Beowulf

Viking Christianity: A Study in Interdependence

At first glance, Christianity and the pre-Christian Nordic warrior code appear to be completely opposing value systems. Christianity preaches, “love thy enemy” while the warrior code states “it is always better to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning” (p. 97, ll. 1384-1385). However, in Viking society, the two co-exist in a fundamental way. Purely violent interactions among and within the neighboring societies would devastate the population because everyone would kill everybody else. On the other hand, a morally idealistic society would be destroyed by nature because of an aversion to fighting. As a result of this, not only do Christianity and the pre-Christian Nordic Code coexist in Beowulf, one cannot survive without the other.
Christianity weaves a path in and out of Beowulf. The first pages begin with the lineage of the Geats (a parallel to Genesis – it also commenced with human lineage). Following this, God is frequently praised and thanked for victories, used as an explanation for trials, and dictates a many social norms. He is the root of authority, keeping at bay the carnage that would ensue without the influence of Christianity.
Even prior to Beowulf’s appearance, the presence of Christianity is strong. Grendel himself is described as “the Lord’s outcast” (p. 13, l. 169). In fact, in reaction to his appearance, the narrator goes into a description of how the Geats committed a nearly unforgivable sin by turning to heathen gods. “The Almighty Judge of good deeds and bad, the Lord God, Head of the Heavens and High King of the World, was unknown to them” (p. 15, ll. 180-183). The narrator is very clear: God is the ultimate judge of good and bad. He is an all-seeing omniscient judge, and the final word.
But God himself is not only all-seeing. In Beowulf, He becomes synonymous with the pre-existing Viking idea of fate. “The King of Glory… had posted a lookout who was a match for Grendel” (p. 45, ll. 665 – 667). God was the one who sent Beowulf. He, in His almighty wisdom was the being that chose to save the Geats from the horror that Grendel had inflicted upon them for years. And yet, when Beowulf describes his victory over the sea monsters, he states, “Often, for undaunted courage, fate spares the man it has not already marked” (p. 39, l. 572-573). For Geat society, fate has become interchangeable with God. Both decide the outcome of battles as well as who shall live and who shall die.
God is the superior being in Geat life. It is therefore imperative that He maintains the ability to control fate, and the actions and personalities of humans, or He loses the ability to contribute positively to society. God has become the source of morals for the Viking way of life. There is enough warring and fighting to protect the people from nature and hostile neighboring civilizations, but the morals are the counterbalance to a fundamentally violent people who would battle themselves, nature, and their neighbors to the point of extinction.
Despite its risks, violence does have a place. Donald Howard describes a warrior’s outlook as an “epic and fatalistic way of looking at things.” According to Chaucer (author of The Night’s Tale), Howard’s warrior outlook is “the way soldiers need to see life if they are to go on being soldiers” (“Beowulf and the Varieties of Choice”, p. 198). It is survival of the fittest. Those unable or unwilling to protect themselves would be destroyed.
Viking society is no different. As Beowulf himself points out, “It is always better to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning” (p. 97, ll. 1385-1386). It is a very un-Christian sentiment, but typical of the Vikings. It was imperative that the people “bear up” (p. 97, l. 1395), and either leave the sorrow behind them, or go out and retaliate. Sorrow was weakness, weakness was exploited, and an exploited weakness was akin to death.
The warrior code was crucial to Viking survival. However, it was also in desperate need of a counterbalance. Unending violence was, in the end, more detrimental then the tiniest bit of compassion. While warning Beowulf of the temptations of power, Hrothgar describes King Heremod, who took his power too far, became overzealous in his need to rule, ignored his weakness, and was destroyed by it. According to Hrothgar, Heremod “suffered in the end for having plagued his people for so long: his life lost happiness” (p. 119, ll. 1720-1722). Hrothgar’s words were very clear: an excessive amount of violence, corruption, and power would inevitably lead to death.
This message was reiterated as the story progressed. Again and again the need for Christianity, for morals, for a central “peacekeeping” code becomes apparent. The narrator himself notes that, “pillage and slaughter [had] emptied the earth of entire peoples” (p. 155, ll. 2265-2266). Pillage and slaughter. Or, in other terms, unchecked pre-Christian Viking Warrior Code.
Christianity became the balance that the pre-Christian Nordic Code was desperate for. Without a moral system to keep the violence in check, the pillage and slaughter would continue to empty the earth until there was nothing left. Beowulf was the exemplification of this belief. According to the narrator, “Beowulf bore himself with valour; he was formidable in battle yet behaved with honor and took no advantage” (p. 149, ll. 2177-2179). Beowulf is a fierce warrior, as was demonstrated through his battles, but he is also an honorable man who sticks to his morals. He never fought unless it was necessary, and was careful not to take advantage of an opponent. He is able to typify the equilibrium that was eventually established between Christianity and the pre-Christian Nordic Code.
Despite this co-existence, Christianity and the pre-Christian Nordic Code do not always reside well together. There were times throughout the book where the two appear to completely contradict one another. Following Beowulf’s triumph over Grendel’s mother, Hrothgar declared, “I praise God in His heavenly glory that I lived to behold this head dripping with blood” (p. 123, ll. 1776-1780). It is difficult to imagine how the two statements can weave together at all, let alone seamlessly. Praising God for violence is as unchristian as the Vikings could be. However, should present day Americans look into the past, God, in His many forms, has been used time and time again as the basis for violence. God supports one side. God is all deciding. God has his favorites. In fact, it is not the sentiment, so much as the wording that humans find so incongruent. Blood and God are difficult to mesh, and yet when Beowulf praises God for aiding him in his victory over Grendel, there is no negative reaction to the wording, despite the fact that Beowulf is praising and thanking God for violence. The same principal can be applied to Hrothgar’s declaration.
Viking society was inherently violent. Nature demanded aggressive, formidable, and fearsome people. However, survival also demands a moral code, a counterbalance to the brutal way of life that was quintessentially Viking. The two came to depend upon one another for survival. Too much of one side will lead to nothing but destruction, but just the right amount of each results in an interesting harmony.

San Domenico

Like most members of society, the person I see in the mirror every morning is far removed from the person I saw a year ago, a month ago, and even a week ago. Who I am is constantly growing and changing. I cannot tell every detail about who I will become as I progress through my life. What I can say with certainty is the person I am today is very different from the girl who transferred out of The Marin School her Freshman year, only to discover that it was exactly the place she needed to be. The journey was by no means easy – whose is? – but the discovery of who I was, who I needed to be, and what could make of myself was life-changing.
After experiencing a large, multicultural public middle school, I made the decision to explore a new educational experience. My freshman year of high school, I started at a unique school, very different from any education I had ever encountered. To say it was a culture shock would have been a huge understatement. Baffled by this new environment, I rebelled. I cut myself off from all of the enriching opportunities The Marin School could offer me and focused only on the perceived limitations. I wanted to leave as quickly as I could. I got my wish. At the beginning of my sophomore year, I found myself sitting down in new classrooms, dressed in uniform, and surrounded by girls I had never met before. I was positive everything would fall into place.
Unfortunately, I was quick to learn that San Domenico didn’t offer the academic experience I was looking for either. I was functioning in the typical high school setting depicted in a wide range of media outlets, but it wasn’t satisfying my craving for intellectual and social belonging. I wasn’t happy. It was becoming increasingly clear that the school that would be best for me was going to be the school that I threw myself into whole-heartedly. By the start of the next semester, I was again walking the halls of The Marin School, only this time with a new perspective. I dove in. I got involved in soccer, Student Counsel, and Yearbook. I took a Junior/Senior level creative writing class, and worked tirelessly to gain all the learning I could. For the first time in my life I wasn’t passively expecting the information to be drilled into me. I was going out to find it myself.
Rather than confining myself to the extra-curricular and educational opportunities already offered, I strived to expand The Marin School programs, and myself, to include new ideas and possibilities. I found myself thriving in a school I had once written off as too out-of-the-box for me. Throughout my time at The Marin School, I have taken almost all of the academic courses offered. I find myself taking assignments that intrigue me and putting in extra research to take them one step farther. When we covered Lewis and Clark in Modern Native American History, I found myself at home reading Undaunted Courage from cover to cover. I created a mentoring program for the K-8 school up the road from TMS, and helped organize countless Student Counsel fundraisers and events. I wanted to be able to look back at my high school career and say, “I did that. I created something. I learned.”
My journey through high school was not the simplest it could have been, and at time it was downright infuriating. It taught me to learn from my mistakes, to open myself to new ideas, and to reach out and take hold of my own destiny. I could create and guide my own life experiences, but I had to be willing to put in the time and the effort. I had to hold the reins.
It is this knowledge that I carry with me as I journey into the rest of my life. I remind myself constantly to be open to the new the creative, the unique. I shouldn’t ever be satisfied with the minimum offered, but I should take charge and pursue more. My misconceptions taught me that sometimes you have to work through the difficult hours to appreciate the good ones, and that most often, if you take off the blinders, the brilliance will find a way in.

Update

Hey guys,

Long time - no blogging. Sorry for the neglect. Things have been insanely busy, and I really haven't had the opportunity to write anything, let alone something profound and interesting. However, just in case you guys were wondering, I have been writing - yay for school and college applications. Just a warning - the next few posts will be essays (some more lax than others), so if the idea of reading polished and hopefully semi-academic writing doesn't appeal to you stay tuned and hopefully I will be able to post some more fun creations shortly.

Until then,
Melanie

Empty Chairs

Empty chairs line the walls like guards
They crave company
"See me!" They scream
Unaware that they block the entrance
The center is empty.
The chairs remain stoically by the doors.
They wait, patient, unmoving.
One day a banging is heard.
Someone wants to get in!
But the chairs have sat alone too long.
Dust weighs them down
Inertia is their greatest enemy.
They yell at each other to move, at the person to come in
But the walls hold firm
Soon footsteps can be heard retreating.
The chairs wait again.
Never realizing that the longer they stay,
The more people they turn away.

There Is Always A Bigger Fish

The water stretches out in all directions, flitting, glittering, and changing. It goes on, and on, and on. Its surface littered with the dots of otter head and birds, until it clashes with the incoming fog. The two battle, wave after wave pouring in, but the fog is relentless, calling to its fellows for reinforcements from over the hills. The mighty ocean stands no chance. The otters slowly disappear, searching for warmer waters. The birds fly away, circling high over the invading forces. The fish stop jumping, protected below the surface, hiding from the oncoming chill. But the fog has not won. Slowly, a new player enters the field, literally burning off the fog. At first there are only small cracks of brilliant light, but they grow larger and connect, and the fog crumbles to the power of the sun. However, its triumph lasts only so long. Sure as the tides the moon rises to the occasion, shoving the sun back after the fog to disappear behind the mountains, only to give way once more to the sea and the fog.

The Story Continued

Hey guys,

So I was informed by my very encouraging father that I have utterly failed at blogging. i.e. I have to write more, and post more in order to keep all of you interested in following something that started out as an easy way to stop Mom from asking me for different things that I had written to show to her friends. This was supposed to be easier, but I suppose, like most things in life, it is not what I expected. In attempting to create an escape from any obligation to the things I write, I have instead found myself caught in a net of continued service to the words bouncing around in my brain. And all of this sounds so much more dramatic and unlikable than it really is. I enjoy writing, so perhaps I should instead thank my loving mother for helping me to find an interesting, if common, way to release the letters.

So, with all of this in mind, I can inform all of you that I have, contrary to parental belief, continued to write. However, it has yet to be unleashed into cyberspace, and instead resides within the protective binding of my notebook (which most of you have probably seen me with at some point or another). I hereby promise to pull the less-confusing-and-sucky random pieces of writing and plop them into Melly Land to frolic and be happy, and for all of you to read and (hopefully) enjoy.

Hope all is well,
Mel

Running From Emotions

Have you ever driven down an empty country road at two in the morning? The windows are rolled all the way down, as if the wind itself could carry away the emotional pressure. With the turbulent all-consuming storm raging inside your body, you'd expect the music to be blasting: hater, anger, love, and sorrow thrown in with the bass to be blasted into eternity. It's not like that. Instead, the music remains low, a gentle hum to drown out the oppressive silence. Memories flit across the windshield. It's characters are ghostly, there for only a moment before they fade into the black, a part of the emotional well outside your mental box.
It can be a heady experience. Time, just every once in a while, slows down. It lulls. Sorrow can appear to stop the clock, in the same way happiness can sometimes race against time and win. Perhaps therein lies the reasoning behind sorrow. In a world where time runs rampant, tossing around humans like dandelions in the breeze, sorrow alone possesses the power to hamper the clock, pulling it back and reminding it that no matter how strong you are, there is always something out there that is stronger. More powerful. Look at our emotions. How powerful are they?

Life

(In loving memory of Edward Feigon, my Papa, written June 8, 2009)

I saw my life today.
I saw my life flit by at the race track.
I saw it turn its head and grin.
I cried out, and took off, desperate to catch up.
It giggled, taunting me.
It shades changed as it rounded each bend.
First buckskin, then bay, then back again.
I watched in horror as it stumbled, almost fell.
It limped for a half mile.
But just as I caught up, it sprinted off again.
I watched my life leap obstacles.
This one small, the next one bigger.
The final one looked to large.
But my life counted strides, it prepared.
And in one desperate move, hurdled the jump, and trotted off, tired.
I stopped trying to catch up.
I stood and watched as my life cantered away,
Soon out of my line of vision.
I turned.
I noticed flowers in the center of the track, glittering brilliantly.
I bent, and plucked one from its fellows.
As i straitened, the flower in my hand,
My life trotted up, nudged me in the shoulder, and stood quietly by my side.

Timelines

(Written at the end of Junior year)

The night wasn’t any different than any other. I was sprawled out in my room, the ceiling blurring as I procrastinated on the growing mountain of homework that lay in a jagged line across my desk. The was phone pressed into my ear, my screaming anchor to reality. A friend chatted incessantly. Some boy was just the perfect person and oh my god she had to have him and did she even know his name?
I was called down for dinner. The blue of the carpet was dulled by years of abuse, streaks from riding down them on the back of the ginormous red dog I had insisted on naming blue. There were stains here and there, a testament to the fact that ours was not a show house. People lived and moved and breathed here. They were human, made mistakes, held a glass just wrong so that a sprinkling of wine managed to actually touch the carpet. A drop of blood in the middle of the living room from that time when Mom was cutting my nails. I didn’t even notice the pain until she murmured “oops” and I looked down to find my finger gushing a red river that consisted of one drop of my life.
Dinner. Monotonous. My place, my brothers, my fathers, my mothers. “How was school?”
“Fine.”
“Learn anything new?”
“Sure.” Droning, and half coherent, but tonight wasn’t like that. Instead, “father... moving out… we’re not happy.” Broken words to match the breaking heart. Chili turned to dust. It piled up, clogging all my thoughts and sensations. My throat contracted, desperately attempting to digest, as my mind flew in a million different directions. I needed to be gone.
“You guys handled that one great.” My brothers words floated after me, drowned out by the gunshot as the bowl hit the counter. Out. Out. Out. Images flashing, the slideshow on steroids, as picture after picture slipped through my memory.
The little girl on the swing, mind-warped from the idea of a loss of parental figure. “Would you guys ever split up?”
“No baby, your dad and I are very happy together. You don’t have anything to worry about.” The sun beats down on my already tan skin as the swing creaks on its hinges and I fly higher and higher, with warm comfort below to catch me should I loose my grip and fall.
“Sometimes things don’t work out, but that doesn’t change the way your father and I feel about you.” The comfort slowly slips away, like the grains of sand used to when I was that little girl at the park. Some things don’t work out. Most things don’t work out. I never wanted that much, just an intact family there, the steady pole to hold onto throughout everything.
Anger and bile rose like the tide as another memory pushed past the rest. Hurt, accusations. Shouting fills the room, the sound cramming itself into the corners as it flees from the words sure to follow. Emotional daggers, so sharp and strong that they could pierce the strongest armor, and bring a person to their knees from the pain, begin flying. “You are just a suck up little bitch.” We limp off the battle field, weak kneed and bleeding, to lick our wounds and forget the past.
Pain. Whirling and spinning, as I groped at the phone. My one time attachment to reality became an escape portal I was desperate for. I had to go. I had to leave. Too much hurt. On overload I whirled as -
Thunder claps, roaring as the flash immediately answers. My dad and I sit, staring up at the infuriated sky, watching as lighting illuminated the street, throwing into view the silver of a scooter before the figure was swallowed by the blackness once again.
I barrel through the door, the already cracked white pain shattering just a little bit more in my rush to explain it all. “Mommy! Mommy! I have something to show you!” I grab her hand and tug, impatience making me forget that there were bones and mussels attached to my handle. I hear laughter behind me as she trots after my excited little legs. “Mom! I want to show you something.” It wasn’t my voice. It was to boyish. My hold is ripped away as she turned and disappears into my brother’s abyss.
I stared at the door handle, terrified. Hurt. Reality. Truth. It lay on the other side of that splintered protective wall. The metal was cool beneath my fingertips, slippery. Groaning in protest, the doorway widens, and I am forced to face my most desperate of fears.
Five years later I discovered the truth: my life is not a continuous timeline but instead it is made up of a multitude of flashes and snapshots, hours of boredom on end, epiphanies, and emotions that manage string together in a jumbled mess that I am somehow supposed to sift through at the end. There are defining moments, and random bits and pieces that are remembered because of a long lost effect they had on me, but when the truth comes down to it, I am simply my memories, my experiences, and my emotions.

Society Is Bipolar

Emotions.
Running, pulsing, pushing, grabbing, torrent emotions.
The teenage brain.
A stew of hormones, each one competing, desperately needing to be on top.
The things we feel are no jokes at all.
They remain real, painfully so, keeping us awake at night and crazy during the day.
Wanting to be mature,
Desperate to stay young forever.
Too much fat, not enough abs, my hair’s not right.
Pages of the magazine ring criticism as it rains down like confetti.
Glossy, sleek.
Ribs are the new cloths with hands to cover the things we don’t want others to see.
Sex sells and spreads like fire in a gasoline-drowned forest.
Popularity.
The line between slut and well-liked blurs, thinning like a stretched rubber band.
Will it snap?
Love, hate, anger, pain
Al accessible, all combustible.
Bi-polar means nothing in the world of swirling troubles, and everyone’s caught the disease.
Adults tell us we’re over dramatic, or peers tell us we’ve become much to static and teachers tell us we must be more dynamic.
Can’t I just be me?
The me is too plain, too boring, too much and not enough
I blush at the wrong time, laugh to loud, and my shirts aren’t low cut enough.
Thoughts and feelings and emotions.
Bitch. Slut. Whore.
The words splatter the walls like gore
And I just can’t take it anymore
No more.
But how do we make it stop?

Are We Insane?

(Written midway though Junior year)

This rush of emotion sending commotion floundering and flickering through my brain.
Have I gone insane?
I pride myself on the lessons learned so hard by others,
But this fanatically extreme world seems to smother
The senseless mutterings of an understanding mother
Always ready to give another
Truth.
Stuffed in the brain blood-splattered by the pain is a comically deranged me.
Striving desperately to become the stupendously confident self I was always supposed to be.
But that is not I.
I resides in the time between times.
In a world of hideous hidden shadows and fears
Forever pushing near,
Grabbing at the tattered remains of what used to be held so dear.
Am I now your greatest fear?
Or am I instead the truth hidden in the deepest part of your human closet?
Push aside the dresses and shirts, the pants and skirts, and there I reside.
There is no more reason to hide.
"We have nothing to fear but fear itself"
The jeering crowd erupts into cheers, finally prepared to shove aside its fears.
And then they awake, trembling and fake,
Aching from the rush of emotion which sends a commotion floundering and flickering through their brains.
Maybe we are all insane.

The Horror of Starbucks

(written during Writers' Workshop Sophomore year. Written to be envisioned as a stage-play)

Characters
BROOK RYAN – 17. Straight brown hair with dark pink streaks in it. Only child. 5’8. Works at Starbucks. Friends with her coworker, Tiffany.

TIFFANY – 18. Black hair. Lots of eye make up. 5’6. Pretty. Works with Brook at Starbucks.

EMILY – mid 40’s. Very snobbish. Rude. In a very pink suit. Too much make-up.

CHARLES – mid 40’s. Rude. Arrogant. 5’4. Painfully thin. Likes to wear suits.

Setting
Starbucks on the corner of a busy street. Full length windows allowing anybody to see inside.
[Brook and Tiffany are working behind the counter. Brook is manning the cash register while Tiffany makes the drinks. There are a few people drinking tea and coffee at different tables throughout the cafe. The door opens, and EMILY walks in. She gets in line behind a few people. The line moves, semi-slowly and EMILY looks annoyed and continuously fidgets, as if she has somewhere very important to be and this is holding her up. She finally reaches the head of the line.]

BROOK: [Looking politely disinterested.] Hello, ma’am. What can I get for you today?

EMILY: [Impatiently.] You can start by not calling me ma’am. I’m not old. Then you can get me a half-caf, no fat soy late, with just a hint of foam.

BROOK: What size?

EMILY: [Even more impatient now.] Tall. I already told you that.

BROOK: [Rolls her eyes and hits a few buttons on the cash register.] Anything else ma’am?

EMILY: [Shortly] No. That’s it.
‘
BROOK: That’ll be $4.79.

[EMILY pulls out a coach wallet and hands BROOK a five dollar bill.]

EMILY: [Sneering.] Keep the change.

[Brook plasters a sneering smile on her face and reaches for the bill.]

BROOK: [In a sickeningly sweet voice.] Thank you ma’am, you have a nice day.

[EMILY glares at BROOK and then goes and sits down at a corner table, pulls out a computer, and begins to type importantly.]

BROOK: [aside to TIFFANY] What a witch.

TIFFANY: [making EMILY’s drink] Ignore her. She’s not worth it.

BROOK: I guess, but you know how much I hate people like her.

TIFFANY: Yeah, I know, I hate them too, and I’m fuming inside, but that still doesn’t make her worth it.

BROOK: [sighing] True, true.

[TIFFANY finishes the drink and hands it to BROOK, who turns back to the café.]

TIFFANY: [with a fake smile, and mocking tone] Have fun.

BROOK: [Glaring] You take far too much pleasure from my pain. [speaking to the tables] Tall half-caf, non-fat soy latte, with just a bit of foam.

[EMILY ignores the call]

BROOK: [impatient] Tall, no-caf, non-fat soy latte!

[EMILY gets up regally from her seat, walks over and picks up her latte, then returns to her table. BROOK turns to TIFFANY and appears to be about to say something when EMILY take a sip of her latte and spits it back out.]

EMILY: [Enraged] What is this?! [EMILY comes stalking back to the counter as people throughout the café watch in shock.] I told you I wanted a half-caf, no fat soy latte, with just a little bit of foam. [pointing at the top of her drink, which has very little foam] Does this look like a little bit of foam?

BROOK: [looking at the foam, a bit confused] Looks like it to me.

EMILY: Well let me tell you right now it is NOT just a little bit of foam. You need to remake it this instant.

BROOK: [pacifying EMILY] Yes, ma’am I’m sorry. We’ll have it remade.

EMILY: I am not a ma’am!

[BROOK ignores EMILY, takes the latte and throws it out, then proceeds over to TIFFANY]

BROOK: Remake the latte and be sure that there is only a little bit of foam.

TIFFANY: [hands BROOK the finished latte] I know, I heard. Take this one out to her.

[BROOK takes the latte back to EMILY, who is still standing at the counter]

BROOK: Here you go ma’am.

EMILY: [sneering] I hope you did it right this time.

[EMILY again goes back to her table, and BROOK begins to serve the next customer. EMILY again takes a sip, and then spits it back out, and storms back to the counter. BROOK, seeing her coming, takes a deep breath]

EMILY: Are you trying to kill me?!

BROOK: [attempting to sooth her] I’m sorry, ma’am. What seems to be the –

EMILY: [holding out the cup] There is regular milk in this latte! Regular! I specifically asked for soy milk. I am on a very strict diet, and you are giving me regular milk in my latte.

BROOK: Ma’am, I’m sure the milk was soy.

EMILY: [hysterical] This is not soy! I want you to remake it this instant!

[CHARLES shows up behind the counter]

CHARLES: [looking pointedly at BROOK] Is there a problem here, Miss Ryan?

BROOK: [smiling brightly] Not at all, sir, I was just about to remake this woman’s latte.

CHARLES: [talking to EMILY] What appears to be the problem with the latte, miss?

EMILY: [immediately brightening] I was very specific in saying that I wished for my latte to be soy. I am on a very strict diet, and I need soy.

CHARLES: [looking at the latte] Of course. It must be remade immediately. [to the side] Tiffany!

TIFFANY: [looking up] Yeah?

CHARLES: [handing her the late] This needs to be remade. And make absolutely sure that it is made with soy and not regular milk.

TIFFANY: You can’t be serious.

CHARLES: I’m very serious. This latte was not made properly and therefore needs to be remade. [smiling to EMILY] Free of charge.

[TIFFANY and BROOK look at each other, then TIFFANY sighs, takes the latte and goes back to make it again. CHARLES takes EMILY by the arm and begins to lead her back towards her table.]

CHARLES: [talking to EMILY] I am so sorry about this mix up. I can assure you this is a fine establishment and that things like this do not happen very often at all…

[The voices begin to fade, though the audience can still see CHARLES leaning over EMILY’S table and talking to her. TIFFANY and BROOK are talking to each other, while TIFFANY makes the latte]

TIFFANY: Can you believe this? Some people I swear are just completely over the top. Regular milk, not soy? Does she think I’m stupid. Of course I made it with soy milk

BROOK: I know.

TIFFANY: And the way she acts like she’s better than everybody else! God! I hate people like that!

BROOK: I know, but there’s really nothing we can do about it

TIFFANY: [every movement done with angry gestures] Too much foam? Too much foam?! Are you kidding me?!

[TIFFANY jerks her hands in anger, and ends up accidentally dropping the now almost finished latte. BROOK automatically steps in.]

BROOK: Here, let me do that.

TIFFANY: I’m sorry. People like her just make me so mad. I mean one thing wrong is OK, but stalking up here twice. On the stupidest things? I mean, I have a right to be mad don’t I?

BROOK: Of course you do. She’s obviously not someone either you or I would want to know, but there’s nothing you can do. [BROOK finishes the latte and moves back to the counter] I’ll be back.

[BROOK heads over to EMILY’S table where she and CHARLES are still talking. CHARLES looks up, sees BROOK, and stops talking.]

BROOK: [placing the latte in front of EMILY] Here you go ma’am. I’m so sorry for all the trouble.

EMILY: [sticking her nose in the air] Well, you should be. I don’t believe I’ve ever had worse service in my life.

BROOK: [taking a deep breath] I’m very sorry ma’am, I hope this is to your liking.

EMILY: Stop calling me ma’am. I’m not old.

BROOK: Yes, well. Enjoy your drink.

[BROOK walks back to the counter and begins helping customers again. CHARLES disappears back behind the counter again]

BROOK: [to the next customer] Hello sir, how may I help you today?

CUSTOMER: I’d like a green tea, please?

[EMILY rises and begins walking over to the counter]

BROOK: Not a problem. It’ll be-

EMILY: [indignant] It is way too loud in here. I have very important work and this shop is far too loud.

[BROOK and the CUSTOMER look at EMILY in shock]

BROOK: Ma’am, I’m sorry but this is a public place, I have no control over the noise level.

EMILY: I insist that the volume in here be lowered.

BROOK: Ma’am, there is nothing I can do.

EMILY: I pay good money for some service here, and I expected to be treated the right way.

BROOK: Ma’am –

EMILY: Don’t call me ma’am! I have told you a thousand times today. I am not old!

BROOK: [loosing her temper] Fine! Miss, if you could just go sit down and drink your half-caf, no fat, soy late, with just a hint of foam, and let me do my job it would be much appreciated.

EMILY: [sputtering] How… how dare you speak to me in this manner. I am a very imp-

BROOK: Important person. Yes, I know. And right now you are a major pain in my ass. I have re-made your latte, which by the way had nothing wrong with it, three times. I have listened to you act pompous and better than everyone else. And I am telling you now to shut up, sit down and drink your drink, or to please leave. Either way, I don’t really care. Just leave me alone.

EMILY: How dare you! I want to speak to the manager this instant.

CHARLES: [appearing again] And the manager would like to talk to you, Miss Ryan. In my office. Now.

BROOK: Are you kidding me? When this woman –

CHARLES: My office. Now.

[BROOK glares and then stalks towards the back, and through a door. CHARLES watches her go. TIFFANY does the same, with a look of shock plastered to her face. Once BROOK has gotten though the door, CHARLES turns back to the still enraged EMILY]

CHARLES: I am so sorry about this misunderstanding. I can assure you that it is not a regular occurrence. I would love to give you a few coupons to have anything you wish here for free.

EMILY: You can keep them. You can be sure that I will not be frequenting this… place… again.

[EMILY turns regally, collects her possessions, and stalks out the door. The rest of the people in Starbucks watch with shock. CHARLES turns to TIFFANY]

CHARLES: You’re working the counter for the rest of your shift. I will call Jeremy and ask him to come in early.

TIFFANY: What about Brook?

CHARLES: She will not be working here any longer.

TIFFANY: Charles, the woman was horrible. You can hardly blame Brook for losing it.

CHARLES: I can and do, and unless you wish to join her in unemployment, I suggest you help the customers waiting.

[CHARLES turns on his heal, and stalks back through the door.]

The Effects of Plaster

(written for Writers' Workshop, Sophomore year)

The explosion reverberated throughout the room, smashing windows and causing the walls to crack in long, jagged lines. Tyler jerked awake, narrowly avoiding being hit in the head by a falling piece of his ceiling. “What the-” His words were cut off as more plaster came raining down. Letting out a stream of swearwords, he dove for the doorway, thinking he would wait there until the shaking stopped. A hole appeared in his crumbling walls, showing a man with a backpack strapped to him. He stood there, just a split second before the wall came down in a pile of chippings, sending powder flying. Coughing into his arm, Tyler waved at the air. Still struggling to breath, he tripped over to the place where his wall had once been, and looked out, hoping to catch sight of the mysterious figure that had appeared, but there was nothing to see but a bunch of rubble.
Shaking his head, Tyler looked around his plaster-strewn floor, searching in vain for the cloths he had slipped off the night before, prior to sliding into bed. When the search proved futile, Tyler hobbled over to his dresser, cutting his bare feet as he went, and pulled out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Jerking the jeans on over his boxers, Tyler thought about the figure he had seen. Who would be standing outside a house in the middle of an explosion? The shirt slid over his head, catching on his ear, before resting on his shoulders.
“Where are my shoes?” Tyler muttered to himself. He looked around, catching sight of his ruined closet. Tyler wandered over, careful about where he placed his feet, attempting to avoid any more cuts. He failed, and even had to stop once as a particularly sharp piece of rubble embedded into his foot. Cursing, and fighting the urge not to hop up and down on one foot, Tyler continued his journey.
The closet was in ruins, and it took a good ten minutes before Tyler could clear enough rubble to even hope to find his shoes. The first was in the corner, the second more towards the front. Tyler pulled them on, and picked his way less carefully over to his destroyed wall.
His street was in shambles. Everywhere he looked there were houses crumbling, holes in walls, windows shattered on the street, and every step caused a new plume of powder to rise up and engulf his shoes. It was deserted. Not a soul in sight. Didn’t anybody know what happened? Wasn’t anybody else around? Figuring he may was well explore, and see if anyone else was alive, Tyler turned, and came face to face with the figure he had seen before.
The skin was pale, almost transparent, and the eyes held the haunted look of a person who had lived too long, and seen too much, but he couldn’t have been more then twenty years old. His hair was cropped short, nearly shaved, but it had a dead, dirty look to it, as if it hadn’t been washed in weeks, and was slowly rotting away. On his chest, there was a little “Hello my name is:” name-tag, and long, loopy letters had written in the name Phil. It was burnt around the edges.
Phil turned suddenly, as if annoyed with Tyler’s scrutiny, and glided down the street. His gait couldn’t be described as a walk. It really wasn’t one. There wasn’t the bobbing motion that comes naturally to humans, but instead an out-of-world smoothness, as if his feet weren’t really touching the ground, only floating over it. Frustrated with a growing sense of unease, Tyler hurried to catch up.
They walked for a while in complete silence, Phil as if he needed to find something, and Tyler wondering what was going on. After fifteen minutes, Tyler could take no more. “Where do you live?” He asked the pale figure next too him. Phil turned his head, and the look he gave Tyler begged for understanding, but he said nothing, and soon turned back to what awaited them ahead. Tyler, however, continued to study the young man next to him.
Where could he have come from? Tyler wondered. There wasn’t a spec of plaster on Phil anywhere, despite the fact that he had walked through the street, same as Tyler had. Even if he hadn’t been in a building that collapsed, he must have gotten some of the dust on him, but it wasn’t there. Not the smallest, miniscule piece. It didn’t make any sense.
Tyler had fallen behind Phil, lost in his own thoughts, and would have walked straight into him, had he not tripped over a spare piece of rubble in the middle of the sidewalk, and plummeted to the ground, landing just a few inches away from Phil’s right toe. Phil looked down at him, and Tyler could have sworn he saw amusement flickering in the back of Phil’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly there was no way to be sure. Tyler brought himself up with dignity, and turned, only to gape, openmouthed at what Phil was staring at with deep, pensive eyes.
A crater resided where the orphanage had once been. Glass was spread out in bits all over the street, and tiny pieces of charred wood could be found around the area. Tyler bent down and picked up a small gold chain. “Someone bombed the orphanage?” He asked in complete and utter horror. Phil only stared. He opened his mouth to speak and started beeping. Tyler looked on, confused before he jerked awake.
The piercing blue eyes remained vivid, but slowly faded as Tyler looked around the room, half expecting to find a hole in his wall, and plaster covering his floor. Instead, he found his room as clean as it had been, with his cloths from the night before in a line leading from the doorway to his bed. Trying to shake himself out of the dream, Tyler rolled out of bed and headed into the bathroom.
He was in front of the mirror by the time he realized he was fully dressed, and bits of plaster were sticking to his shirt.

Icy Task

(also from 8th grade)

The swimmers looked at their icy task

To beat the competitor to the side

Each had prepared hours a day

For this lengthy ride

Swimmers take your marks

The voice came loud over the rectangular water

The buzzing beep sounded loud and clear

And the swimmers learned to fly

The water awakened the fish as they landed

The strokes came soon and beat away

The roars of the crowed drowned out so effortlessly

By the beat of steady wings, the swimmers after their prey

The water raced by as the swimmers arms pumped

One pulled ahead of the pack

Then came the turn and off they went

Racing on their backs

Each stroke so powerful, the roar became louder

The screams just halfway hoarse

Legs and arms not quiet yet tired

Stamina gained from a long swimming course

The turn, it came, the swimmers gone again

This time each became a frog

And crept along the pool

Until they reached the end

And turn once more they did

And this time headed for home

The roar grew and the arms they flew

Each swimmer holding his own

Down to the wire

Three swimmers they raced

While the stragglers hurried

Trying to keep up with the pace

And kicking and thrashing

They all came crashing

Down to the wall

This final time

Each one stretching out as far as they could

And touched the wall with a thump

Then quickly turned and looked at the clock

Had they beaten their task and won?

For the swimmers had looked at their icy task

To beat the competitor to the side

Each had prepared hours a day

For this lengthy ride

Free

(from 8th grade)

This day I live to die one day again,

For all must die one day when comes the end.

Yet all cant wait for this to become true,

And so we live our lives each day by day.

And so when we are finally finished,

The goods and bads and turn-arounds are done.

For those who look for the most life can give,

This day will live to die one day again.

This life comes only once to everyone.

Each day live as though it were the last one.

Live each day to the fullest it can be.

Pack in all the living you can in life.

Take every experience in stride;

Hold on tight for this lengthy, rocky ride