Lee Martin’s “Never Thirteen” – A Literary Analysis

At the first kiss I felt something melt inside me that hurt in an exquisite way. All my longings, all my dreams and sweet anguish, All the secrets that slept deep within me came awake, Everything was transformed and enchanted, everything made sense.”
― Hermann Hesse

“Your first kiss.” When one hears, or reads, these three simple words time becomes a paradox as you are brought back, once more, to that fleeting moment when the hands of time stood still, while innocence vied with maturity, hormones, emotions and changing bodies as weapons of mass destruction in the journey towards adulthood.  Lee Martin expresses these delicate emotions and the fragile changing landscape that can only be described as puberty within his memoir “Never Thirteen,” a magical retelling of his path towards manhood with that one single moment, his first kiss, brought into focus.

When the story opens we are introduced to Beth, Martin’s first love. The year is 1969 and he is about to graduate 8^th grade.  Everything to Martin seems magical with the onset of the summer season.  Life at that moment could not get to be more perfect, or ideal.  He has his first girlfriend who has taught him to hold hands, and to do so in two different manners: fingers twined, or hands joined.  He is dating a Varsity Cheerleader, while he himself is a Varsity Basketball player.  They are “in love,” and have been since mid-winter, as Martin explains to use throughout the development of his introduction.  He also reveals in his introduction the oncoming change… “In a few weeks my mother and father and I will move back to southern Illinois for good, my mother retiring after thirty-eight years of teaching, the last six in Oak Forest.  But now I’m not thinking about any of that because Beth has asked me to walk her home-at least partway, she says.  At least as far as Yankee Woods, she says.  At Least as far as that.  That is, she says, if I want to.  Do I want to?  Boy, Howdy!” (Never Thirteen, pg. 175) Life though ideal, holds a future of uncertainty but as they are thirteen all that is of importance is this moment… this instance where they are together and their love blossoms.

What is fascinating about the short story and how Martin develops the characters is the similarity to Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet.”  You know within Romeo and Juliet, they are a young couple in the throes of adolescent love, refusing to acknowledge the reality that surrounds them.  Though Martin does not develop the traditional tragic ending for his Memoir as one finds within Shakespeare’s well known romantic tragedy.  There is no horrifying joint suicide, nor deaths due to families squabbling over political power and wealth.  What one does find that is common are the themes of innocence lost, growth, and the magic of romantic love. 

Shakespeare through his words in Act 2 shows Romeo’s entrancement with the young but beautiful Juliet “O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard, being in night, all this is but a dream, too flattering sweet to be substantial.”(Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2)  Martin shows a similar innocence with his creative use of imagery, allowing the reader to step back with him, remembering the feeling of uncertainty and how it would feel to let your partner down, in this case the sweet Beth.  He recalls all the nights he has practiced in preparation for this very moment… kissing his hand, his pillow, the mirror, even going so far as to ask his mother, who is an older woman, to give him a kiss.  He worries about his nose… “What about my nose?” I say to Beth.  “Where do I put my nose?” (Never Thirteen, pg. 177) All these concerns and worries are put aside, including the fright that he will become old and unused within life in the same manner his parents are. 

“And it happens.  The next thing I know we’re kissing, and unlike the time when my mother kissed me and I came away wonder what the big deal was, I’m fairly well loose-kneed with the absolute thrill of Beth’s lips on mine.” (Never Thirteen, pg. 177) The magic occurs and time has stood still… In that moment a change occurs, he is no longer simply a child entering puberty, now as he looks around the world takes on a brighter sheen, a sparkle.  The rest of the story evolves as Martin evolves, becoming more aware of himself as a youth on the cusp of manhood, discovering his sexuality and love. 

As with Romeo and Juliet, our star-crossed lovers are determined to be with each other forever and eternity, even though fate is a fickle creature herself.  That one moment within the forest, where he kissed Beth, Martin was able to realize all he has been missing in his life growing up.  No longer did the abuse he received from his father matter, or the lack of love and affection from his introvert elder mother affect him as much.  He now understood love.  He had held love within his own two hands and felt its soft brush upon his own lips.  As he said his goodbyes to Beth, that fateful summer day Martin would never forget what she gave to him.  “Suddenly I’m holding Beth as tightly as I can.  I close my eyes and rock her.  Neither of us speaks.  This moment is more profound and heartfelt than anything we’ve said to each other since we knew I would soon be moving away.  We have no words for what we feel, only our bodies pressing together, and, though I have no idea what it means to love a woman, I’ve never felt as close to anyone as I do in this moment.  I imagine now that every embrace I’ve ever wanted from my father, my mother, myself, is contained in this hug I’m giving Beth.”(Never Thirteen, pg. 183)

It would be due to his now changing inner self, Martin would discover his parent’s relationship to be more complicated then he realized.  Up till that point he had simply looked up on their marriage through the eyes of a child, though it may be equivalent to a tragedy itself, there was caring and trust between the two of them.  As he stood there reflecting back upon Beth and that first kiss, he was to realizes being an adult is far more complicated, and perhaps he is not quite ready to give up his innocence.  Thought it is Beth who introduced him to love, it is his parents’ private companionship and caring for each other behind closed doors that help him realize the man he wishes to become.  “I listen to their dance, and I think about Beth and the way we clung to each other behind the woodpile.  Suddenly, in the presence of my parents’ gentle and selfless choreography, my future opens, and it terrifies me with its broad expanse of time, its uncertain possibilities.  I step into my adult life, wondering how long I’ll need to live, how much I’ll need to loose, to learn to love like this.” (Never Thirteen, pg. 185)

References:

Shakespeare, W. (199). Act 2, Scene 2. In The tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. Champaign, Ill.: Project Gutenberg.

Perl, S., & Schwartz, M. (2006). Never Thirteen - Martin, Lee. In Writing true: The art and craft of creative nonfiction (Second ed., p. 390). Boston: Houghton Mifflin.

First Person vs Third Person – The Point of View Conundrum

As I began the newest module’s readings, I found myself struck by confusion as to how I should interpret the stories before me.  It was easy and simple to go forth and state “Ok this one is speaking with the “I” voice so obviously he is in first person; while that one over yonder is most definitely in third person, no “I” about it.” It should have been that simple right?  Not so much. 

Interestingly enough, the conundrum concerning which POV the individual tales would take truly did not begin to unravel for me until after I read Justin McLachlan’s “Deeper PoV.”  He states in his note, at the end of his overview, the following: “It’s not always necessary to write in a deep POV. An intentionally distant third-person narrator is a completely valid creative choice, but deeper POV is a more modern style. It’s can also be a happy medium between distant third and first-person, which is more challenging for novice writers to pull off. You get some of the same emotional benefits for the reader without all the work of maintaining such a distinct voice.”  Finally this made sense – logical and practical sense to my brain.

 I also followed the link given in his article to read Nancy Kress’s “6 Tips to Choosing the Right Point of View.” What I discovered was there is no definitive answer; what may appear to be first person can in truth be third person, such as what takes place in Louise Erdrich’s “The Red Convertible.”  Erdrich allows the narrator to speak, and brings the reader along with him, but this is not the narrator’s tale he is bestowing upon you.  Rather he is using his voice to give voice to his brother, and tell the tale of heart ache, brotherly love, anger and even regret.  Erdrich manages to give some intimate details about the narrator, but even then it is always reflective in how these details compare to his brother.

 Erdrich manages to develop the details within this story through the PoV technique as Kress describes in her article “Close Third Person.”   According to Kress “Close third person POV is a lot like first person.  It can have much of the individual flavor of speech, much of the intimate ruminations… but not all.  The reader is still receiving descriptions from the outside rather than being told them directly from the “horse’s mouth.”  This is shown perfectly in the scene where the narrator describes his brother, Henry’s reaction to the color TV he bought for the family: “He sat in front of it, watching it, and that was the only time he was completely still.  But it was the kind of stillness you see in a rabbit when it freezes before it will bolt.  He was not easy.  He sat in his chair gripping the armrests with all his might, as if the chair itself was moving at high speed and if he let go at all he would rocket forward and maybe crash right through the set.” (The Red Convertible, pg. 448, 449)

One last point I would make.  Something I noticed in reading all these stories was a common thread or theme with this modules grouping of tales.  All the stories for this week had the theme of “Death,” whether that death was in the past or present.  The theme of death affected the PoV and how the reader would perceive the information gathered.

References:

Charters, Ann. The Story and Its Writer: An Introduction to Short Fiction. Ninth ed. New York: St. Martin's, 1983. 1773. Print.

"Writing in Deep POV." Justin McLachlan ICal. 29 Oct. 2013. Web. 29 Oct. 2015.

Kress, Nancy. "6 Tips to Choosing the Right Point of View | WritersDigest.com." WritersDigest.com. 11 Mar. 2008. Web. 29 Oct. 2015.

Perchance to Dream

Perchance to Dream

“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense.  Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t.  And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be.  And what it wouldn’t be, it would.  You see?” – Alice in Wonderland

It seems I cannot recall a time when I was not dreaming of something.  When my imagination took control and I could not tell the difference between the dialogue within my own faulty brain and that of what was before me.  Doctors, Therapists, and others have often asked me, when I try to explain to them what is going on inside my head, "Well how long has the voices been occurring?" How can I answer that when even my earliest memories are filled with what I perceived as my reality and others would simply shrug it off, turn away and give a blasé explanation  "It's just your over active imagination."  Well of course it's my imagination but can you tell me where the off button or at least a pause happens to be?

I can't give you a date or an age when I was first transferring myself between reality and fantasy.  I cannot pin point an exact time or place.  This imagination so to speak, was often my only solace.  While hell was breaking loose around me in various forms of realities nuances, down the rabbit hole I would go, to where anything for me was possible.  The voices in my head the only people, and I say people as each voice to me each was, in fact, an individual, who truly accepted me, didn't find me out of sync with reality, or simply hard to handle,  and certainly not a one of them would look down upon me and my follies.  I felt safe, secure, and confident amongst other emotions with those who existed within my brain then I did actually encountering people from reality.  In truth, to interact with an average person, let alone several made me not only anxious, but frantic.  My depression was more likely to magnify in ways that I did not know how to control.  I would be around people and stammer, or pull at my clothes.  I would get dehydrated quickly or my head would begin to hurt.  I would often find myself acting out in extreme fashions because I so desperately wanted to be accepted and could not see any way for the "normal" person to accept me for who I perceived myself to be.

 I would look in the mirror and see nothing but a picture askew.  Where was the beautiful fairy tale princess longed to be?  Where was the super heroine who was strong, independent and confident enough to rescue those who could not defend themselves?  Why did the reflection show so much ugliness and pain?  How could I escape it?  Why couldn't I become someone completely different?   Why was there so much guilt written upon her face, that she could not even feel the sunshine as warmth.  It's been this way for as long as I can remember.  Fighting for answers within myself, blaming myself for anything bad that could happen, acting outrageous or self-destructive causing myself harm so I could simply loose who I was instead of facing the darkness that seemed to seep from me; pushing those who would care for me away, and fighting them when in truth I was not fighting them at all but in fact the demons that would not let go.

How do you answer those who say to you “Let go of the past and live in the now,” when they cannot see the nightmares that float before your eyes, whether sleep or awake?  When you simply feel haunted, wishing you could shut yourself into a box and simply lock it all away.  I have spent so many years running.  Maybe it has not always been physical trying to escape but to do so emotionally and mentally.  Locking the pain deep where no one could notice.  It's easy to become invisible to where you fade within the wallpaper so that you are not noticed.  Why show the weakness.  Instead curl up in the dark where no one could see as you cried yourself to sleep.  It's obviously your fault you are like this.  Yet you cannot seem to let go of the silence; the darkness causing you to lash out defensively.  Don't show emotion for to do so means you can get hurt.  Something you will not allow.  Run.  Hide. Fall away till you are no more than a random thought in someone's memories.

But when does the running, the other reality you have built around yourself stop?  How do you learn that you don't need to touch things around you to feel grounded in this reality?  To know that in fact this is NOT a dream; that the voices are simply voices within your head.  How can you learn to tell the difference from the memories you created and the memories of truth, when to you both are real.  When you can look at a person and see friendship, caring and respect.  That they do not in fact see the damaged goods you are.  I am still trying to find my way through the maze.  It's a struggle each day to not blame myself for the choices others have made in their lives, both past and present.  I am so used to constantly questioning why a person would wish to be friends with someone like me, let alone have a relationship.  To thrusting the walls and striving to push them away from me before them in truth gave up on me and walked away as I was not "good enough."

I fight the darkness that surrounds so much of my thoughts.  Days when I wish I could just stop fighting and simply fall asleep.  Perchance to dream and wish the fairytale my reality; instead I am labeled as Dissociative Disorder, ADHD, Epileptic, Manic Depressive, Manic Social Anxiety amongst many other labels and stigmas that seem to pile upon my soul.  Sometimes I wish I could simply act like a librarian and file all the labels away. In my dreams it feels as if I am standing there while labels upon labels are attached to my form with post-it notes, but then the dream ends and I wake up once more.   So the struggle continues.  Does this mean my pains and struggles are any worse or greater than my fellow man?  Not at all, but it is my battleground upon which I take up my sword and become my own Knight, fiercely driven upon my hero’s quest to right all rights, and defend those who are oppressed and do not have the strength , or will, to defend themselves.

Shakespeare said it best with his To Be or Not to Be Soliloquy:
“To die, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,”  ^{(Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1)}

So into the pages of Shakespeare and his follies do I fall and lest I not wake upon the morning light, let my dreams become sheaves that turn the pages of time and memory, for down the rabbit hole I do tumble and fall, where upon I shall look for my world of nonsense leaving behind my heart-aches and pains.

As I take my final bow, I leave you with the words of certain Shakespearean sprite:

“If we shadows have offended,

Think but this and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearnéd luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call:
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.”

 (Midsummers Night's Dream, Puck's Final Speech)

Day of the Doctor A Study in Dialogue

When I read the overview of this assignment, I was surprised to find myself immediately considering the BBC program Dr. Who. I took a few days to consider which episode I would want to perform the study in dialogue from, when it occurred to me that any of the Doctors and Seasons in which the various actors portray them would work. This show is an intense study in dialogue and in physical communication, as each new actor becomes the Doctor, through his regeneration, in a unique and carefully outlined portrayal of rebirth.

When it came down to which episode I would wish to sit down and view, I found myself considering “The Day of the Doctor” from season 7,  as both imaginative and fun. Within this episode we not only encounter 4 different reincarnations of the Doctor himself, but we also encounter at least 2 of his assistants in both Clara and Rose.

One of the greatest scenes to witness both orally and silently is when the 11th doctor leaps through the time vortex, after sending his fez through first, where-upon Matt Smith leaps into the vortex and lands in Elizabethan England, at the feet of David Tennant’s 10th doctor. From a purely oral standpoint, to walk away from this scene and simply listen to what occurs between the two Doctors is an intense joy and filled with laughter. One can simply imagine Matt Smith’s Doctor being his normal playful, impish and childlike demeanor, very reminiscent of Shakespeare’s Puck from Midsummer Night’s Dream. David Tennant, on the other hand, is befuddled, annoyed, curious and cautious upon meeting his 11th self. What proceeds is a good old fashion, western standoff between the two men.

Though you do not see this as your only listening, but when once again reviewed through the silent viewing mode, both men stand there facing each other with “Ah hah!” expressions upon their faces as they whip out their Sonic Screwdrivers.  Matt Smith proceeds to prance around David Tennant as a child would mocking and making fun of his former self.  David Tennant, while intrigued, gives off body language that leads the viewer to laugh, for it is obvious he would really like to use his screwdriver to make the 11th version of himself become nonexistent.

  Dialogue of the two doctors meeting in Season Seven’s “Day of the Doctor:”

Tenth Doctor: That's a time fissure! A tear in the fabric of reality! Anything could happen!

[a fez comes out of the hole]

Tenth Doctor: For instance... a fez?

[out drops Eleven rolling and coming up to stand before Ten.]

 Eleventh Doctor: [looking at Ten] Oh, that is skinny. That is proper skinny! I've never seen it from the outside. It's like a special effect. Oi!

[grabs the fez]

Eleventh Doctor: Ha! Matchstick man!

The Tenth Doctor: Compensating?

The Eleventh Doctor: For what?

The Tenth Doctor: Regeneration. It's a lottery.

The Eleventh Doctor: Oh, he's cool. Isn't he cool? I'm the Doctor and I'm all cool. Oops, I'm wearing sandshoes!

The Eleventh Doctor: Reverse the polarity!

[they do so, but nothing happens]

The Eleventh Doctor: It's not working.

The Tenth Doctor: We're both reversing the polarity.

The Eleventh Doctor: Yes, I know that.

The Tenth Doctor: There's two of us, I'm reversing it, you're reversing it back again, we're CONFUSING the polarity!

Constantine: A Vision or a Politic Strategy?

When one looks into ancient history from a purely scholarly standpoint, where would Christianity be if the Romans had never interfered?  Their internal issues with an empire divided over power, religion and commerce would eventually lead to its downfall.   One of the greatest military machines, Rome was interspersed with the need to conquer and the power struggles between multiple emperors and Caesars each seeking to gain what the other had.  

Through all this constant turmoil, one such would rise through the ranks of Emperor Diocletian’s Court,  who would bring such significant changes to the Roman people as to topple the Roman Pantheon, unifying them under the Christian God, and setting the path for the future.  His name was Constantine and it all began with a vision before a battle; but did he truly have a vision or was it simply a masterful and ingenious political move to unify his troops, in order to encourage them in them oncoming battle?  This is the question of which has been asked by theological and historical scholars throughout history.   

In order to understand how Constantine could of come to a point where he needed not only the symbolism of the Christian deity, but also to comprehend the power such symbolism could hold over his people, one would need to first look at the people of Rome in a greater sense and their past.  The Romans were not a people who were unfamiliar with borrowing or adapting foreign Gods, in truth, their own Pantheon was a collage of Gods and Goddesses from foreign cultures of which Rome had conquered or found its borders near enough to adopt as its own.  “The Romans gods were from a strange mixture of influences. Before Rome became a big city, the area around it, called Latium, was settled my superstitious villagers, the Latins, who believed in many gods and spirits. As Rome grew into a city and began to become more powerful it came into contact with the Greeks, who had a complex Pantheon of their own.”(Roman Empire)

The Pantheons of twelve Gods mirrored the Greeks Olympian Gods, though using the Latin names:

1.      Jupiter, Leader of the Pantheon, often seen with a thunderbolt.  His Greek equivalent was Zeus.

2.      Juno, Jupiter’s wife, her symbols were the pomegranate and the peacock. Her Greek equivalent was Hera.

3.      Mars, God of War.  Considered the fiercest of the Gods next to Jupiter.  His Greek equivalent was Aries.

4.      Venus, Goddess of Love and Beauty.  Her Greek equivalent was Aphrodite.

5.      Minerva, Goddess of Wisdom, Learning, Arts/Crafts, and Industry.  Her symbol was the owl.  Her Greek equivalent was Athena.

6.      Neptune, God of the Sea.  He wielded the trident.  His Greek equivalent was Poseidon.  

7.      Ceres, Goddess of Harvest, symbol a bundle of grain.  Her Greek equivalent was Demeter.

8.      Vulcan, God of Volcanos and Blacksmithing.  Wields a blacksmiths hammer and provides the armor and weapons for the Gods in both the Roman and Greek mythology.  Greek equivalent Hephaestus.

9.      Diana, Goddess of the Hunt and of the Moon.  Greek equivalent Artemis.

10.  Bacchus, God of wine and celebrations.  Greek equivalent Dionysus.

11.  Mercury, Messenger of the Gods.  Greek equivalent Hermes.

12.  Vesta, Goddess of Hearth and Home.  Greek equivalent Hestia.

*Though not listed here Hades should be mentioned as God of the underworld.  His Roman equivalent was Pluto. (Ancient History)  This table gives a list of the most common of the twelve main gods in the Roman Pantheon and their Greek counterparts. 

“Early forms of the Roman religion were animistic in nature, believing that spirits inhabited everything around them, people included. The first citizens of Rome also believed they were watched over by the spirits of their ancestors. Initially, a Capitoline Triad (possibly derived from a Sabine influence) were added to these “spirits" - the new gods included Mars, the god of war and supposed father of Romulus and Remus (founders of Rome); Quirinus, the deified Romulus who watched over the people of Rome; and lastly, Jupiter, the supreme god. They, along with the spirits, were worshipped at a temple on Capitoline Hill. Later, due to the Etruscans, the triad would change to include Jupiter who remained the supreme god; Juno, his wife and sister; and Minerva, Jupiter’s daughter.”(Ancient Rome)

It would not be until Diocletian, in November, 285 AD, managed to unite Rome under his initial leadership that Christianity would come to be viewed as a threat.  Up till this point, Christianity was simply a pagan religion of very minor influence; one which the emperors paid little to no attention to.  Diocletian, on the other hand, understood power and military strategy.  He divided the Roman Empire into East and West with himself and Maximianus, his senior lieutenant elevated to “Caesar” and assigned the Western region of the Empire. 

Diocletian would then go on to split the empire once again developing what would be known as the Tetrarchy (Rule by Four).  To this new split he would give Maximianus the rank of Augustus, or Senior Emperor, and name two new Junior Caesars, one of them being the future Constantine’s father, Constantius.  Constantius would rule over Gaul and Britannia in the west, and Galerius, another whom Diocletian advanced, being given the Balkans in the east. 

In order to keep control over the power base Diocletian has built with this Tetrarchy, Diocletian would demand and keep as political “guests,” the sons of each his newly advanced Emperors/Caesars, one of these being Constantine.  Constantine was 17 years old in the Court of Diocletian where he was gaining not only strong military training, but he was also learning Politics, Philosophy, Greek, Art and Music.  Diocletian was also requiring Constantine and the others of his court to make increasing sacrifices to the gods in order to quell the rising interest in what was then considered a pagan religion, Christianity. 

“On 23rd February 303 AD, Constantine probably witnessed, firsthand, Diocletian's destruction of the newly-built Christian church at Nicomedia. The event inaugurated what Christian authors have named the "Great Persecution” as many of the brethren were imprisoned, tortured, and killed for acts of defiance against official religious policy (most escaped punishment through silence).[15] Constantine's silence on the extent of his complicity while at Diocletian’s court during this period engendered a continuing distrust among the church hierarchy for any participation on his part in church government.[16] In a late letter to Eastern provincials, Constantine described himself as a child when the “Great Persecution” began, when in fact, he was nearer to thirty;[17] his later biographers and panegyrists continued the trend, describing him as "the young man" or "the youthful emperor".[18] Indeed, no contemporary Christian challenged him on any aspect of his role in the “persecutions”.[19] Nonetheless, Constantine continued to assert that he had criticized the policy when first introduced.”(Roman Army)

 According to the film provided by A&E, entitled Constantine, Diocletian kept Constantine near him as he was aware of his potential.  It can be assumed that Diocletian being of middle age saw in Constantine his own mortality, in the vibrancy and charismatic youth of Constantine.  Though there is no documentation to state why Diocletian left Constantine out of the hierarchy, when the time and Diocletian fell ill, Constantine used the circumstances to escape his “jeweled” prison in order to retreat home to his father’s court. (A&E Film, Constantine)

According to history, once Constantine joined his father, Constantius, it would not be long before he becomes Emperor.  Though he would fight by the soldiers sides with his father, it is the training and political intellect he gained from Diocletian of which would now be in his favor and see him through to becoming the Emperor that would change the face of Rome.  After the death of his father in Britannia and his soldiers acknowledge him as Emperor, a new threat appears in the form of Maxentius. 

Maxentius had not a claim to military background as Constantine, though he did have as equal of a claim to the Tetrarchy as Constantine, being the son of Maximian.  Unfortunately, for Maxentius, though he outnumbered Constantine in armed forces, he could not obtain their loyalty, nor did he know how to incite them into thinking as one mind.  This was something Constantine has learned from Diocletian, political and military stratagem.  Constantine, on the eve of his battle with Maxentius, knew he needed something to unite his men; to give them a cause in order to ride into battle. 

What better cause then one that is divine; to have been given a vision by a God?  There is no proof and can be no evidence other than his word that he was given a vision and within that vision he saw a cross in the sky with the words “Conquer by this.” Constantine would then go on to have all his soldiers paint this symbol with the letters “Chi Ro” on their shields as they prepared to meet Maxentius on the bridge of Milvian. 

Constantine’s words inspired and motivated his troops, and they defeated Maxentius.  Interestingly enough, Constantine would become an Emperor who would be considered religiously tolerant, but would not be baptized in the Christian faith until his deathbed.  Whether this was by political or personal choice only he would know, but without his vision, would Christianity have become the power in both religion and politics it is today?

Cite:

Fout, Jason A. "Defrnding Constantine: The Twilight Of An Empire And The Dawn Of Christendom." Political Theology 13.1 (2012): 119-121. Religion and Philosophy Collection. Web. 3 May 2015.

Constantine The Great: Roman Emperor, Christian Saint, History's Turning Point

http://www.antiochian.org/constantine-great-roman-emperor-christian-saint-historys-turning-point

Kreider, Alan. "'Converted' but not baptized: Peter Leithart's Constantine project." Mennonite Quarterly Review 85.4 (2011): 575+. Academic OneFile. Web. 3 May 2015.

http://go.galegroup.com.library.esc.edu/ps/i.do?id=GALE%7CA271514878&v=2.1&u=esc&it=r&p=AONE&sw=w&asid=023d27d2c83a7fbe9b927b6b175a98a6

Constantine. [Electronic Resource (Video)]. n.p.: New York, N.Y. : Films Media Group, [2010], c2008., 2008. Films on Demand - Master Academic Collection. Web. 3 May 2015.

Table of the Roman Equivalents of Greek Gods- Roman and Greek names for the Olympians and the minor gods (About.com Ancient/Classical History)

By: Silver, Carly.

http://ancienthistory.about.com/library/dailygod/blg050727.htm

Roman Gods (Roman Gods)

http://www.roman-empire.net/children/gods.html

Roman Emperors - DIR Diocletian (Roman Emperors - DIR Diocletian)

http://www.roman-emperors.org/dioclet.htm

Roman Military Research Society (Constantine)

http://www.romanarmy.net/constantine.shtml

Yin & Yang

Two sides of the same coin… Yin and Yang… The age old question of what defines morality, and where do the boundaries of what is considered wrong or cheating come into play?  The idea behind this concept comes to the forefront with Chekov’s “The Lady with the Little Dog” and Oates’ “The Lady with the Pet Dog.”

Chekov and Oates are two very different writers as far as style and voice, and yet they both managed to give life to the same story with through the use of language that was almost prose in its style.  Chekov used elegant and sophisticated turns of language to set his stage, not simply drawing the readers into turn of the century Russia, but to make them actually feel as if they were stepping off a train to walk along the sea port of Yalta or treading through the freshly fallen snow laden streets of Moscow. 

I personally found Chekov more at ease with his descriptive settings of place and increasingly stilted in his human interaction.  It was due to his unique intellectual style of telling a story, one simply did not feel they were reading a story, but rather living the tale with the characters.  To understand Dmitri’s impatience and boredom with his own world, and his disdain for women is to a gain a clear portrayal of a man who lacks the ability to love, or perhaps has not learned how to love… but is spoiled and used to gaining what he wishes.  He shows not only his disdain for women but also for morality and the sanctity of marriage.  To him he is not cheating, and does not feel guilt over giving into his most base of desires.  They are simply a part of who he is, therefore why should he deny himself what only seems to be natural? 

Joyce Carol Oates gives us this same story but through the eyes of the woman.  She is still distressed and unhappy with her life, as the woman in Chekov’s story.  The difference here lies in the pursuit of the male character and the realization by the woman that she has done nothing morally wrong, and in truth, is married to two men.  One out of love and one out of necessity; and yet though both characters in both stories come to this realization of not being able to do without the other,  neither is truly happy because they are not happy with themselves. 

Oates gives in less to the idea of and concept of setting and more into the depth and breadth of human nature with her version of the story.  As you read the story you find yourself drawn into the depression and suicidal actions and thoughts of the young woman.  She is not stable but neither does she seem to wish to be stable.  If she were to be diagnosed more than likely she would have been placed under observation for having a penchant for cutting, a fascination with the macabre and for being suicidal along with manic depression. 

All in all it was a truly fascinating discovery to read these two tales side by side and be drawn along from both sides of the coin.  The voice of the woman is simpering and depressed, moralistic and guilty; while the voice of the man is greedy, selfish, egotistical, needy and angry.  Side by side both authors have given us a story that spans decades and brings a romantic nature to the stigma of cheating.  How can it be cheating if there is love?

Wild Seed

As one reads Octavia Butler’s “Wild Seed,” often the reader will find themselves quickly getting wrapped up in the conflict and surface story between Doro and Anyanwu.  It is apparent there was a struggle of power between these two immortal beings that went far beyond simple gender identity and equality, and delved deeply into the cultural schemata of the master-slave paradigm.  This motif is what carries the story throughout the novel, over centuries and changing landscapes; and yet although the people’s names change within the context of Anyanwu and Doro’s world this paradigm stays consistent.

Butler does not give us much detail or use of language of the African lifestyle; she uses westernized words to describe the Edo Nigerian tribal culture, mixing and blending the two schemas in order to create a speculative world within a relative space of historical-graphical time, in which the slave trade to the United States and Europe was beginning to be a profitable business throughout the known world.  According to Thaler’s Black Atlantic Speculative Fiction “Anyanwu makes this truth claim through her historical knowledge of the slightly less than three hundred years she had been alive in Africa previous to meeting Doro.  Thus, the novel presents the master-slave paradigm, the determining moment for black participation in the west, as an eternal truth claim, made not in the location of Western modernity but on its fringes, in Africa. The novel thereby establishes the master-slave paradigm within the history of slavery that dates back to antiquity and is also part of African patriarchal structures.  Wild Seed appropriates the master-slave dialectic in Western modernity for its concept of time in which Western modernity is only one example of a history of mankind.  The master-slave dialectic is therefore established not as a culturally specific paradigm, but universalized in the novel’s allegorical truth claim voiced by the novel’s paradigmatic slave.” (Black Atlantic, pg. 55)

Anyanwu, through her own history of being a slave, adapts and learns where power is strongest in many forms of different relationships, both personal and non-personal.  She comes to understand that the role of slave is unavoidable and she would rather hold the power of master than be submissive to another, and allow herself to be dominated physically or mentally.  Interestingly enough, she has no issue with emotional control as she views this as love and companionship.  A prime example of this is the conversation in chapter one between Doro and Anyanwu concerning slavery. Anyanwu and Doro speak of kinsmen as Doro recalls the people who once populated the Niger River area Anyanwu now resides within:

“What happened to the Oze people who were here before you?”

“Some ran away.  Others became our slaves.”

“So you were driven from Benin, then you drove others from here—or enslaved them.”

Anyanwu looked away, spoke woodenly.  “It is better to be a master than to be a slave.” Her husband at the time of the migration had said that.  He had seen himself becoming a great man—master of a large household with many wives, children and slaves.  Anyanwu, on the other hand, had been a slave twice in her life and had escaped only by changing her identity completely and finding a husband in a different town.  She knew some people were masters and some were slaves.  That was the way it had always been.  But her own experience had taught her to hate slavery.” (Wild Seed, pg. 9) This early conversation between Anyanwu and Doro sets the tone of the relationship throughout novel, and prepares the reader for what would become the basis of the conflict and disquiet that forms Doro’s and Anyanwu’s relationship over centuries.

Though she is immortal, Anyanwu does not differentiate herself from the human race, rather views herself as the voice of “Obo,” her god, where-as Doro, immortal like herself, but does not worship nor believe in any religion.  It is early on in the novel, in Chapter 2, after the two have set upon the path towards America that the challenge for power begins to show as conflict between Doro and Anyanwu.  Doro has convinced Anyanwu to come with him, neither through fear nor intimidation as he would other potentially gifted people, but by enticing her with the potential of children that would one day “NOT” die.  This concept fascinates Anyanwu, though she is quite proud of the fact that she has birthed forty-seven perfect children who have all survived, none were immortal as she and Doro are.  When Doro realizes this he vocalizes a wish that perhaps some of these “perfect” children should accompany them, only to face Anyanwu’s inner power, making him realize he needs to tame her or kill her, bringing about the master-slave mindset between the two protagonists.  “That stopped him.  There was no challenge in her voice but he realized at once she was not telling him she was all his—his property.  She was saying only that he had whatever small part of herself she reserved for her men.  She was not used to men who could demand more.  Though she came from a culture in which wives literally belonged to their husbands, she had power and her power had made her independent, accustomed to being her own person.  She did not yet realize that she had walked away from that independence when she walked away from her people with him.” (Wild Seed, pg. 29)

What are fascinating throughout all this is both, Doro and Anyanwu, antagonize and circle one each other, always looking for a weakness in the other.  Though Doro is technically the master and Anyanwu the slave, both fear and are intimidated by the other.  Doro consistently wonders when he the time will come for him to kill Anyanwu, and yet he is fascinated by her.  She is the only female who truly angers him and makes him feel human emotions.  Anyanwu, on the other hand, feels hatred for Doro for her slave status, but it is a status she willingly accepted of her own free will.  She also hates Doro for choosing to marry her to someone else, even though she has come to love Isaac, she cannot accept her lowered status.  It was Isaac who believes in both Anyanwu and Doro, who can see into both these immortals and understand that one day they will need one another.  Isaac understands both Doro and Anyanwu in such a way, as it could be interpreted as empathy.  He promises Anyanwu Freedom one day in the future, but he also begs her to not give up on Doro.  For all that he wishes her for himself, Isaac prophecies that only Anyanwu will be able to reach Doro’s humanity.  Anyanwu acknowledges she is too much of a coward to die, and as such agrees to marry Isaac, binding herself further to Doro, and enslaving herself to his will.    

At the beginning of Book 2, Lot’s Children, with the death of Isaac and her daughter Nweke, Anyanwu sees her own death shining in Doro’s eyes.  She knows the endless struggle between them has come to an end, only she is not ready to die, and so she does as she spoke of in the beginning of the novel, when others sought her death, she escaped taking on the form of an eagle, flying towards the ocean, before finally shedding all humanity and her binds of slavery to take the form of a dolphin.  “When Anyanwu becomes a dolphin or a bird, readers are transported out of this discursive universe into the nonhuman world of actual animals.  At this level “a true animal” is defined as “a creature beyond his [Doro’s] reach”.  Significantly, it is only when Anyanwu makes herself over into an animal that she is able to escape Doro’s mental tracking of her.” (Becoming Animal, pg. 13)  Anyanwu was finally free of her chains, not only put there by Doro, though he was the most stringent, but by humanity itself.  The pain of humanity was gone.  She no longer was going to be asked to sacrifice or be enslaved to others wants and needs.  She could simply be.  “Doro had reshaped her.  She had submitted and submitted and submitted to keep him from killing her even though she had long ago ceased to believe what Isaac had told her—that her longevity made her the right mate for Doro.  That she could somehow prevent him from becoming an animal.  He was already an animal.  But she had formed the habit of submission.  In her love for Isaac and for her children, and in her fear of death—especially of the kind of death Doro would inflict—she had given in to him again and again.  Habits were difficult to break.  The habits of living, the habit of fear… even the habit of love.” (Wild Seed, pg. 211)

Anyanwu admits she is a slave to her habits, not just to Doro, whom she loves and hates, with love and hate being two sides of the same coin.  Thaler explores the emotional side of the master-slave relationship further.   She states “the dependence of master and slave on each other is psychologically founded.  In contrast to the “people” Doro gathers, who willing submit to his orders, Anyanwu refuses to show the emotional dependence expected of her by Doro.  In Book II, Doro is annoyed by Anyanwu because despite the fact that she submits to his “breeding program” she makes it clear that she despises Doro and does not show the respect Doro wants from his people.” (Black Atlantic, pg. 55) This idea of dependence between master and slave continues even further along into Book III when Doro finally catches up with Anyanwu, with the intent of finally killing her. 

Book III, Canaan develops and brings with it a conclusion that does not necessarily leave the reader satisfied.  It leaves a lot of opened questions, but then again this novel is only the prequel to an entire series of books involving Doro and Anyanwu.  This idea of dependence between master and slave Thaler speaks of continues even further along into Book III when Doro finally catches up with Anyanwu, with the intent of finally killing her.  Anyanwu has had her own experiences, living amongst both the dolphins and as a white man, Edward Warwick, the slave master and owner of the plantation.  Doro, himself has experienced not had an easy time of it since Anyanwu has been gone, with Wheatley Village no longer a prosperous seed village.  The novel reaches an emotional epiphany along with Doro as our two characters reach a climatic point with Doro claiming Susan’s body for his newest kill.  Up till this point Anyanwu and Doro had been living together with Anyanwu pregnant with his child. 

A new form of a relationship seemed to be building between the two of them, after a hundred years of silence and separation.  One would not think that knowing Doro has killed another human would be the catalyst to push Anyanwu over the edge, and yet it does.  It does seem that Anyanwu’s attempted “suicide,” after the birth of her son, almost seems to manipulative upon her part.  She gives a prolong speech to Doro about how Isaac was wrong.  He has no humanity left within him.  Doro pleads with her not to leave him, that, in truth, she is wrong.  She is his humanity. 

In this part, you see the master-slave paradigm switch.  What the reader thought or experienced throughout the novel within their own interpretation, where Doro was the master and Anyanwu was the slave, revealed a new truth.  Doro was as much a slave to Anyanwu and his need for companionship, trust, and human emotion /approval blatantly emoted through the language expressed his submissive nature.  Anyanwu manipulates these needs within Doro to get him to reveal this, in order to acquire what she desires most from him, her independence, “NOT” her freedom.  She also demands that he will not sacrifice any of her children or those she calls hers.  What is interesting about this demand is she is completely ok with his breeding program, in fact, she tells him before she “suicides” she was always a supporter of his breeding program, she just did not support his need to kill.  Truthfully, as long as Doro kills others who are not one of hers, she is even ok with this.  Their relationship is no longer one in which it is based upon master-slave but rather it is now an immortal paradox.  “He laughed.  He did not care what she called herself as long as she went on living.  And she would do that.  No matter where she went, she would live.  She would not leave him.” (Wild Seed, pg. 297)

Cite:

Butler, Octavia. Wild Seed. New York: Warner, 1988. Print.

Thaler, Ingrid. "Chapter 1, Introduction." Black Atlantic Speculative Fictions. New York: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group, 2010. 28. Print.

Dubey, Madhu. "Becoming Animal in Black Women's Science Fiction." Selected Readings - Mythology and Modern Life. Albany: SUNY-ESC, 2011. 270. Print.

The No Ones

She stood there and stared at the door before her.  Her thoughts were jumbled with memories even as her emotions cycled through the tumult of feelings she worked so hard to run away from.  One could perceive the voices on the other side, but as hard as she attempted, still to open that door and stroll through to join in the holiday festivities seemed impossible.  Hand poised to knock, and then lowered once to rest by her side. 

“Why… why after all these years must it be so difficult.” She could not prevent the thoughts from slipping within.  Having escaped from the house she stood before years ago, only to find herself standing at this point, quaking with fear, frozen as a deer in headlights upon a lonely highway at night.  Eyes closed… Breath deep… Relax… And yet she is seized by the very memories she sought to escape, pulling her down the rabbit hole, to a place filled with tomorrows and yesterdays…

16 years earlier

The house was finally quiet as she woke with the dawn’s light; her body sore after last night’s beating.  Gingerly she maneuvered herself off the mattress on the floor, pushing aside her threadbare blanket.  Truthfully, it should have been no different than any other beating, but it was.  Her feet touch the cold wooden floor before her, spring was here but it was still chilly in the mornings.  She had given up many years before believing in fairy tales.  No one was going to rescue her. There was no Fairy Godmother waiting to wave her wand and magically turn her nightmare into a reality, in which she had loving parents, a good home, and food; never having to feel the bite of the whip or her head smashing into a wall again.

As she stood with caution, her body stretched and attempted to conform to her eleven year old frame.  The pain rocked through her, blossoming up her back; its fingers reaching out to brush against every fiber of her being.  The assault forcing a gasp from her young lips, her body doubling over; quickly she bit down upon her bottom lip in hopes of not making a sound; her only wish to not wake the Monster in the room next to hers.  Slowly the pain ebbed, fading but never truly gone. 

Too many years have gone by, the pain almost a welcome friend by now; leaving the reminder she still lived.  She no longer loved the Monster, in truth; she could not remember what it felt like to feel love.  Love was dangerous and left one open to even more pain.  It was better to feel nothing… to be nothing… than to risk allowing emotions within her small space of existence to give her hope.

Having gotten dressed she walked on her toes, to the bathroom, knowing any noise could wake the sleeping beast.  Grappling blindly for the light switch, she finally found what she sought.  The dull dead glow of the soot covered bulb filled the room.   A dribble of water fell from the faucet, just enough to not cause noise, but she could still brush her teeth.  Her fingers gripped the edge of the sink, while her knuckles turned white; she stood there staring at the image in the dirty mirror.  Though her face reflected back to her, it was not her own image she saw, but rather that of the Monster, as he leered and laughed the night before. 

After so many years, habit had developed in which one worked to escape his gaze by appearing to be invisible.  This was her super power: invisibility; no one could see her and no one noticed her.  At times she wondered if she lived in the land of “No Ones.”  Did this make her a nothing?  She stood there staring back at the reflection, wishing her brain would quiet.  She feared he would hear her, even simple thoughts somehow the beast would know, and the nightmare would begin again. 

Her hands came up to cover her mouth, willing herself not to scream as the pain racked her once more.  The knowledge that the “No Ones” would pay little to no attention to her sat upon her frail shoulders.  What did it matter to those on the outside?  She would walk into school and still “No One” would notice as she bit her lip, sitting down at her desk with effort.  “No One” would not ask if she was ok or needed help, as “No One” wish to know.  What the “No Ones” did not know allowed them to go about their lives within oblivion. 

It was all her fault.  She knew this.  Acceptance of the blame was also habit.  Obviously she had done something to deserve the fresh bruises and whip marks upon her back and legs.  She tried to remember what caused last night make it so she was not invisible. 

“Why had her power failed her?  Had she looked the wrong way?  Not fetched him a beer quickly enough?  Were the dishes washed improperly?”  Through the cyclone of questions, she could find no answer.  At times there was no answer.  In the end he enjoyed her screams, the pain he inflicted upon her.  She stood there for what felt like hours, and yet was simply minutes.  She knew it had been different.  How could it not be?  Never before had he demanded she take her clothes off.  Always in the past he left her clothed while the belt kissed her young form.  Except why the change last night…?

The memories of the night before began to assault her as she stood there, staring with haunted blue eyes in the dirty mirror, trapped once more in her own mind…

He had not been drunk, unless one counted the excitement that oozed from his very pours.  She had been hiding in her room, using the hall light to do her homework by, when he came in.  Her eyes looked up at him, a rabbit frozen upon the floor, fear and acceptance lighting her eyes that the Monster had come.  Her shoulders tensed as she waited for him to move.  The scent of his foul breath seeping over her, crushing any other as it fought to dominate her spirit. 

The Monster stood there, tall and broad, his body weight excessive from the multitude of drinking and drugs over the years.  Tendrils of fear began with her stomach, clenching her ribs making it hard for her to breathe.  Slowly they moved over her skin causing goosebumps to appear on her body.  Eyes downcast she avoided looking upon him.  Perhaps if she willed it her super power would return and he would leave, having forgotten for the moment her mere existence. 

“Little bitch…” The words hissed from his dry, cracked lips.  “Looking at men… little whore… just like your mother!”  She clenched the pen wishing she had the courage to stab him with the very tool she used to do homework.  She knew it was futile to deny his accusations.  To do so would only fuel his excitement and rage.  “Stand up!”  The order came; only still she sat there hunched over shivering, frozen in time.  “STAND UP I SAID!” His fingers ripped through the long strands of her blonde hair, dragging her across the room to the bare mattress.  She felt the dull ache flowing over her scalp attempting to tune out the pain itself. 

Her head connected with the wall, as she was thrown upon the mattress.  His breathing had hitched and grown more feverish with anticipation.  Lying there upon the bed she attempted to curl herself up, seeking protection for what was next.  The sound of his belt unclipping and sliding from his pants reminded her of a snake as it slithers towards its prey, preparing to strike.  For some reason the movie “Ricky Ticky Tavi” came to mind.  She recalled the snake as it hovered and swayed, waiting to strike down the small child, bringing the gift of death.  Why did she not die?  What made it so she was forced to endure this hell?

“Take your clothes off. “ Still she did not… no could not move.  Her muscles contracted and tightened, preventing her from standing.  His booted foot connected with her side, and a scream erupted from her soul.  She could not prevent that scream’s escape even if she had wanted to.   “Now take your fucking clothes off, or I will do it for you!” 

Placing a hand upon the wall next to her, she could feel the cold plaster under her fingers as she attempted to stand.  Her hands moved over her body, slowly removing her clothes.  Her mind blanked out the scene, allowing her to escape into her own fantasies.  Had she been able to realize it was her innocence and youth that excited him to a state of rage, perhaps she would have fought back.  No... She wouldn’t.  Nothing would prevent him once he reached this heightened state.  “No One” was there to rescue her or make the nightmare stop. 

Standing before him in only her panties, she kept her dull blue eyes staring at the ground, her hair hanging in long strands about her head and face.  “Take all your fucking clothes off, bitch…” Her fingers shook as the hitched within the elastic band of her underwear, little white ones with small faded pink flowers etched upon them.  Lifting her right foot, followed by her left one she stepped out of the small scrap of cloth, letting it simply lie there upon the hardwood floor.  The coolness of the room barely penetrated her brain, standing there with her young burgeoning body just beginning to enter puberty bared to his eyes. 

He wrapped the belt around his hand, creating a firm grip as he stood back.  The sound it made slicing through the air caused time to slow down.  Her mind looked upon the scene as one watching a movie in slow motion.  The feeling engulfed her leaving her watching in horror and fascination as if it took forever for the beast to connect his whip to her body.  The screams came forth.  She could not resist them.  The kiss of each stroke of the belt caused her to run around the Beast, in that empty room, all except for that mattress.  His lips turned upwards in a smile, as glee and excitement flowed from him.  The backs of her legs and back soon became covered, as did the front.  She could barely hear his words, her screams flooding her mind and soul.

“Bitch… Whore… Slut… Like your mother, the fucking whore! I will show you what a fucking man is!”  He snarled; drool and spittle flying around the room.  He laughed at his own images he evoked with each sting of his belt and the foul language he used to beat her psychologically.  Was there ever a time she loved this Monster?  She could not recall.  A far off memory seeps through recalling a time when there was laughter and smiles, obviously just a fragment of another reality.  She does not know that child who laughed and giggled.  The belt comes down across her young breasts and stomach, bringing her crashing to her knees before him.  Her arms wrapped around her frame seeking to hide, and yet he does not cease; her submission driving him further over the edge.

Her brain screamed out “Stop!  STOP!  I AM NOT HER!” yet her voice was lost amidst the cries wrenched from her soul.  It felt as if “Time” laughed at her.  The voices within her brain laughed at her, mocking her weakness and inability to fight back.  The “No Ones” turned away, ignoring her pleas, leaving her to the Monster, for him to feast upon her flesh and pain.   The woman who should of loved and protected her, lost within the haze of drugs, down stairs.  Once she called her mother… now she simply thought of her as nothing. 

Finally the beating ends.  He stands above her, staring down at her bruised and battered body upon the wooden planks, for what feels like eternity.  Turning he walks from the room leaving her huddled, a mass of bruises and clotting blood.  He hasn’t even acknowledged her, called her by name.  She is not even sure he knows her name, or if she exists enough to have an identity. 

Crawling over to the dirty mattress she lies there, curled within herself, rocking back and forth.  Quiet tears creep down her cheeks as she whispers “I am not her… I am not her…” repeatedly, until the blessed darkness overwhelms her, allowing her to pass out.   Her mind comes back to stare once more at the image, and for the first time she sees herself;  long blond hair, pale haunted blue eyes, and skinny body.  She knows if she stays she will die.  Where this thought comes from she knows not but as it takes hold of her a light flares up in those eyes.  Escape… She can escape… She had to if she wished to live.  Finishing up in the bathroom she moved down the stairs, trying her best not to cause a sound.  She avoided breakfast, but grabbed an orange to stick in her backpack.  The knowledge of freedom rushes through her, causing her to shake with fear.  What if he found her?  She could not let that happen.  She had to run… RUN!  She had to leave and keep on running. 

Opening the door partway, she took one last look around the building she had called home for her bare existence, before slipping through and outside into the brisk morning air of early May.  Where could she go?  Who would believe her?  She needed to hide. 

Heading down the street past her school, she heard the morning bell signaling the start of the day, only she continued on.  “RUN!” Her inner self demanded, and so she did, running till she came to the City Library.  She hid amongst the books, allowing the hours to slip by, losing track of time as her body ached and called out for her to rest.  She nibbled slowly upon her orange, reading the stores of books before her.  Here she was safe.  The Beast could not find her. 

Morning became afternoon, and soon afternoon slipped away to become evening.  A Librarian walked over to where she sat hunched within the Children’s corner, cuddled upon a bean bag.  Leaning down to touch her arm, meaning no harm, only wishing to inform her the library was about to close; and yet she screamed and jumped, shaking as she scrambled backwards. 

The elder woman could see she was harmed by the bruises peeking up and over through her clothes, not to mention the child’s behavior.  Coming to the conclusion she needed help she motioned back towards her desk, where she asked the young girl if she was hungry or perhaps thirsty.  The girl nodded slowly and accepted the hand with caution, hearing her own stomach rumbling in response to the thought of the offered Graham Crackers and Apple Juice.  While she sat and nibbled delicately upon the snack, the Librarian called 911. 

Soon the girl was surrounded by various police and social workers.  One, a female also, made her retreat into the bathroom and present her back for viewing.  Pictures were snapped and various reports filled out.  Questions were asked of how she became in such a state.  The adults all assured her she would not have to go back to the “Monster.”  She was going somewhere safe.  She listened but did not believe.  There was nowhere safe, and yet for the first time in her meager life the “No One” became “Some One.”  A small blossom of hope opened within her.  It was tiny, a speck really, and yet it filled her with such possibility that maybe it was finally over.  She was no longer a “Nothing.”

Present day

She came forth from her memories to find herself standing once more facing the door.  The voices were still flowing through the wooden structure.  She had run for 16 years, it was time to finally stop running.  Lifting her hand she knocked, resolution, determination and fear flooding that simple knock, forcing it to sound as a cannon echoing through her skull. 

The door opened to find her faced with the “Monster,” himself, only he had grown old.  He was no longer the young, strong vicious man he once was, who filled her reality with nightmares, and her dreams with visions of darkness.  Now he stood there bent and withered by age and time.  His eyes, the same blue as hers, came to rest upon her face.  She was surprised to see them fill with tears and fear, the haunted expression of one who has been hunted by his own demons, all as she gazed upon him. 

Yes, he was the “Monster,” and still, he was not.  There was no longer anything for her to fear.  She had finally won.  She was no longer a “No One”…  A “Nothing”…  A feeling of strength and pride of who she had become filled her, giving her the courage to push back the fear for the last time.  Now as she glanced at his shrunken form, she could see he had become that which he had sought to make her, “Nothing and No One.”   She found she could no longer hate him, and only felt pity for the pathetic beast he was.  As their gazes stood locked, unable to retreat, her voice reaches out filled with ice and regret…

“Hello Father, it has been a while.”