Short Stories and Such...

[Tuxie]

This is the place to post your short stories. Something to keep in mind... I think I've put a 700 character limit on posts. We'll hafta see if that'll be enough for short stories or not. We may hafta adjust it a bit.

[lisa843]

I hope you post your paper now....I enjoyed reading it and I think more people will as well. :)

[aussiecoffee007]

If someone told me all they wanted in life was to stand in a field of grain and guard small children from falling over an imaginary cliff while playing an imaginary game, I would think they were insane. Yet that same dream is considered a literary masterpiece and the culmination of both symbolism and theme in J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye.

This book only represents nonsensical ramblings and a frustrating lack of any relatable or sympathetic character. The simplistic plot follows an angry 16-year-old boy named Holden Caulfield for 72 hours after a prestigious private school kicks him out. In a mere three days, Holden manages to lie to his parents, smoke cigarettes, get filthy drunk, have a failed sexual encounter with a prostitute, get punched by said prostitute’s pimp, and then cry on his little sister’s shoulder. Catcher is a horrible book and absolutely inappropriate for a required reading list.

Catcher closely parallels Salinger’s real life, and both are depressing and macabre. Jerome David Salinger was the son of a butcher and his wife. Salinger didn’t get along with either of his parents, refusing to eat meat and skipping his father’s funeral. This estranged relationship from his parents explains Holden’s mistrust of adults and the lack of a reliable parental figure in the novel. After short-lived studies in prominent prep schools, Salinger was sent to a military academy. That restlessness is exemplified in Holden’s inability to stay in one private school. From there, Salinger was shipped to Europe during WWII and was involved in one of the bloodiest battles of the war. After the war ended, no one wanted to talk to Salinger about his wartime experiences, and he grew frustrated with this response. Salinger comments on society’s faults through Holden’s obsession with what is real and what is phony. Salinger later married and divorced three times, reflected by Holden’s failed attempts at relationships with Sally and the prostitute. One of Salinger’s wives wrote a memoir testifying that he was violent, jealous, and controlling. He later pulled away from society and now lives in solitude. These traits are all evident in Holden’s violent nature and inability to relate to people. Catcher was a semi-autobiographical work by a deeply disturbed American author.

Catcher displays no character development or sign of the self-improvement process. Even though Holden, a lying, dirty-mouthed teen (he curses 549 times in 214 pages), has obvious room for personal growth and development, he refuses to take any steps in that direction. Holden boasts that he “is the most terrific liar you’ve ever seen in your life”, calls Stradlater a “conceited sonuvabitch” and yet considers himself “quite sexy”, enters a room and immediately grumbles that he is “surrounded by jerks”, and pessimistically believes “people are always ruining stuff for you” (16, 24, 27, 85, 87). He is so self-involved and obsessed with calling out phoniness that he never comes to the self-realization that he is judgmental, negative, and hypocritical. Holden never listens to another perspective, therefore never grows as a person. Since he believes that only he is right, I almost felt victimized if I disagreed with Holden’s philosophies. Holden rarely reveals even a hint of an inner emotion to sympathize with before reverting back to his judgmental self.

The plot of this novel is rudimentary and disgusting, and pointless ramblings impede understanding. Holden passionately whines about the phoniness of the world, but none of his rants—I counted 56 before growing bored—ever add anything to our understanding or enjoyment of the novel. When these tirades are removed from the text, the actual plot is boring, inappropriate, and meaningless. Holden tells of his lackluster adventures as an underage smoker, drinker, and self-dubbed “sex maniac”. The story does not teach anything except all the wrong morals. Holden always defends his actions because he is depressed, therefore inappropriate actions become his norm—and ours as readers, too. His excuses tell us that as long as we have a good enough reason for what we do and we don’t feel guilty about it, anything is acceptable. The novel only makes us want to become better people than Holden, but that doesn’t present a challenge. The overly simplified plot is just hidden in a muck of pseudo-intellectual ramblings and immoral values.

The prose and style of this novel make it difficult to read or enjoy. Even though Salinger’s writing is considered beautiful and realistic, throwing in two curse words a sentence is not a good use of the English language and does not accurately represent the vernacular of the average teen. I can express myself using the actual English language, not say “I’d smash his head on the stone steps till he was good and goddam dead and bloody” and consider my point on the downfall of society intelligently made (201). Salinger’s writing style is like a parent trying to relate to their teenager using all the trendy words of the age. It just doesn’t work. In addition, Holden never learns from what the various symbols represent. Symbols therefore only serve as a weak attempt to stir up sympathy for Holden by revealing his ignored inner emotions, but they are too vague to succeed. The dialogue is mediocre when existent—in the rare case that Holden tries to relate to another human, he miserably fails within half a page. Salinger’s prose is enveloped in a mass of cursing, anger, and ambiguity.

[aussiecoffee007]

The book is also hailed an excellent example of the inner workings of the teenage mind, but only represents a gross misinterpretation of teenage angst. His problems and feelings are so exaggerated that they become a caricature of adolescent emotions, and the teenagers it is intended for feel deeply misunderstood. The novel further insults teenagers by representing us as if all we have on our minds is smoking, drinking, and sex. Even though some consider the book to be an amazing insight into the human mind, if everyone’s minds were similar to Holden’s, the world would end within the century.

Catcher’s themes and lessons do not edify or challenge the reader in any way. The overwhelming theme of phoniness is so evident in the book, yet I learned nothing from it. Salinger’s intention of calling everything fake is to educate readers on how to avoid becoming so, but we don’t even have a chance, as absolutely everyone and everything from Holden’s perspective is phony. Its theme on transitioning from childhood to adulthood is relatable, but doesn’t really provide any fascinating new insight on the matter. The book is also considered a great critique on society’s refusal to talk about important issues, but people only listen to who they respect. Holden hates everything to a point that I take nothing at face value, even the most important faults of society, because I attribute all of it to Holden’s unfounded hatred. There is no way to separate Holden’s embittered rants from real points that he makes about society.

Catcher should be removed from all school curriculums because it is a horrible book that regresses our education. The book displays no character development, intricate plot, exemplary use of the English language, significant subplots, or challenging themes. By displaying illegal acts that Holden breezily justifies, the book persuades the reader to disregard their morals and join Holden in his quest for judgmental hypocrisy. If a novel where cursing, drinking, and sex (and that’s the entirety of the plotline) have no literary purpose or moral and yet is considered a classic, this education system has failed us since kindergarten for the rest of our lives.

[aussiecoffee007]

My brother and I are in Europe, spending a few weeks with my family in the summer. We were staying the very beautiful city of Bellagio, Italy, in a hotel straight out of a dream. It is around midnight and I am at a dance, which wasn’t an overpopulated loud rockfest but rather men and women of all ages dancing to prim and proper chamber music. My brother’s eagle eye spots a beautiful Londoner from across the room and pretended to be nervous for three seconds before asking her to dance, but he secretly knew he could get any woman he desired. I was then deserted by him, alone because my parents were long asleep, but reluctant to end the night so abruptly and unquestionably endure an inquisition from Daniel as to why I was so lame. I stay in the ballroom for a while, watching my brother swing and woo the blonde, and eventually I become so aware of my loneliness that I leave and start wandering around.

I find an abandoned wooden room, and being overly curious, I tilt the door further and peek inside. A piano covered in mothballs and dust are alone in the corner, untouched by human hands and neglected by maids. I quietly shut the door behind me and walk over to the piano, such a contrast to the splendor of the ballroom. I take a seat and instantly mold to the bench, my second home. My home away from home.

I start playing an upbeat Ebert song, an impressionistic piece intended for the more experimental pianist. But the sound just isn’t right. The out of tune wooden keys don’t feel right beneath my fingertips. I stopped five measures in as the perfectly correct notes echo around me like the screeches of a tortured woman. I crinkle my brow in confusion and start a Mendelssohn piece, a romantic piece full of minor chords and discordant resolutions. The sound quality improves, like the wooden keys were more willing to play this piece, but still the sound is wooden and rusty, like a song that has been played too many times and the finger muscles refuse to play it one more time. I stop again after three measures, feeling the first daze of sleep but wanting to know why my pieces sounded like a cat walking over a piano.

I look around in the empty room once more. Who would have been in here? Did this used to be the ballroom? Why did this amazingly beautiful hotel leave a room so empty and unkempt? I start to imagine the room as it must have looked in years past, vibrant and full of life. I imagine those stereotypical women with enormous white wigs and full-hoop skirts twirling around very conservatively with one another. The dance cards, the bowing and curtsying, the politeness and the chivalry. I begin to imagine more, the endless twirling and the cello strings vibrating through the room and the smiles and the laughter. I see it, I see it all. And at the piano, entertaining the guests through his music and his boisterous attitude, sits Mozart. The man himself. I’ve seen him in stuffy portraits but never like the reality I see him now. And I can hear his laugh, that screechy squeal of a laugh echo as his fingers dance along the keys, his eyes or mind nowhere in the music and yet beauty fills the room.

The image fades as the dusky room resumes in focus. My fingers tense as I prepare to play a Mozart sonata, a piece—and a composer—I’ve hated for years but been forced to play. His technically challenging pieces didn’t complement my romantic, tempo-rubato style. My fingers reluctantly begin the piece with a rigid beat, and yet the piano seems to envelope my fingers in its mass and not the other way around. I am possessed, driven to play with no faults or mistakes, just playing for the sheer sound of it. The piano is delighted to see that I have surrendered my ways in exchange for its own, thrilled to let me partake in the cup of its knowledge. It knows the music, it knows the man. And when the final chord of the piece is touched, the room echoes with it, almost audibly reviving the lost history of the room, in my imagination. A man enters, in real time, wearing the hotel uniform and surprises me, as I have grown comfortable in my aloneness.
“You aren’t allowed in here,” he says, the words with the potential to sound harsh but his tone friendly. “It’s closed to guests.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, my mind elsewhere. Was that his laugh? “I didn’t know.”
“I see that’s a Mozart piece you were playing there. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
I remain silent, as there was nothing to say between us. But he stays in the doorway, his dark profile blocking the light from the hotel chandelier. I realize I haven’t moved from the chair yet, my body heavy and lifeless with the mere thought of movement.
The man shifts in the doorway and a sliver of light illuminates his face. His eyes pierce into me, unwavering, and he slowly smiles. “Try playing your Mendelssohn now,” he says.
He wasn’t in the room when I played those three measures. I stare at him in confusion, and he continues, “Come on now. Just three measures.”
I can hear his laugh echo in the room. Why wouldn’t he leave? Where was he? I keep my gaze on the man as my fingers find the keys once more and I strum the A major chord. No sound comes out of the piano. I quizzically look at him, my eyes full of confusion.
“And the Ebert?” he said quietly.
I played F sharp, and the piano emits no sound.
The man looks at me, failing to understand what I don’t understand. “Would you ever really want to go back?”
My eyes fall to the piano, which seemed so full of life a few minutes ago. It once again seems like a discarded burden.
His eyes catch the direction of my own, and the man says, “It knows what it will do. And it knows where to draw the line.”
He laughs. A small, quiet laugh at first, which blossoms and develops into a loud high-pitched sort of cackle. I immediately recognize it as his. The man! The laugh! The music!
The door slams shut as my body jolts off the chair and thrusts it back open. I scan the hallways but there is no one there. I run out of the hallway and into the open lobby, but the hotel is empty. The night stars light the lobby an eerie afterglow. My heart sinks as I realize no one is there. But it couldn’t have been an illusion. My imagination is nowhere near vivid enough to dream of something like that.
“Hello?” I cry out in desperation, my voice tinny in the grandeur of the hotel. There is no one to answer me.
I collapse in the hallway, plagued by disappointment and confusion. But his laugh remains in my head. The two intertwined together in my head.
Daniel’s face appears from around the corner. “Hey, I thought that was you,” he said. “Aw, Ruth, don’t look like that, she was really hot. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Let’s go to the room, okay? We can hang out then.”
He was trying to be a good brother. But it wasn’t about him. It was about the man. The music.

[mashmac]

I've been to Bellagio. Exquisite.

[aussiecoffee007]

the essay or bellagio? ;)