Forever Despondent

Forever Despondent

  I think Brom Bones fancies me, unfortunately. That boy sure is irascible, always pulling hurtful and gruesome pranks, not caring how excruciating the victim´s pain is. I consistently reject his entreaties to go for dinner, that boy does not know the meaning of the word no. I have no respect for Brom Bones, although, if he were like Ichabod Crane, maybe we would have a future together.  

   Mr. Crane used to teach me the art of singing, oh what a beautiful voice that man had. He was also my history teacher; he had two jobs so that he could pay at least for his necessities. The man moved from Connecticut, to this haunted Tarry Town. 

   I myself adored Mr. Crane; I believe he loved me as well. In class, he would answer with great affability any of my questions, and end his responses with a sunny smile, always. Don´t take amiss his attitude! He was never one to take advantage of his position and power; he was one willing to wait for me, until our love could be accepted in society. Our love was to be secret, but our actions spoke for themselves, almost everyone knew about how we felt.

   About two months, Mr. Crane gave a lesson about the Revolutionary War; he went so in depth with the topic, even specifying some soldiers’ names. He talked about this one  

Hessian soldier, the one who´s spirit they call the Headless Horseman. The Headless Horseman has been said to have lost his head in battle, and his ghost has been seen by the church looking for his head, where his headless body is buried. The ghost has also been seen in the reclusive area of Sleepy Hollow, a spooky and terrifying land where almost no man has gone. That same day, I sent my messenger to invite Mr. Crane to a party at my father´s castle.

   The party went so ever well, until Mr. Crane saw the one student he abhorred, Brom Bones. Brom started with a tirade that seemed almost interminable, telling Mr. Crane how I was meant to be with him, not to live beside a poor, ugly teacher. Being the sage gentleman he was, he simply left, ignoring all of Brom´s insults.

   Mr. Crane took the path of Sleepy Hollow back to his home, but he never returned back to his farm, just his horse did. After the discovery of Mr. Crane´s hat, a smashed pumpkin and footsteps beside, a rumor started circulating Tarry Town. It claimed the ghost of the Headless Horseman took him. Some citizens say that Brom pulled another of his pranks on Mr. Crane, and that it was such a despicable one that he was forced to leave. Some say that he is still alive and sharing his story all throughout the country. But no answer is for sure; it will always remain a mystery.

   Whatever the true story is, I will forever be despondent, no one will ever fill the space in my heart left by Ichabod Crane.  

Poetry for Sympathy

Wrecked Mitt, Impeccable Memories

   Gray scraped surfaces peaked through the worn out white leather, normal for a glove that was about six years old. Although the writing was still legible, the green ink smudged throughout the baseball glove´s surface, creating all sorts of crazy patterns. The lines of letters were those lines of poems, poems about life issues. Life issues that included sorrow like death or sickness, or moments of accomplishments. These poems represented Johnny´s memoirs, moments that impacted him forever. Johnny would read these poems whenever he had time in the baseball field; he claimed it kept him entertained.

    “Death is nothing at all.

I have only slipped away to the next room.

I am I and you are you.

Whatever we were to each other,

That, we still are.”

   Those lines from “Death is Nothing At All” by Henry Scott Holland, were uncle John´s last words before he died from cancer. He was Johnny´s godfather; Johnny was actually named after him. Uncle John loved baseball, so when he died Johnny was certain about honoring his godfather´s memory by doing what uncle John loved. My little brother demanded a baseball glove and immediately got signed up for the sport.

   The first thing Johnny did when he received the mitt was to write those lines of “Death is Nothing At All” down on it, to remember what evoked his passion for the game. He never thought about copying down an inventory of poems onto his treasured mitt, but over time, he realized reading while waiting to play baseball was actually entertaining. And so every time he felt the urge to express his emotions on a significant event, he would pour his heart out through poems onto his baseball glove.

   That poem still reminds me of uncle John’s death, but now it also reminds me of Johnny´s as well. A few hours before his death, when he was feeling his worst, he asked me to pass him his mitt, he read the poems to me.

   “Death is nothing at all.

I have only slipped away to the next room.

I am I and you are you.

Whatever we were to each other,

That, we still are.” 

    The sound of his voice still rings in my ears. He died from leukemia. It was a disease that made him thin to the bone, his skin grew pale as snow, and the bags under his eyes became like deep wounds. Watching Johnny suffer made me suffer as well, not physically, but emotionally. Every time a shriek of pain escaped from his mouth, I felt an excruciating ache in my heart. Like if a knife was stabbing me and tearing away part of me.

   From the moment I found out how serious his sickness was, I knew Johnny would cease to exist, but I never wanted to imagine when that moment would come. I´m depressed about his death, but more angry really… angry at how unfair life is. I consider my little brother to be the greatest kid that ever-stepped foot onto this Earth.

    Johnny was a genius; his brain must have been compacted of tremendous and creative

thoughts. I know it for a fact, and if you don´t believe me, then you can go ask all the teachers who called the house to compliment my parents about his intelligence. Did I mention how kind and polite he was? He was always up for helping everybody, no matter the consequences. His smile was the warmest I have ever seen, to me, it seemed like rays of sunshine inhabited his mouth.

    Oh! I lied about not being hurt physically. The night he died, I simply went insane, a demon seemed to replace my soul. My fists grew a brain of their own; the brain commanded them to take action. I started punching and breaking all the windows in the garage, leaving shattered bits on the abrasive cement floor. I stopped once I realized the bone in my hand was no longer whole. Every time I try making a fist now, my hand stings, and I can barely tighten it.

   I wish time machines existed for real, that way I could go back to those joyful times and hold on to Johnny. But now the only thing left to hold onto is his memory, a memory from when I was a child. I do not want to be seventeen and in the present, I want to be thirteen and alongside my beloved little brother.

The Slave Dancer by Paula Fox-Reflection

   Although I must admit The Slave Dancer by Paula Fox is a descent novel, I am not able to say I enjoyed the book.  When I first started reading this book I found it tremendously dramatic and so I thought that maybe it would be tremendously entertaining. But, the marvelous plot turned into series of irrational events.

   The Slave Dancer by Paula Fox is the journey of 13-year-old Jessie Bullier who gets kidnapped by seamen. Jessie is forced to play the five for African slaves so that they will maintain healthy while they dance. Jessie and the slaves are aboard The Moonlight, a ship that is transporting the slaves to Spain where they will be sold.  It is not long until The Moonlight reaches its final destination, but the mission fails to be completed when the ship is caught in a storm and sinks. Almost everyone drowns in the shark filled waters of Cuba, the only two survivors are Jessie and Ras. Ras is an African boy who was going to be sold as a slave.  The young boys fight for their lives as they swim their way to shore, once at land the children meet an old man, Daniel. Daniel shelters and feeds the boys for a short period of time; during this short period of time the boys develop a friendship. But, the bonding is ceased when Ras takes off on a journey Daniel calls necessary. Later on, Daniel sends Jessie off to New Orleans, Jessie´s home. The person that arrives to New Orleans is not the same, old, childish Jessie, but a young man.

   To me, the ending was sweet and sour. I found that the friendship between the two children was incredible considering they were from two completely opposite races. How after all that racism Ras received from a white, Ras trusted a white to save his life.

“Nose,” said Ras as he touched my nose.                                                                                                                            I smiled then. He placed a finger against my front teeth. (pg.163)

   This is my favorite part of the book because it is a reflection of their friendship, and to me their relationship was an incredible detail to add to the story, it reminds me of the saying, “good always beats evil!”

   But yet, I found so many lose string and unanswered questions were left at the end. For example, what happened to Ras after his journey? Did he become a slave?

   One thing I absolutely hate is when almost everybody aboard drowns, mostly because my favorite character’s existence is ceased there. Purvis, my favorite character, I love because he is like every other seaman on the outside, tough and mean. But really, he cares about Jessie. He gives Jessie hope and comfort, play cat´s cradle and communicates with the kid, also he plays with the African children. I think I really like this character because, again, he shows that there is always good in the world.

   Also about the ship-sinking scene, it was so not what I expected. I was waiting for the slaves to commit mutiny and gain freedom, for the seamen to be sorry for their sins; I think that would be a much more exciting solution. But to me, the solution is just too boring and depressing, I mean, the solution is death. It just happened way too fast.

   As for the chain of events in the middle, they are alright and acceptable but they aren´t anything breath taking.

   Is it understandable why I say the chain of even are unreasonable? Yes, I believe that it is realistic that a ship can sink and so the passengers will lose their lives. But I find it unrealistic that two children will not drown, have the luck to be sheltered because of good will and yet make it back to their home town safely. 

   The Slave Dancer is named like so to represent the way Jessie was feeling, slave as in forced to and miserable, and dancer as in music. All together, forced to create music miserably.

   Overall I would not recommend this book to anyone, it isn´t a book that drives the reader to the edge of their seat, and to me that is what a good book should do!