“If I could dream,” he says. “If only I could dream!”

His muted laugh tumbles out his throat like rubble- small pebbles of sarcastic joy. I suppose he has not realised yet, but he is crying. Silver pearls of tears forming at the brim of his eyes, threatening to spill at any given moment. Sitting quietly on that rocking boat, as glittering, salty currents danced among us, I finally realised that it was actually me who was the unfortunate one.

“If only I could dream,” he repeats. “I would dream of seeing.”

“Why can’t you dream?” I ask in a voice above a whisper. “What’s stopping you?”

His milky blue eyes gaze out at the magnificent expanse of water, though there was no

question that he could not actually see it, could not marvel at its beauty. I always imagined that he was silently creating an image of what he expected the sea to be, conjuring up a whole spectrum of colours, weaving his own world.

“What is the colour of the sea?”

Had it been a few days ago I would’ve been left dumbfounded by his sudden, nonsensical

question. It seems like a lifetime since I first met him, but in just three days I’ve grown

accustomed to his random questions, I’ve gotten used to the fact that he is blind, and has

always been blind, and will always be blind. I’ve come to know him as the beautiful tragedy he is.

“I cannot tell you the colour of the sea,” I say to him honestly. “What a struggle that would be for me.”

His eyebrows furrow, and knit together in confusion. “Why not?” He asks. “You can see,

can’t you?”

“Yes, I can, and that is often the problem.”

Laughing almost bitterly, he turns to face me at such an approximate angle that it would’ve baffled me to know he was blind. “How can seeing be a problem of any kind?”

I look out at the sea, and for the first time in my whole life as a fisherman, I tried to really

look at it, to understand it, to interpret its song. “Well,” I begin. “The sea is often a master of deception. In the morning, with the sunrise reflected on it, it appears to be a velvety shade of pink and blue and purple. In the afternoon, under the blazing heat, it looks a glimmering aquamarine. Come sundown, the sea seems to soak up the colour of the sky above- it is a lush red, spilling like thick, hot blood. But at night, it is a pitch black, an enemy to sailors, the colour of death.”

I pause and look over at him, who seems to be deep in thought.

“So you see,” I say. “I cannot tell you the colour of the sea. I can never truly believe what I am seeing.”

He says nothing still, but I know he’s listening. Digesting whatever it is I told him, trying to figure out himself the true shade of the waters surrounding us.

“What did you think was the colour of the sea?”

He looks up abruptly, again directly at me, although he could not actually see me. “Well,” he begins. “I’m not so much an expert on colours, but I always thought the sea to be yellow.”

“Yellow?” I repeat. “But why?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says he. “Perhaps just because of the way it sounds- yellow. Doesn’t just saying the word give you a certain feeling? Like having squelching sand feel warm in

between your toes. Doesn’t the word help you imagine the rustle of water against the sea

bed? Doesn’t the whole sea just feel yellow to you?”

He pauses a bit and waits, and stares off again into the horizon. Nothing could be heard

except the ‘rustle’ of the water, the sea birds squawking in the distance, and the mumbles

of the fishing village we called home.

“I wonder,” he murmurs. “I wonder if seeing colours are just as good as feeling them. Or

maybe better?”

There in that little boat, I hold my peace- never before have I been rendered speechless as I am now. For some reason, I feel my words could not hold the weight of him. Somehow,

though never before, sitting beside a person who felt colours made me feel inadequate and small; as if I was but a child again and I didn’t know anything about the world.

I pick up the oars and begin rowing us back to shore, the sun was beginning to set and it

painted the whole world in a golden film. I tell him, “Wouldn’t I like to live in a world where I could feel yellow. It’s my favourite colour, you know.”

The boy smiles, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile so genuinely. It starts small but

stretches out wider and wider, like a crescent moon. What a smile.

“Well,” he says in return. “Nothing would please me more than to let you have a feel of my colours in exchange for a glimpse at your fickle sea.”

He smiles against the orange, evening sun as the wind blows strong torrents against his

sculpted face. “Wow,” he breathes. “What wouldn’t I give to be deceived by the sea.”

"I did it!" She smiled up at me. She sat cross-legged on the floor, blood streaming out of her chest, pooling into her lap, and down the sides of her legs. Eyes wild and hands dripping red, she held up her own heart. Each beat like the tick of a too-fast clock. She looked me dead in the eye, "It was destroying me. So I took it out." Hot blood bubbled down her shirt as she sighed, "And now I can breathe."

Do you live

Across the street

From a creature with big hairy feet?

If you do it must be true

So I should come to live with you.

I’d like to meet big hairy feet

And toe to toe I’d say hello

Don’t go, I know, I know, I know

You have big hairy feet I see

But so do I, you’re just like me.

Such glee!

Don't go into the woods, girl, on All Hallows' Eve.

Any other time, you are safe, for the world of the fae is sealed by an impenetrable barrier. But on this night, and this night only, they can cross into the world of men.

Oh, I know, girl, you wish to make a deal. Everyone does, at first. But a smart girl will stay away from the monsters in the forest, the fae who will steal everything you have and give you nothing in return.

Fair? The fae don't play fair. To them, the greatest reward a human can receive is death, for our mortal souls are weak and unfit for this world. They will not heal your dying mother, they will not make you rich, and they will not give you magic of your own.

Instead they will give you pain, and fear, and sorrow. They will call it a fair trade and you will not be able to argue, for who can argue with the fae?

No, stay away from those woods. They are looking for someone like you, someone young and weak and easily tricked. Someone who will give them waht they desire most: A human soul, for all the magic in the world cannot stop a human soul from crossing the barrier. Your soul is freedom, and you must not give it to them, though they will try to convince you it's only a soul. They cannot know the value of your soul, for they have none.

Trust not a word they say. Trust no one on this terrible day, for the barrier is thin and the woods are not the only danger. Buy nothing, sell nothing, don't shake a hand or make a promise or give your name. You are in danger, every moment you spend in the company of another.

Oh, you'll be different? Only one woman has ever evaded the fae, my dear. And yes, she was different.

But she suffered, in the end. The fae were angry and they could not be stopped in their wrath. The girl is alive, but the moment her heart stops beating she will be a servant of the fae, her soul belonging to the monsters.

Why do I know?

Darling, don't ask that. Ask what you can do to stop her, stop her from giving up her soul to the fae.

Because she will be dragged down into the depths of hell, but perhaps her soul can stay.

Yes, take it child, take the girl's soul. Stay away from the demons and survive, survive this night. The fae will have the girl but not the soul, and your world will be safe.

Why do I know?

Well, darling, whose soul do you think you'll be taking?

lonely souls in blue sweaters,

wanting to be better.

lost hearts with jumbled speeches,

trying to be better.

they wander, trying to find wonder.

search a home, away from home.

carrying overweight bags

that they don't want to let go.

they walk along, all hoping,

that they will become better.

song: st. petersburg by reese lansangan

Lord Of The Flies Archetype Paper

In William Golding’s Lord Of The Flies, many curious and interesting archetypes can be found, which are often dark in tone and nature. The whole point of the novel was to thoroughly investigate the topic of the “Noble Savage” and show that no matter what you do, man has basic instincts that will take over if left unsupervised. Because of the fact that the author wished to convey a deeper meaning in the book, the passages are riddled with many archetypes and double meanings, all of which contribute to the characters overall development. One of the more prominent archetypes is the weapons, which represent death and the act of killing, hate and focused ambition, and the overall degradation of the children into a savage like and unorganized society.

In the beginning of the novel, the weapons represent death and the act of killing. Early on, the children made spears in order to hunt the pigs which are native to the island. This perfectly innocent concept, however it is used in the beginning, is the contributing factor to Jack’s gradual bloodlust and need to kill. The children are not happy with the weapons when the idea was first brought up, and treat them like a soldier would treat a new gun he is unfamiliar with. The children are also extremely uncomfortable with the whole concept of taking a life, even an animal’s. In the beginning, Jack attempts to kill a pig, but realizes he does not have it in him and misses his chance.

They found a piglet caught in a curtain of creepers, throwing itself at the elastic

traces in all the madness of extreme terror. It’s voice was thin, needle-sharp,

and insistent. The three boys rushed forward and Jack drew his knife again

with a flourish. He raised his arm in the air, There came a pause, a hiatus, the

pig continued to scream, and the blade continued to flash at the end of a bony

arm. The pause was only long enough to understand what an enormity the

downward stroke would be. (31)

Later however, as Jack gets becomes accustomed to distryong life, the weapons are used much more frequently, and in many more gruesome ways. They are also used as a symbol of authority, and to threaten people who waver in their ways.

Here, stuck down by the heat, the sow fell and the armed hunters hurled

themselves at her. This dreadful eruption from an unknown world made her

frantic, she squealed and bucked and the air was full of sweat and noise and

blood and terror. Roger ran around the heap, prodding where pig flesh

appeared. Jack was on top of the sow, stabbing downward with his knife. (135)

Second, weapons represent hate and focused ambition. As Jack begins to become a better hunter, he uses the weapons more and more, and under the imminent threat of the beast, becomes even more ruthless. Jack and Ralph start to become enemies, and Jack’s violent tendencies are thrown into the light. Eventually, Jack splits off and starts his own group. They hunt all day, and leave their “offerings” of meat to the beast so it will leave them alone. As the number of weapons grows, so does the tribe’s ambition and Jack’s feeling of superiority.

Jack waved his spear again. “Has everyone eaten as much as they want?” there

was still food left, heaped on the green platters... Jack spoke again, impatiently.

“I said, has everyone eaten as much as they wanted?” His tone conveyed a

warning, given out of pride of ownership. And the boys ate faster while he gave

them time. (149)

“We shall take fire from the others. Listen. Tomorrow we'll hunt and get meat.

Tonight I'll go along with two hunters--who will come” (161)?

“He was chief now in truth; and he made stabbing motions with his spear.

From his left hand dangled Piggy’s broken glasses” (168).

The facepaint, something seemingly innocent, becomes a weapon in its own right, and is used to give the hunters a false sense of security which boosts their confidence and hate towards Ralph’s group. Because of the facepaint, they become more violent and hide behind the mask it provides, using the safety of anonymity to diffuse and ignore the guilt of the monstrous deeds they see fit to perform.

Third, the weapons represent the overall degradation of the children into a savage like and unorganized society. As Jack gets used to handling the weapons, the feeling of power, and having innocent blood on his hands, the knife and spears are used to kill all sorts of animals, and even fellow humans.

The sicks fell and the mouth of the new circle crunched and screamed. The

beast was on its knees in the center, it’s arm folded over its face. It was crying

out against the abominable noise, something about a body on the hill the beast

struggled forward, broke the ring, and fell over the steep edge of the rock to

the sand by the water. At once the crowd kept after it, poured down the rock,

leapt onto the beat, screamed, struck, bit, tore. There were no movements but

the tearing of teeth and claws.”(153)

“Sofly, surrounded by a fringe of inquisitive bright creatures, itself a sliver

shape beneath the steadfast constellations, Simon’s dead body moved out

toward the open sea “ (154).

As they kill and hunt, they almost completely lose any sense of a modern, organized, and peaceful society, and slowly become like the tribes of people that are written about in ancient history books. They forget all sense of humanity and compassion, and focus only on completely destroying the only people on the island that resist them. Ralph and Piggy. Since the two want to do away with the tribe’s evil ways, savage personalities, and chaotic new natures, they are the enemies, and therefore must die.

The book Lord Of the Flies by William Golding was a revolutionary book for it’s time, and touched on multiple heavy and sometimes depressing themes. The author's main point in writing the novel was to disprove the fanciful new idea of the “Noble Savage.” It shows that no matter what, man has specific instincts and desires that will take control if not around civilization. The weapons in the book are a crucial element to the plot, and represent death and the act of killing, hate and focused ambition, and the overall degradation of the children into a savage like and unorganized society. Because the weapons were used, it transforms the children from innocent to killers, therefore becoming the center of the plot. Lord Of The Flies was a remarkable achievement and contribution to literature, and the writing styles utilized within are still used and studied today.

"Mommy!" he calls from the other room. I sigh deeply, wishing I could stay in the warm embrace of my bed. I roll over and prod my husband, "Love, would you check on him, please?" My husband lets out a loud obviously fake snore. I roll my eyes, grudgingly get out of bed, and hit him with my pillow as I leave the room.

"Mommy!" I hear again as I walk barefoot down the hall to the door with a large sign 'No Girlz Allowed.' I open the door so that the hall light shines on my little boy's face, "Yes, beau?" I hear a little sniffle from under the covers, "Mom, the monsters are back." I try not to let my frustration show as I walk over to his little twin bed, sit on the edge, and take the cover from over his head.

I look at his bright puffy eyes, just like my own, and his runny nose just like his father's, "Beau, I told you there are no monsters here." He tells me in a whiney voice, "But I heard a creaking noise in my closet like somebody was moving around." "Beau," I tell him as I gently coax him to lie down, my hand ruffling his hair, "Do you know why there are no monsters in your closet?" He shakes his head.

"You see, Beau, monsters have no interest in little kids. Monsters only come after evil people who have done terrible things." His face scrunches up, "What if I did something bad?" I shake my head, "No, no, baby. I mean people who are so evil that they have no love or kindness in their hearts. Monsters like to hunt people who think they're better than everyone else. Monsters like to feed on people who take advantage of other people. Monsters like to hurt people who like to hurt others. So, you see, no monster is ever going to be interested in children. Monsters grow stronger off hatred and greed."

My son just looks back at me with wide eyes. I continue, "So, the next time you think a monster might be hiding, if you've done nothing hateful or greedy or hurtful... you have nothing to worry about." My little son looked thoughtful down at his hands. After a moment, he told me in a quiet voice, "Mommy, I pushed Sissy off the swing today."

I nodded knowingly, "Did you say sorry?" A few tears squeezed out of his eyes, "No. She wouldn't get off when it was my turn."

"Are you sorry?"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to tell Sissy sorry tomorrow when she gets up?"

"Yeah."

"Ok. That's very good, baby. That's a kind thing to do."

I kiss my little boy goodnight, and he falls asleep again almost immediately. I wander back to my own bed, snuggling back under the covers with my husband. I think he's asleep when I hear him mutter, "You're traumatizing them. How do you think they'll feel when they realize you're lying?" I smile to myself, "I'm not, if you think about it. People who do bad things always get their comeuppance. Monsters have always been real."

The wind blows upon the water,

Setting off ripples, the coys don’t care.

The leaves fall, their flutter unheard.

No one will come again.

They all died.

I realize the fish will die off soon,

When winter sets,

and no one there to feed them.

Shame about them.

We used to enjoy throwing them,

The leftover stale bread.

You chose the place well.

Oh. It still hurts, make no mistake,

A hole in the lungs. Thanks.

But at least you did me the favour,

Of this last moment.

And what will you do now?

Sure, you’re a survivor ,

But this is the end.

Hope you make the most of it.

I would recommend things,

But you don’t need that.

So walk on,

Past the fake stepping stones.

Walk out of the end of my view,

And hope yours is as calm.

Thanks for the whiskey, by the way.

I take a gulp and feel the warmth.

Not hard to breath anymore.

No pressure, dry mouth,

I think I’ll close my eyes for a minute...

The hit was hard, hard enough to deploy the airbags. He had come out of nowhere, running the light and plowing into Felix’s red SUV. The driver’s side door was caved in and the front glass had become a spider web.

He was lucky to be alive.

He could feel something wet and warm running down the side of his face. Blood, he thought, from hitting my head. He felt no pain and remembered from somewhere that head wounds tended to bleed a lot, regardless of the severity. That made him feel better.

Sirens could be heard in the distance. Sirens meant help, and help was important. Felix tried to move, but couldn’t budge. Something had him pinned. Either that or he was paralyzed. Felix thought that likely when he tried to move his hands and got no response.

Please hurry, he thought.

The sirens came closer until they stopped, replaced by the chugging of a diesel engine. He could hear voices outside, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Something about tools. Felix sighed and wished they would hurry. The blood from his head was starting to concern him.

He heard something slam into his door and more shouting. The words they said were becoming increasingly jumbled, making them sound foreign. He was only a few blocks from home right? What was a foreign rescue team doing here?

As his door came off with a crunch, Felix could see flashing lights and men in tan and yellow. He was pulled from his car and placed on a stiff board. Felix tried to remember what that was called, but his mind wasn’t working right.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Once he was strapped onto the uncomfortable board with the uncomfortable device around his neck, he watched as the figures in tan and yellow checked him over. They touched his neck and wrist before standing and moving off. Only one came back, one figure who was very different than the others.

He wore black, which seemed oddly appropriate. Where the others had become misshapen blobs which spoke in gibberish, this man was clear. His black suit was immaculate and he wore a pair of black gloves. His face was young and his eyes black as night. Upon his forehead he bore a brand in the shape of a scythe.

“Who are you?” Felix asked. He was shocked when he realized his mouth hadn’t moved.

“I am your guide,” the man said, his voice seeming to come from nowhere. It was deep and hollow, a voice that shouldn’t be.

“Why do I need a guide?”

“The way forward is dangerous. Many beings inhabit the plane between mortality and the abyss, none of which you want to meet. I serve Death and aid him in his appointed task. Please, come with me.”

“But,” Felix began. He was about to protest, to voice his inability to move off the spine board when he noticed he wasn’t confined to it anymore. “Am I okay?”

“No. Please, follow me.”

“I’m dead, aren’t I?”

The man with the midnight eyes turned to Felix and sighed. “Yes, you have left the mortal realm. You are in great peril here, in the void between worlds. Please, we must keep moving.”

“What kind of peril?”

“Demons stalk these lands, looking for those living who are sensitive to them that they may torment. When they come across souls that have crossed and fallen behind their guides, they devour the soul and send it to the abyss for all eternity. Please keep close.”

“Does that make you the Grim Reaper?” Felix asked.

The man stared at him. “What you know as the Grim Reaper isn’t like me. His name is Death and he is the Shepherd of Heaven and Hell. Those whose flame has flickered out are retrieved by his servants and brought to him, that he may render judgment.”

“Am I destined for Heaven or Hell?”

“That is for him to decide.”

Felix looked back at the ruin of his car, his mortal form on the ground now covered with a tarp and the firemen that were pulling a drunk from the other car. A tear rolled down his cheek and he turned, leaving all of it behind.

“Lead on.”