched his belongings he would pray for me to die, I laughed. To convince me, he said that the fatal events that occurred were his doings. He prayed for the typhoid to kill my aunt so we wouldn’t have to go to school. As soon as I had the chance, I went and told my aunts they laughed at my worries. Except for Rita my cousin that looked like an old lady, stated that Cornelio made a pact with the Devil. She asked me to retrieve Cornelio’s bible and so I did. When we opened his book, we found strange characters written and demoniacal scribbles.
To prove there was a pact between Cornelio and the Devil, I would have to get him angry. So instead of putting the book back into his drawer where I got it from I placed it in my pocket and took the thing that was most value to him, a watch with moving plastic hands. Then Cornelio walked in the room, I threw the book and watch at him, he stood there in silence. He reached for his things and knelt down. He was eagerly reading through the pages, he didn’t seem to be ashamed this time. So I took a step back, and the floor board creaked than gave way. I hit my head against the iron bars of the railing.
It took two months for me to fully recover, supposedly Cornelio prayed for me. Things went back to how it was before the incident; Cornelio being praised over me. However people began to see state that he was either a saint or a warlock. One day we went to Willow Brook and I remember after muttering a few words, he made a man collapse. After this, when Cornelio and I walked down the street people whispered.
I wanted to punish Cornelio for the things he’s done, but I was afraid the cost would be my life. So we found ourselves at the Willow Brook again so we decided to swim. There was a spot in the brook where we couldn’t touch the bottom, I knew where it was because it has sort of whirlpool. We were running along the bank until behind I saw Cornelio fall onto his knees. Cornelio was struggling in the water he couldn’t swim, he was sinking. After many years did I understand that Cornelio changed his prayers to save me, instead of asking for my death which might have been granted, he had asked for his own.
A Television Drama
Carolee Mitchell had the vacuum on when the first police cars arrived, or she would’ve turned and looked. What caught her attention was the flight of the bird, which led her to realize the situation outside her house. Outside her window she found police cars parked in front of her house and along the two blocks. Uniforms were armed, and some on her neighbour’s terrace with rifles and field glasses. Reporters and TV crews took up the streets as well. Neighbours that stood outside their front doors were instructed by the police to return inside; though no one paid any attention to this. At one point, Carolee thought if she should’ve stepped outside but then realized nothing was really happening.
Carolee went to Pete’s study to view the side street through his window. It was more quite, no uniforms but just an ambulance with its siren off. Then she turned back to the barking, but noticed something and turned her head. Sitting up against the laurel hedge, she found a young man sick, hurt or dead. His head hung down. She became aware of the blood when he lifted his head slightly. The thought of calling of the police came to her mind, but immediately seemed ridiculous when they were just not even 70 feet away. However, the young man suddenly picked himself up, drunkenly ran across the lawn, through the trees and out onto the parking strip. A moment later, she then found him lying on his back. Not too long after he was suspected, and then apprehended.
Pete returned home with the newspaper. The front page had shown a sketch of the suspect’s path. Carolee had pointed out that it didn’t mark the place where she had found him sitting. She began to wonder if she had notified the police, would the sketch have been affected. Carolee is now beginning to doubt the fact her streets would return to being safe or was ever safe to begin with.
Carolee went to Pete’s study to view the side street through his window. It was more quite, no uniforms but just an ambulance with its siren off. Then she turned back to the barking, but noticed something and turned her head. Sitting up against the laurel hedge, she found a young man sick, hurt or dead. His head hung down. She became aware of the blood when he lifted his head slightly. The thought of calling of the police came to her mind, but immediately seemed ridiculous when they were just not even 70 feet away. However, the young man suddenly picked himself up, drunkenly ran across the lawn, through the trees and out onto the parking strip. A moment later, she then found him lying on his back. Not too long after he was suspected, and then apprehended.
Pete returned home with the newspaper. The front page had shown a sketch of the suspect’s path. Carolee had pointed out that it didn’t mark the place where she had found him sitting. She began to wonder if she had notified the police, would the sketch have been affected. Carolee is now beginning to doubt the fact her streets would return to being safe or was ever safe to begin with.
A Handful of Dates
I remember at the time I was very young, whenever I was seen with my grandfather people would pat my head or pinch my cheeks. I would usually be with my grandfather except for the morning where I would go to the mosque. My love for the mosque was as great as my love for the river. I used to find myself swimming in the river after attending the mosque. In the afternoon, I would be accompanied by my grandfather. I loved him, and hoped to grow into a man like himself.
One day I asked him about our neighbour Masood, I felt that my grandfather wasn’t too fond of him. I remember my grandfather responding that the field of date palms never always his, but used to belong to Masood. I thought otherwise; from the beginning of time I imagined that the field always belonged to my grandfather. However, he spoke that now two thirds belonged to him, and said that he was going to obtain the remaining third. From these words I felt fear; I didn’t want this to occur. My grandfather then took my hand and went over to Masood’s harvesting of the dates. During it all, I thought about Masood and the kind of person i found he was. At the end of the harvesting of the dates, it was Mousa, an owner, and these two strangers left. My grandfather woke up from his nap, and was followed by Hussein.
The group formed a circle to divide the sacks of dates among themselves. My grandfather gave me handful, which I began snacking on. At the very end, Masood was left with nothing, but 50 pounds in debt to my grandfather. Masood’s throat made an unusual sound, and then suddenly my chest began to hurt. I remember running off and spewing up the dates into the river.
One day I asked him about our neighbour Masood, I felt that my grandfather wasn’t too fond of him. I remember my grandfather responding that the field of date palms never always his, but used to belong to Masood. I thought otherwise; from the beginning of time I imagined that the field always belonged to my grandfather. However, he spoke that now two thirds belonged to him, and said that he was going to obtain the remaining third. From these words I felt fear; I didn’t want this to occur. My grandfather then took my hand and went over to Masood’s harvesting of the dates. During it all, I thought about Masood and the kind of person i found he was. At the end of the harvesting of the dates, it was Mousa, an owner, and these two strangers left. My grandfather woke up from his nap, and was followed by Hussein.
The group formed a circle to divide the sacks of dates among themselves. My grandfather gave me handful, which I began snacking on. At the very end, Masood was left with nothing, but 50 pounds in debt to my grandfather. Masood’s throat made an unusual sound, and then suddenly my chest began to hurt. I remember running off and spewing up the dates into the river.
The Playground
On his way home from the train station, Mr. Charles Underhill would pass by this playground, paying no attention to it. So this morning, his opinion was blank when Mrs. Underhill announced that she was going to start bringing Jim to the park. So, on the way home from the train and four in the afternoon, he folded his newspaper so he would not read himself past the playground.
It was four-ten; he moved himself along the sidewalk and stood before the playground gate. As he examined the scene that was presented, he found himself terrified by it. There was screaming, children fighting, bleeding, children dashing; it was hell. Mr. Underhill thought to himself, ‘Why do children insist on making their life miserable for each other? It’s nothing but torture to be a child.’
A gust of wind took his paper forward through the gate. Three steps and was able to retrieve it. He immediately retreated, with a pounding chest. He almost stumbled and fell when getting out of there. Someone called out to him and he turned to see the caller. What he found was a little boy that stood at the top of the slide, waving with a smile. Mr. Underhill stood there puzzled, having no idea who that young boy was. Mr. Underhill returned home and gave his thought on the park to his wife. He disapproved of the idea of letting her bring Jim to the park tomorrow. The park’s atmosphere, its smell and its look, were still vivid in his mind. The thought of kids with scabs, bloody noses and bruises kept on playing through his head. This just convinced Mr. Underhill more not to bring his son to that playground. The argument between him and his wife continued until dinner, then which they did not speak. After dinner Mr. Underhill decided to walk with his son, Jim. When they strolled past the playground, Jim suddenly wanted to go in. Mr. Underhill responded with a no. After Mr. Underhill ranted on from his no, Jim was left crying. Then suddenly the little boy from before called out “Charlie”, Mr. Underhill’s first name, and waved. Both Charlie and Jim paused, Jim stopped crying. The face of the boy then turned into the face of Thomas Marshall, an old business colleague. Charlie stood there with the same confused feeling he had the last time he encountered that young boy. Jim decided to cry again, so Charlie dragged him back home.
The next day it was about midnight when Mr. Underhill visited the park. Though the time of day, you could still see the park as it was lit by one great overhead lamp. He stood before it, his thoughts kept him occupied. The silence was then broken by a sudden sound; it was the strange young boy. Mr. Underhill awed over on how he looked so alike to Tom Marshall. After sharing a few words, the boy went straight to the point as if this was what he wanted to do all along. The boy knew how Mr. Underhill hated those monsters that were children. So to help him, the boy instructed Mr. Underhill to be at the park at 4 in the afternoon for the following day. The boy seemed pleased, and then released his real identity. The boy told Mr. Underhill that he was Tom Marshall, his old business colleague. At first Mr. Underhill looked back in disbelief, but then the boy just reminded him to be at the park at 4pm. They both departed; Mr. Underhill returning to his home.
On the following day Mr. Underhill phoned his wife at the office, informing her he was leaving early to meet at the playground. Walking from the train station, he met up with his wife and Jim, and then embraced them both. It had almost reached 4 and by this time Mr. Underhill’s chest was beating rapidly. That voice called for him, it was the Marshall boy. He was on the top slide, waving, but with no smile. Mr. Underhill took Jim’s arm and walked toward the playground. When they reached the end, both were standing frozen and where Mr. Underhill’s grasp on Jims arm was firm than ever.
Suddenly Mr. Underhill felt a hot pain within his body and was mouthing strange words. Both of his eyes were shut leaving him with no awareness of his surroundings. A voice called out to Jim, Mr. Underhill felt himself climbing a cold metal ladder, and eyes still shut. When his eyelids lifted, Mr. Underhill found himself at the top of the slide. The slide was gigantic, seemed as though it was a thousand feet high. Bemused, he looked down at his hands then looked out in front of him. A man in a black overcoat was walking toward the woman who stood at the entrance to the playground. They both then screamed, “Have a good time! Have a good time, Jim!” Mr. Underhill then came to a realization so terrifying, that he didn’t want to believe it. He was then overwhelmed with worry, he knew he was trapped.
It was four-ten; he moved himself along the sidewalk and stood before the playground gate. As he examined the scene that was presented, he found himself terrified by it. There was screaming, children fighting, bleeding, children dashing; it was hell. Mr. Underhill thought to himself, ‘Why do children insist on making their life miserable for each other? It’s nothing but torture to be a child.’
A gust of wind took his paper forward through the gate. Three steps and was able to retrieve it. He immediately retreated, with a pounding chest. He almost stumbled and fell when getting out of there. Someone called out to him and he turned to see the caller. What he found was a little boy that stood at the top of the slide, waving with a smile. Mr. Underhill stood there puzzled, having no idea who that young boy was. Mr. Underhill returned home and gave his thought on the park to his wife. He disapproved of the idea of letting her bring Jim to the park tomorrow. The park’s atmosphere, its smell and its look, were still vivid in his mind. The thought of kids with scabs, bloody noses and bruises kept on playing through his head. This just convinced Mr. Underhill more not to bring his son to that playground. The argument between him and his wife continued until dinner, then which they did not speak. After dinner Mr. Underhill decided to walk with his son, Jim. When they strolled past the playground, Jim suddenly wanted to go in. Mr. Underhill responded with a no. After Mr. Underhill ranted on from his no, Jim was left crying. Then suddenly the little boy from before called out “Charlie”, Mr. Underhill’s first name, and waved. Both Charlie and Jim paused, Jim stopped crying. The face of the boy then turned into the face of Thomas Marshall, an old business colleague. Charlie stood there with the same confused feeling he had the last time he encountered that young boy. Jim decided to cry again, so Charlie dragged him back home.
The next day it was about midnight when Mr. Underhill visited the park. Though the time of day, you could still see the park as it was lit by one great overhead lamp. He stood before it, his thoughts kept him occupied. The silence was then broken by a sudden sound; it was the strange young boy. Mr. Underhill awed over on how he looked so alike to Tom Marshall. After sharing a few words, the boy went straight to the point as if this was what he wanted to do all along. The boy knew how Mr. Underhill hated those monsters that were children. So to help him, the boy instructed Mr. Underhill to be at the park at 4 in the afternoon for the following day. The boy seemed pleased, and then released his real identity. The boy told Mr. Underhill that he was Tom Marshall, his old business colleague. At first Mr. Underhill looked back in disbelief, but then the boy just reminded him to be at the park at 4pm. They both departed; Mr. Underhill returning to his home.
On the following day Mr. Underhill phoned his wife at the office, informing her he was leaving early to meet at the playground. Walking from the train station, he met up with his wife and Jim, and then embraced them both. It had almost reached 4 and by this time Mr. Underhill’s chest was beating rapidly. That voice called for him, it was the Marshall boy. He was on the top slide, waving, but with no smile. Mr. Underhill took Jim’s arm and walked toward the playground. When they reached the end, both were standing frozen and where Mr. Underhill’s grasp on Jims arm was firm than ever.
Suddenly Mr. Underhill felt a hot pain within his body and was mouthing strange words. Both of his eyes were shut leaving him with no awareness of his surroundings. A voice called out to Jim, Mr. Underhill felt himself climbing a cold metal ladder, and eyes still shut. When his eyelids lifted, Mr. Underhill found himself at the top of the slide. The slide was gigantic, seemed as though it was a thousand feet high. Bemused, he looked down at his hands then looked out in front of him. A man in a black overcoat was walking toward the woman who stood at the entrance to the playground. They both then screamed, “Have a good time! Have a good time, Jim!” Mr. Underhill then came to a realization so terrifying, that he didn’t want to believe it. He was then overwhelmed with worry, he knew he was trapped.
House Taken Over
Aside from it being spacious and being able to home 8 people, we liked the house because it held countless memories of our family. It kept the recollections of our great grandparents, our grandfather, our parents and our whole childhood. Irene and I would rise at seven in the morning to begin cleaning the house, and would finish at about 11. As I left her to finish up the remaining rooms, I would prepare us our lunch and we would dine at 12. I enjoyed the conversations we had during lunch, and the fact we kept the house manageably clean. We were in our forties and the concept of a brother and sister marriage was gradually beginning to seem unavoidable. We knew we were going to die in that house. If that would happen, the house would be inherited by our cousins and be auctioned off for profit.
Once the house work was done, you would find Irene sitting on the couch in her room knitting. It was incredible how much she would knit. She knitted only the necessities like morning bathrobes, socks for the winter and bed jackets for herself. Saturdays I would go downtown and buy her wool, she had faith in my good taste. I would also benefit from these trips when I would go down to the bookstore seeking for new French literature. Although nothing new came to Argentina since 1939. But it’s the house I want to talk about, the house and Irene. As you entered the house through the hall, before you would be a wrought-iron grated door that opened to the living room. Our bedroom doors were on the opposite side of the iron door. There was another door which opened to a passage way that led to an oak door that released the other part of the house. Before this oak door, you can turn left and go down a narrower passage way which led to the kitchen and bathroom. Irene and I rarely went beyond the oak door, but house cleaning was an exception.
That moment will always be imbedded in my mine, it happened so sudden and without a fuss. It was eight at night and Irene was knitting as usual. I wanted water for tea so I walked down the corridor as far as the oak door. Turning I ended up in the kitchen, it was there where I heard something from the library or dining room. I soon came to the realization it was a chair being knocked over or a faint whisper. At the same time or a second later, I heard it at the end of the corridor closer to where the oak door was. By this time I was pressing myself against the door before it was too late. They have taken over the back part of the house.
The first few days were painful, since we had to leave so many things in the part of the house that was taken over. Though advantages came along with this like our cleaning was reduced, so we were able to wake up at nine thirty and still finish up before lunch. Irene seemed to manage because it left more time for knitting; however I felt a little lost without my French literature.
That night we were in Irene’s room. I told her I was thirsty so I wanted to head for the kitchen, I paused. I listened intently; from the door of the bedroom I heard the noise in the kitchen. Irene noticed how I froze so sudden and came next to me without a word. We stood listening to the noises, becoming surer they were coming from our side of the oak door. I remember then taking her arm and running toward the wrought-iron door. We then slammed the iron shut and before us were the door to the outside; it was dead silent by then. We were standing outside before the house as I locked the front door shut. I felt terrible, our house was taken over.
Once the house work was done, you would find Irene sitting on the couch in her room knitting. It was incredible how much she would knit. She knitted only the necessities like morning bathrobes, socks for the winter and bed jackets for herself. Saturdays I would go downtown and buy her wool, she had faith in my good taste. I would also benefit from these trips when I would go down to the bookstore seeking for new French literature. Although nothing new came to Argentina since 1939. But it’s the house I want to talk about, the house and Irene. As you entered the house through the hall, before you would be a wrought-iron grated door that opened to the living room. Our bedroom doors were on the opposite side of the iron door. There was another door which opened to a passage way that led to an oak door that released the other part of the house. Before this oak door, you can turn left and go down a narrower passage way which led to the kitchen and bathroom. Irene and I rarely went beyond the oak door, but house cleaning was an exception.
That moment will always be imbedded in my mine, it happened so sudden and without a fuss. It was eight at night and Irene was knitting as usual. I wanted water for tea so I walked down the corridor as far as the oak door. Turning I ended up in the kitchen, it was there where I heard something from the library or dining room. I soon came to the realization it was a chair being knocked over or a faint whisper. At the same time or a second later, I heard it at the end of the corridor closer to where the oak door was. By this time I was pressing myself against the door before it was too late. They have taken over the back part of the house.
The first few days were painful, since we had to leave so many things in the part of the house that was taken over. Though advantages came along with this like our cleaning was reduced, so we were able to wake up at nine thirty and still finish up before lunch. Irene seemed to manage because it left more time for knitting; however I felt a little lost without my French literature.
That night we were in Irene’s room. I told her I was thirsty so I wanted to head for the kitchen, I paused. I listened intently; from the door of the bedroom I heard the noise in the kitchen. Irene noticed how I froze so sudden and came next to me without a word. We stood listening to the noises, becoming surer they were coming from our side of the oak door. I remember then taking her arm and running toward the wrought-iron door. We then slammed the iron shut and before us were the door to the outside; it was dead silent by then. We were standing outside before the house as I locked the front door shut. I felt terrible, our house was taken over.
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