My Email
I have felt an urge to be connected;
To create an account: Hotmail, Yahoo!
Post a comment, see how they reacted,
I stay on all day, as i *click* SEND TO:
With all my friends we keep in touch worldwide.
Whether for business, personal or fam,
Junkmail, spam, customize folders to hide:
Inboxes fill up like a traffic jam.
My email is my best friend, my social
life, the one thing i am dependant on.
Now i need things to be confindential:
I don't know what to do if it were gone.
Despite the insults, jokes and clever ryhme,
Could this device just be a waste of time?
Written by Nicole Zhang and Amanda Na (Block 2-1)
Pingu Sonnet
How I do wish you could talk on TV,
When the screen appears with your name Pingu,
Because of this curse you put upon me;
I cry every night and hope to hear you.
You make those actions but you do not speak;
In curiosity, you scratch your head,
In anger, you honk and extend your beak,
Can you speak not to prevent rivers shed?
Yet your actions are equal to words said:
I do not understand what you want
to express, Your feelings through movement and are unsaid,
Actions and words both important none less.
I still love you although you have your ways,
Forever like how long there is always.
By: Adrienne MacPhee and Felicia Chan
Sonnet
Who is crazy enough to write a poem
with so many rules. Shakespeare was crazy.
I would really much rather sit at home;
Perhaps our minds are just too hazy.*
With fourteen lines and a painful rhyme scheme,
don't even mention ten syllables each;
the iabmic feet tripping you unseen;
I would squish sonnets if it were a peach.
Sly slipping sliding squiggly sonnets,
why oh why must they be messing with me!!!
Why does only "bonnet" rhyme with "sonnet",
and what will help our sonnet come to be?
Can this be? looking back, what do I see?
To my surprise a sonnet staring back at me.
* (9 syllables because our minds are hazy..so you can't see)
Susanna and Jamie (2.2)
A Casual Day
Suddenly waking, seeing the sunrise;
Light beams hit my eyes, feels like they got fried
Want to stay in bed, but would that be wise?
Just five more minutes, yeah that would be nice.
Sprinting to the school, running late for class,
Not a stop, a slow, or even a stall;
Speeding up, so I'm going pretty fast,
And then "BOOM" I hit a wall.
After I get up, I'm still in a daze,
My friend I see dialing on the phone;
I see the ambulance through a blurry gaze,
To heal the wounds from the bully of stone.
And even as real and painful this may seem;
I woke to see it was only a dream.
Fraser, Ayden, and Chris (2.2)
Sun and Moon: A love story
The sun the moon, both big, like shining lights;
To us they seem a pair of giant eyes
And without eyes we lose our sense of sight.
To be without would meet our sure demise
And we are grateful for the part each plays.
They see each other rarely, time held dear,
But grief and sadness do they feel most days.
With separation comes new fright, new fear,
Though with great losses come greater rewards
And both do understand the good they’ve done.
A better future that we move towards,
A future with a happy moon and sun;
And when we look at heavens up above,
We look for happiness, kindness and love,
Zander Constant & Wyatt Sjoberg-Fox (2.2)
PRAY FOR NIPPON
On that day of March, not too long ago,
the earth began to tremble and roll as
it once had done some eons of time ago.
It seemed like forever for those six minutes to pass. (*)
The sea, rising up from the ocean floor,
crashed down on the broken island nation
causing nuclear radiation to pour
and buildings swept from their weakened foundations. (**)
On the face of the people, tears streamed down,
as they looked for their loved ones under all
the rubble, and those who are died or drowned.
As the tears of thousands began to fall.
So hear me out when I say, that the sun
did not rise over the land of the rising sun. (***)
Julia Ho (2.1)
* Over 10 syllables to stress the ‘forever’ part
** ‘Buildings were swept from their broken foundations’: over 10 syllables to stress the fact that buildings were falling apart and being swept away by the tsunami (the rules wereswept away?)
*** ‘The sun did not rise over the land of the rising sun’ : over 10 syllables to say that a ‘rule’ was broken, since Japan is like the ‘land of the rising sun’.
From Innocence to Sin: The Past of Zondaar van Duisternis
He used to run in circles wherever
He wanted to, with no restrictions at all. *
His mom thought of him as very clever,
Like Shi Huangdi when he built the Great Wall.
Yet a man took him to watch his soul rot,
As he was given a different name.
"Zondaar," they called him, but "sinner," he thought,
And blood, they gave him. "For strength," was the claim.
He screamed and twisted and turned on the ground,
But the man would not stop, no matter what.
The boy was like a Pokemon, he found,
But his creativity was shut. **
His soul was smart and strong; too strong to be fair. ***
Yet inside, the darkness swam everywhere.
by Michelle Panikkar (2.1
*Note: This line has 11 syllables to represent there being no restrictions.
**Note: This line has 9 syllables to represent the shutting of Zondaar's creativity.
***Note: This line has 11 syllables to represent Zondaar's being TOO strong.
Epic mealtime
Epic meal time is really the greatest;
Three headed goats are there monstrosity
Of these creations turtle soup is the latest*
Bacon wept: at the animosity
A hundred burgers have they devoured
Like demons they ate candy covered food
The flame of there ovens, overpowered
A sun sized meatball set a happy mood
Turkeys giving birth to baby rabbits,
Grilled cheese towers covered in cheesy batter
Too much fat for them are just bad habit
Their the pigs they eat, getting fatter
When holding food they are rarely clumsy
Next time we will eat our whole family's
*latest (one word late)
epic meal time is a show inwich the host makes obscene meals
my favorate
www.youtube.com/watch?v=SS9cTjFFWow&feature=relmfu
dyllan goldstein
On the *click* of the shutter I see it,
The beautiful well contrasted picture.
Think highly of myself I do admit,
I knew that I had a perfect capture.
Each one of them is better than the last,
That is because you learn from your mistakes.
Everything you do wrong, leave in the past,
Though my pic was great, I must raise the stakes.
It is not to win a competition,
Instead to surpass my expectations.
Taking pictures is like an addiction,
Marking my life with these decorations..
As we walk in to this beautiful place.
We see this world as a different space.
By Nick Maranda and Paris Flemming (2.1)
Dragons
Evil dragons stealing all the livestock,
Burning everything with breath of fire.*
Living in caves filled with treasure and rock,
As with Smaug, the situation is dire!
Ferocious dragons are very hard to slay,**
With their long, sharp, scaly tails they can sweep
You off your feet and make you easy prey.
To avoid them, you should like a frog, leap.
Not all dragons are as mean as you think,
Storytellers are all just big-nosed liars.
Some dragons can be nice creatures who wink;
If mean dragons are low, nice ones are higher.
Dragons are misunderstood, nice creatures-
So stop judging them based on their features!
*= 9 syllables because one syllable got burnt off
**= 11 syllables because they are so ferocious and hard to slay
by Brooklyn Chang (2-1)
Perfect
My constant hunger leaves me feeling bare;
Withering away to an empty shell,
Hollowed out as if my insides aren't there.
Perfection burns like the fires of hell.
The art of pushing sustenance away
Swallows. Engulfing my way of being.
Everything becomes one ominous grey.
Things I once loved are no longer freeing.
Constantly counting and calculating,
Striving to keep the evil digits low.
Looking at faces, watching them- rating.
Each pound I gain is like a fatal blow.
Mirror, mirror on the wall*
Only wishing to be small.*
by Ruby, Roan and Mairin Miller.
*The lack of syllables in the heroic couplet represents a life cut short.
McDonald’s
When hungry eyes see thy golden arches,
And nostrils tempt thee to besiege thy doors,
My common sense of good health collapses
As my feet stumble on the greasy floors.
While I’m standing in this never-ending line, *
I plunge into my fast food fantasies; **
Diving into sweet rivers of Root Beer
All my problems and needs begin to cease.
Thy savory food sizzles sumptuously, ***
Cheddar cheese glimmers amongst tender beef,
Golden sticks of crispy goodness greatly
Warms the heart, causing anything but grief. ****
At last the always-nagging beast is tamed, *****
And a satisfactory nap is claimed.
Matt and Griffin
* 11 syllables because the line is “never-ending”
** “Fast food fantasies” – alliteration
*** “Savory food sizzles sumptuously” – alliteration, and “sizzles” – onomatopoeia
**** Enjambment
***** “ Beast” – metaphor for stomach, and “Always-nagging beast” - personification
As a Kid in 1972...
Born with sky blue eyes, that then turned out chesnut;
My father is spazzing, siblings shrieking,
Started out in a forest where wood was cut,
And that's how my friend I started living.
Under that tree, so many games were played,
I am the king I am the king, so tall.
Dear brothers and sisters, you shall be slayed,
Just kind enough not to treat you as thralls.
Mother oh Mother! That is not yummy.
How come my sister gets to gulf some toast?
That brocoli seems actually quite yucky.
Cause when it comes to sweets, I want the most.
Childhood oh Childhood, how I miss you so.
My youth is now over, but who needs to grow?
We made some slight changes but hope they still make the poem make sense.
Chloe Van de Panne and Roisin O'Dwyer
Alone on a dark empty road i see ,
two mysterious shadows lurk behind .
A colorful light beams in front of me.
Hands place on me , and everything unwinds .
The wind whispers silently in my ear,
slimy eyeballs hang on a cloud above.
Cockroaches fill a road in which i fear
i quickly pass through a pack of dead doves.
Crazy clowns push me towards a dark maze
vines which hang above , are like vicious snakes.
Inside, demented zombies start to craze
they try to stab me but all starts to shake.
BRRINNG , i flutter my eyes and things look fine
i look at my clock to see it is nine.
By: Mavis and Winni
Everlasting
Everyone will wake up soon to the day,
The sun is rising off the quiet lake;
Listening to loons call over the calm bay.
The parents are not yet awake.
The keys get put into the ignition;
The wind is blowing thought my sun-bleached hair
But waterskiing is still my mission;
The skies move thought the water like a flare.
As the sun goes down the day slowly dies
We sit by the bonfire for dinner
The darkness is taking over the skies
The fire burns down to just a simmer.
As the birds take off for there final flight;
It starts our endless carefree summer nights.
By: Harriet and Sarah
In Our Bright, Blue and White
By Raymond and Michael
Canucks are in the Stanley Cup Finals.
In our bright, blue and white one of a kind
We proudly swept three Western team rivals.
The Stanley Cup trophy we seek to find.
The Green Men behind the penalty box
Showcasing their overt actions like ghosts
Who longs to taunt prisoners in the stocks.
Making their work shown on National Post.
When it is at home, the arena shouts.
In the famous city of Vancouver,
We have great confidence and have no doubts.
That is what we’re known for, the achievers.
For forty years we have been on this quest.
To this moment, the Canucks are the best.
Michelle and Bryony’s Sonnet: Travelling the World
Travelling the world, a dream we wish for
A starry night, our magic carpet flies
Goodbyes are done, ready for something more
We’re off! Into the beauty of the skies
First destination is the Milky Way
The stars are bright, glistening in the night
We don’t want to leave, too bad we can’t stay
Zoom! We’re off towards the blazing sun’s light
The closer we get, the hotter we burn
We have to cool down we know just the place
Ocean blue as sky where there is a lot to learn*
Seaweeds wave at us in the ocean’s maze
We’ve had so much fun but now our desire
to go home into our beds we retire
*There is a lot more syllables (where there is a lot to learn)
Sonnets ‘n’ stuff
Rainbows ‘n’ stuff
Rainbows are colourful, beautiful things;
They bring joy after the grey skies of rain.
You cannot understand the joy it brings
Until you’ve felt it flow throughout your veins.
Rainbows are signs of hope that all can see,
Shining through the sky like a big banner.
Everyone knows that on all days like these,
The world seems happier, in some manner.
Near the end of each and all rainbows
There is a large pot of leprechaun gold.
These gold coins are worth more than mere pesos,
But leprechauns guard their treasure of old.
Double rainbow all the way, ‘cross the sky,
I’m so happy, it feels like I can fly.
He starts a meal eating cream soup and bread,
Gulping it down ‘til the dishes are clear,
That is not enough and so he said;*
Whatever the main course, just bring it here.
Here comes the main dish: steak and potatoes,
The sizzling steak is set on the plate,
The aroma swirls towards his big nose,
The taste and smell is given a five star rate.*
Finally, the best part of a meal begins,*
The cold, sweet ice-cream is like solid cloud,
He indulges in the honey sweet sin,
That makes him incredibly wowed.
These three make the perfect combination,
I thoroughly commend this creation.
* There are nine syllables because it shows that there is not enough food and the speaker needs more food, while there are the eleven syllables because the main course was very satisfying (end of the second quatrain). The eleven syllables also helps emphasize how great the last part of a meal is (Beginning of the third quartrain).
Hi Ms.Hughes, this is Angie from block 2-2. This is Sabrina G's and my sonnet.
Tigers
The jungle, the mysterious home of
Ferocious animals, these predators;
Panthers, birds, wreaking havoc from above.
Most of all tigers, feared by many cultures.
The fearsome tiger stalks his prey with care,
Black, orange fur surprisingly hidden.
He performs his deadly dance with flare,
The wild boar's survival forbidden.
When he feeds his cubs under protection,
Tiger eyes have warmth like fire burning.
One look at him, and there is affection.
With him, there is no chance of them hurting.
Tiger, warrior, one to hold a grudge,
Yet loving parent. A beast? You can judge.
*Line 1: There is enjambment because if we ended the thought like that, it leaves you wondering, 'home of what?'
*Line 2: We needed that extra syllable to fit in cultures which is a slant rhyme with predators.
Annelle Wilson
Block 2-1
You say I’m truly mad, well mad I am.
I must surely be mad as a hatter.
My brain must be made of fried eggs and spam,
My mind can’t help but mumble and batter.
My words and thoughts go wild, like they are
Coming from a child. My mind said out loud:
So spontaneous, common sense is rare,
Modest I try but I find myself proud.
But I say: aren’t we all a little mad?
Every one of us each very unique.
But this is no reason to be too sad.
Serious not is my truthful critique.
We’re all weird, wonky, and wild at heart,
BOOM goes my mind as I fall from the dark.
*Note of explanation (NOT PART OF SONNET): my realization is what makes me fall from the
dark, “boom” is the sound my mind makes while realizing.
Frustrations on Exams
By Nicole Chung and Beverly Ma
Block: 2-2
Three in the morning and I’m still awake;
I can’t stop thinking about my exam.
It’s just to bad that this whole thing’s not fake.
At the end I’m going to have to cram.
My eyelids are like bricks, I need to sleep
Now. Time’s ticking I know I can’t do this,
Math, science, socials, I just want to weep.
You’ll never know how difficult this is.
My pencil’s no longer willing to write.
All these notes, I cannot memorize it.
The sun is rising, I’ve stayed up all night.
If I fail I’m going to throw a fit.
The time has come for me the face the beast,
*Soon I’ll conquer what I like the least.
* We used only nine syllables to emphasize the speaker’s disgrace towards what
she “likes the least,”
Anita Tse
We all know someone really amazing;
Day by day she is up and smiling bright.
Wearing neon is totally her thing;
However what she thinks is never right.
She is weird and random most of the time;
Dreaming about Justin Bieber and Lights
Is what makes her everyday life all fine.
She is bold and strong like a shining knight.
*On day two's she wears a million hair clips.
Teddy is the name of her little dog.
She talks non-stop and never zips her lips;
Overall, she is a dead, lazy log.
She knows her 1 2 3's and A B C's,
And this sonnet explains Anita Tse.
*This line has 11 syllables to relate to having a 'million' hair clips.
By Anita Tse, Sandra Zheng, and Hannah Lin
The Little Mermaid: Kiss the Girl (Lagoon Scene)
by London and Lyja
There you see her, sitting under the moon.
All is quiet, neither does say a word;
As silence lingers on the blue lagoon
She does not speak, yet she can still be heard.
Her eyes are as gentle as the morning seas,
The wind and the water seem to have whispered
Her name, light as a feather on the breeze.
Her beauty is as vibrant as a song bird.
They do not speak, their thoughts connect with ease
The moon is high and it is getting late.
She captivates him, his heart she does sieze;
For them to be together is their fate.
And he doesn’t know why but he’s dying to
Try to kiss the girl, and she wants to kiss you.
NEIGHBORS by max clemens
My neighbor thinks my lawn mower is his;
But there is one small fact he forgets though,
because if it is an item he does miss
why did he sell it to me years ago,
with a wok, and other stuff I can not list?
My neighbor has a psychopathic lawn,
and I complain about it's stench of dog waste,
witch he dismisses with a little yawn.
in his condo he goes with nervous haste,
and leaves me with his king kong of a dog.
After I have nursed the painful dog bites
on my leg, I look out my glass window.
On my lawn I come across quite a sight,
my neighbor as drunk as a street feral,
haggling donations for drunkard rights.
I really hope this big jerk does not last;
but if he does I'll move to texas.
Fear
I am scared of nothing and everything,
I was born into a world made of fear.
I have been told to fear birth and aging;
How come fear must control my life each year?
Is fear a figment of your own person?
It requires the influence of another.
Should it be brought through life as a burden?
Life is short to feel the silent slither.
Fear can be truly unavoidable
Many are scared of the future or past;
Being afraid is very acceptable.
But put your family first and your fear last.
Fear is our creation to build and shape,
We fear, fear but it is ours to reshape.
by Anna Shearing, Kurtis Gregory-Herbold, and Scott Yang
Skies are pitch around this gloomy site,
which holds corpses ten feet under the earth;
Dark branches threatening to tear with fright,
the moons as they rise to shine in their mirth.
Lost spirits wandering through withered
decayed branches that grab and trap the souls;
With birds of Hades greased black and feathered,
wailing unforgivingly to the ghouls.
But an era must end and with it follows
a brand new generation to walk the light.
Lost souls must not give in to the hallows
which bind them in a prison from the light.
For up-worlders who have not forgotten,
will visit their graves and be their sun.
by Amy Chen
Ice Cream
Thine heads turn towards the distance, hoping
The tinkling melody was not a dream.
The ice cream truck came, children went loping
With laughter and joy towards the truck’s gleam.
Silky soft swirls with creamy peaks of joy,
Saviour* of life on a hot summer’s day,
Gloriously perfect edible toy,
It doth not matter if thou hast to pay.
The ice cold taste of sweetness everywhere,
The cold tingle of fresh air in thy nose,
Thou licketh the ice cream right then and there,
Sends shivers down thy spine from head to toes.
Delicious sensations, chills to the bone,
For ice cream is like heaven in a cone.
*"saviour" is 2 syllables
rhyme scheme:ABAB CDCD EFEF GG
literary devices used:
alliteration-"silky soft swirls" (5)
metaphor-"saviour of life"(6), "edible toy"(7)
simile-"ice cream is like heaven in a cone"(14)
by Susan Chen, Emily Mah, and Olivia Wong, block 2-2
Colourful images flashing on screen, A
thousands see the images at the same time. B 11 syllables
Shanghai, Cambridge, Paris, and Bowling Green, A
pets, comedy, mess-ups, music, and crime. B
A library full of fantastic clips. C
My room rages from the constant ruckus D
and beaming lights. Homework and chores all slip, C
worldwide information entertains us. D
No effect now but will haunt you later, E
like a ghost that will never disappear. F
This is a message to all you hater, E
eventually you will hide in fear. F
The phenomenon is for everyone, G
resulting in millions having fun. G
we chose to have 11 syllables in the second line becau
Music is a way to express feelings
That are living inside my heart and mind.
I tell my story on the cello strings,
Where the sound is deep like the feelings I find
In myself. When each note is sent flowing
Through the air, where all my emotions
Are launched though the room creating a echoing
Sound. The story will go on with the piece.
Music tells a story with expressions,
It can tell a tale differently,
Music helps people free their emotions:
Because with music people express freely
Music is a language that all human
Knows, that’s why music is gorgeous to man.
A
B
A
B
C
D
C
D
E
F
E
F
G
G
Clockwork’d Aquasia
Fingers, sharpened handful; iron of silver: sheathed,
Lunar – ‘niscent** cycled time, circled northernmost;
Twelfth in taking, first in making, start of none: wreathed,
Tick of tocking, click of clocking, pointed – lost… ***, ****
Lost from the heavens, the expanse, the claws of this:
This antiquity of life, where death breaches coast,
Of sea glance’d sky, Aquarius escapes amiss,*****
The midst’s mist missing beam alighted lighthouse post. ******
Taken granted, moment-blown glass’d hours trickled through*******
Outstretched palmers. Reaching the night’s one Polaris,
Without thy cloak darkened, thy spoke harkened, in two:
And my heart stilled, and my soul so unfulfilled, kiss.
Before the handful sharpens, drawing seconds’ tears,
Yield, lest tears into blood, and seconds unto years.
Kristine Ho
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Sunday, June 20, 2010
The Magistrate by Claire Thomson (a Frankenstein story) EN11E May 2010
The Magistrate
I awoke, as I had many times prior to that night, in a fit of terror. It was the same
nightmare which had possessed me since that madman, Victor Frankenstein, had come
to visit me. I dreamed of nothing but his hideous creature as of late, the creature yet
faceless and nameless to me. I had only descriptions of a giant, loathsome, immoral
fiend to haunt me. Surely such a being belonged in frivolous parlour novels, and not in
reality! Such was my reasoning, but it became less and less potent as the weeks wore
on. I was almost unable to convince myself that this devil did not exist. His story was
fantastic, but Frankensteinʼs dates had all checked out. He had not spoken with the
mania of a lunatic, but with quiet conviction. I was beginning to view Frankenstein as a
sane man, and this terrified me.
For what if he did speak the truth? This question plagued my waking hours, as
surely as Frankensteinʼs monster plagued my nights. I had promised only half-heartedly
to afford every aid to Frankenstein, and had hid behind proclamations of the inevitability
of the pursuit. Any moral integrity I might have previously claimed had evaporated with
this one shameful act. I was supposed to be a magistrate, the protector of the people,
and I had let this animal run wild? I was without rest, I had been without rest for months,
ever since Frankenstein had come to me about his accursed creation. Every time I
looked on my wife, my children, or my neighbours, I knew that I had failed them. They
were beginning to notice the shadow that would cross my face whenever I would
experience these dark moods, and the black circles beneath my eyes caused by
sleeplessness. Perhaps they would begin to think of me as mad! But I was mad! I
cursed the fiend whose existence caused this dementia in me!
I soon resolved to abandon my family in pursuit of the monster. Frankenstein
mentioned that he had taken refuge in the Alps, and it was here that I first began my
search. The mountains of Switzerland proved barren, so I quit them for Northern
Germany, Scandinavia, and the Russian Frontier. I spent many weeks perusing these
locals, with nothing but my inexplicable mania to drive me forwards. However, I was
soon awarded the most incalculable measure of good fortune. While staying at the
whaling village of Archangel in Russia, I crossed paths with Captain Robert Walton.
Captain Walton had recently encountered both Frankenstein and the beast! I knew that
the monster yet lived, and I would never give up my search until he or I perished.
With Waltonʼs information I was able to continue my pursuit of the creature.
Walton told me that Frankenstein had been possessed by a mania similar to mine which
led to his death, and this shook my convictions for the first time since I departed
Switzerland. Frankenstein was responsible for the creature, and he had many reasons
for wanting it dead. I might have been charged with protecting the people, but had no
need to pursue the animal to the extent of Frankenstein. Several times I considered
turning back, but the night terrors returned to change my mind. Paralyzing fear drove
me forward. This fear led me to it.
I came across the beast at the foot of a massive glacier, huddled over some
semblance of a campfire. It was indeed as horrible as Frankenstein had asserted. The
monster stood nearly eight feet tall, but such impressive height was made hideous by
the wrongness of its proportions. Its hair was long, mangled, and black; its eyes
gleamed with cruel malice. I felt as if a sheet of ice had been shoved down my spine,
such was the effect of this unnatural animal. This corruption of nature could not be
tolerated, I abhorred the sight of it!
“Fiend!” I cried. “Victor Frankenstein told me of you and your history. He told me
of the danger you pose to humankind, and he bade me use every force I possess to
bring you to justice!”
“Victor Frankenstein could not destroy me.” The monsterʼs voice was cracked
and unnatural, like broken glass. “What do you possess that would allow you to succeed
where my creator could not?”
This surprised me. Was it arrogant to think that I could exterminate the beast
when Frankenstein, the man who had made life out of nothing, had died in the attempt?
But it was not my duty to question my powers; my duty was to pursue evil and injustice,
and to bring it to trial for all the crimes it had committed.
“I did not expect you to still be living when I found you. I was told by Robert
Walton that you went forth to rid the Earth of yourself.”
“That was my plan, yes. But you would not understand how difficult it is, having
resolved to kill yourself, to actually go through with the deed. I was originally going to
cast myself into the cold Arctic waters. Every day for a week I stood at the edge of my
iceberg, prepared to jump into the ocean, but the hours would waste away and I would
resolve to try again when next I woke. Eventually, during a violent winter storm, I slipped
into the dark waters, and was relieved to think that my life had finally been taken from
me. But I awoke, unharmed, drifting on another ice flow! Once again Victor
Frankenstein had thwarted me, for it was the incredible physiology which he gave to me
that prevented my death. I considered other methods by which I could destroy myself,
but I had no tools. I tried to starve myself, but after several days of the cruelest hunger I
would find myself eating as I slept. There seemed to be some force which contrived to
keep me alive that I could not surmount!”
“Coward! You who have taken so many innocent lives could not end your guilty
one! Soulless demon!”
“Soulless? How could one who has suffered such as I be soulless?”
“You have not suffered. Frankenstein described to me how you travelled the
country in a murderous rage, jealous of humankind. How has man ever harmed you?”
“Frankenstein has lied to you. Yes, I have murdered, but only after the cruelest
provocation from my creator. He abandoned me at first sight, left me without protection
in this miserable world! And what I have suffered for those crimes is more than enough
penitence for my sins! You have no idea of what I suffered during the original era of my
being...”
I remained silent throughout his tale, and for many minutes afterwards. I had
previously looked on Frankenstein as a genius, the golden scientist whose powers
equivocated him with God. I had never considered his betrayal of his first creation, and
the selfishness which prevented him from protecting his family. To cast an innocent out
into the world undefended is a sin as deadly as lust or avarice! From that moment,
Frankenstein was less human to me than his creation, who did not even have a
Christian name.
“Did Frankenstein ever bestow a name upon you?” I asked.
“The only names he gave me were ʻfiendʼ and ʻcreatureʼ. Frankenstein could not
think of me as something for which to care. I would be surprised if he ever considered
granting me a name, even when I was unborn and he was not repulsed by my visage.”
Again, I was struck by Frankensteinʼs neglect. A name is the basest right any
human possesses. Anyone lacking a name would immediately be singled out as an
outcast, and I realized for the first time the crushing exclusion which had accompanied
the creature for his entire life. He was already estranged from human sympathy by his
physiognomy. Would he be further marked by his lack of name?
He startled me when he began to speak again.
“I never much considered naming myself, for who would ever care enough for me
to even ask my name? But now you have awakened some deep longing in me! Often
during the melancholy hours when I contemplated my death I would wonder what
awaited me afterwards. I was heavily influenced, as I have mentioned, by Milton, and I
long to go to heaven. I fear, however, that my soul is incomplete. Something was always
missing, and I now believe that that was my name.”
“If you are that distraught by your lack of identity, I would be willing to give you a
name.”
The creature gave a small cry of glee, but was too stricken with thankfulness to
speak further. After a few moments I continued.
“What of Adam?”
“I am not so like Adam as you would think,” replied the creature. “He had come
forth from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous. I am hideous,
and the sight of me scarred my creator and drove him to madness. No, Adam would not
be the name for me.”
“Well, what of Cain? He was the first murderer, moved to kill his brother out of
jealousy, because God favoured Abel over himself. But Cain understood not what he
had done, and God forgave him, and any man who harmed Cain was to be punished
sevenfold for his sins. Cain was also an outcast, marked by God as surely as you are
marked by your appearance.”
“Cain...” The harsh name paralleled his harsh voice well. “I agree that his story
and mine are well-matched. Yes... that shall be my name.”
Several hours later, after the ceremony, I left him. We had said little, and he gave
me the last provisions he carried with him. I periodically glanced back at his campsite as
I walked across the ice sheet. I was almost sure that I had lost sight of him when I saw
something fall from the top of the glacier. Had the man finally cast himself from its peak,
as he had long planned to do? I wondered what his soul now resembled: his body,
mangled and sewn together by an unsteady hand, or an actual human soul. I will never
be truly sure.
I awoke, as I had many times prior to that night, in a fit of terror. It was the same
nightmare which had possessed me since that madman, Victor Frankenstein, had come
to visit me. I dreamed of nothing but his hideous creature as of late, the creature yet
faceless and nameless to me. I had only descriptions of a giant, loathsome, immoral
fiend to haunt me. Surely such a being belonged in frivolous parlour novels, and not in
reality! Such was my reasoning, but it became less and less potent as the weeks wore
on. I was almost unable to convince myself that this devil did not exist. His story was
fantastic, but Frankensteinʼs dates had all checked out. He had not spoken with the
mania of a lunatic, but with quiet conviction. I was beginning to view Frankenstein as a
sane man, and this terrified me.
For what if he did speak the truth? This question plagued my waking hours, as
surely as Frankensteinʼs monster plagued my nights. I had promised only half-heartedly
to afford every aid to Frankenstein, and had hid behind proclamations of the inevitability
of the pursuit. Any moral integrity I might have previously claimed had evaporated with
this one shameful act. I was supposed to be a magistrate, the protector of the people,
and I had let this animal run wild? I was without rest, I had been without rest for months,
ever since Frankenstein had come to me about his accursed creation. Every time I
looked on my wife, my children, or my neighbours, I knew that I had failed them. They
were beginning to notice the shadow that would cross my face whenever I would
experience these dark moods, and the black circles beneath my eyes caused by
sleeplessness. Perhaps they would begin to think of me as mad! But I was mad! I
cursed the fiend whose existence caused this dementia in me!
I soon resolved to abandon my family in pursuit of the monster. Frankenstein
mentioned that he had taken refuge in the Alps, and it was here that I first began my
search. The mountains of Switzerland proved barren, so I quit them for Northern
Germany, Scandinavia, and the Russian Frontier. I spent many weeks perusing these
locals, with nothing but my inexplicable mania to drive me forwards. However, I was
soon awarded the most incalculable measure of good fortune. While staying at the
whaling village of Archangel in Russia, I crossed paths with Captain Robert Walton.
Captain Walton had recently encountered both Frankenstein and the beast! I knew that
the monster yet lived, and I would never give up my search until he or I perished.
With Waltonʼs information I was able to continue my pursuit of the creature.
Walton told me that Frankenstein had been possessed by a mania similar to mine which
led to his death, and this shook my convictions for the first time since I departed
Switzerland. Frankenstein was responsible for the creature, and he had many reasons
for wanting it dead. I might have been charged with protecting the people, but had no
need to pursue the animal to the extent of Frankenstein. Several times I considered
turning back, but the night terrors returned to change my mind. Paralyzing fear drove
me forward. This fear led me to it.
I came across the beast at the foot of a massive glacier, huddled over some
semblance of a campfire. It was indeed as horrible as Frankenstein had asserted. The
monster stood nearly eight feet tall, but such impressive height was made hideous by
the wrongness of its proportions. Its hair was long, mangled, and black; its eyes
gleamed with cruel malice. I felt as if a sheet of ice had been shoved down my spine,
such was the effect of this unnatural animal. This corruption of nature could not be
tolerated, I abhorred the sight of it!
“Fiend!” I cried. “Victor Frankenstein told me of you and your history. He told me
of the danger you pose to humankind, and he bade me use every force I possess to
bring you to justice!”
“Victor Frankenstein could not destroy me.” The monsterʼs voice was cracked
and unnatural, like broken glass. “What do you possess that would allow you to succeed
where my creator could not?”
This surprised me. Was it arrogant to think that I could exterminate the beast
when Frankenstein, the man who had made life out of nothing, had died in the attempt?
But it was not my duty to question my powers; my duty was to pursue evil and injustice,
and to bring it to trial for all the crimes it had committed.
“I did not expect you to still be living when I found you. I was told by Robert
Walton that you went forth to rid the Earth of yourself.”
“That was my plan, yes. But you would not understand how difficult it is, having
resolved to kill yourself, to actually go through with the deed. I was originally going to
cast myself into the cold Arctic waters. Every day for a week I stood at the edge of my
iceberg, prepared to jump into the ocean, but the hours would waste away and I would
resolve to try again when next I woke. Eventually, during a violent winter storm, I slipped
into the dark waters, and was relieved to think that my life had finally been taken from
me. But I awoke, unharmed, drifting on another ice flow! Once again Victor
Frankenstein had thwarted me, for it was the incredible physiology which he gave to me
that prevented my death. I considered other methods by which I could destroy myself,
but I had no tools. I tried to starve myself, but after several days of the cruelest hunger I
would find myself eating as I slept. There seemed to be some force which contrived to
keep me alive that I could not surmount!”
“Coward! You who have taken so many innocent lives could not end your guilty
one! Soulless demon!”
“Soulless? How could one who has suffered such as I be soulless?”
“You have not suffered. Frankenstein described to me how you travelled the
country in a murderous rage, jealous of humankind. How has man ever harmed you?”
“Frankenstein has lied to you. Yes, I have murdered, but only after the cruelest
provocation from my creator. He abandoned me at first sight, left me without protection
in this miserable world! And what I have suffered for those crimes is more than enough
penitence for my sins! You have no idea of what I suffered during the original era of my
being...”
I remained silent throughout his tale, and for many minutes afterwards. I had
previously looked on Frankenstein as a genius, the golden scientist whose powers
equivocated him with God. I had never considered his betrayal of his first creation, and
the selfishness which prevented him from protecting his family. To cast an innocent out
into the world undefended is a sin as deadly as lust or avarice! From that moment,
Frankenstein was less human to me than his creation, who did not even have a
Christian name.
“Did Frankenstein ever bestow a name upon you?” I asked.
“The only names he gave me were ʻfiendʼ and ʻcreatureʼ. Frankenstein could not
think of me as something for which to care. I would be surprised if he ever considered
granting me a name, even when I was unborn and he was not repulsed by my visage.”
Again, I was struck by Frankensteinʼs neglect. A name is the basest right any
human possesses. Anyone lacking a name would immediately be singled out as an
outcast, and I realized for the first time the crushing exclusion which had accompanied
the creature for his entire life. He was already estranged from human sympathy by his
physiognomy. Would he be further marked by his lack of name?
He startled me when he began to speak again.
“I never much considered naming myself, for who would ever care enough for me
to even ask my name? But now you have awakened some deep longing in me! Often
during the melancholy hours when I contemplated my death I would wonder what
awaited me afterwards. I was heavily influenced, as I have mentioned, by Milton, and I
long to go to heaven. I fear, however, that my soul is incomplete. Something was always
missing, and I now believe that that was my name.”
“If you are that distraught by your lack of identity, I would be willing to give you a
name.”
The creature gave a small cry of glee, but was too stricken with thankfulness to
speak further. After a few moments I continued.
“What of Adam?”
“I am not so like Adam as you would think,” replied the creature. “He had come
forth from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous. I am hideous,
and the sight of me scarred my creator and drove him to madness. No, Adam would not
be the name for me.”
“Well, what of Cain? He was the first murderer, moved to kill his brother out of
jealousy, because God favoured Abel over himself. But Cain understood not what he
had done, and God forgave him, and any man who harmed Cain was to be punished
sevenfold for his sins. Cain was also an outcast, marked by God as surely as you are
marked by your appearance.”
“Cain...” The harsh name paralleled his harsh voice well. “I agree that his story
and mine are well-matched. Yes... that shall be my name.”
Several hours later, after the ceremony, I left him. We had said little, and he gave
me the last provisions he carried with him. I periodically glanced back at his campsite as
I walked across the ice sheet. I was almost sure that I had lost sight of him when I saw
something fall from the top of the glacier. Had the man finally cast himself from its peak,
as he had long planned to do? I wondered what his soul now resembled: his body,
mangled and sewn together by an unsteady hand, or an actual human soul. I will never
be truly sure.
The Creator by Brynn Staples (a Frankenstein story) EN11E May 2010
Brynn Staples
723841, English 11 E
The Creator
I reached the address Mary had given me, and sighed longingly. The cabin lay before a glassy expanse of lake and was shielded in an arc by a set of crisp white mountains. By the shore next to an old wooden boat, beds of wild roses and other bristly shrubs grew—an array of colours, muted and bright, dancing at the water’s edge.
“Mary, darling!” I exclaimed, seeing her sitting on the porch. “It’s so good to see you again! How lucky that you’re right here when I arrive!”
“Claire?” Mary beamed. As I came up the walkway, I saw that her smile was wilted, and she seemed almost skeletal—a shell. “How are you?” Her voice was off, I thought, like she was trying to hide something.
“Fantastic,” I sighed, deciding to save my questions for later. “How’s life here? You have a beautiful place.”
“G-good. Thanks,” she stumbled on her words, and I thought her strained smile faded a little more. “Why don’t we go inside?”
Mary let us in and we made our way through the corridors of the house that had been her hideaway these past months. It was immaculate. The place looked barely lived in. The oak floors were polished to a high shine, and looked as if they’d never even been walked on. It wasn’t an elaborate place; not much effort had been made in the area of décor, but it was tidy. After giving me a tour of the cabin, she made tea in the small kitchen, and I told her about life back home.
“You know my employer, right? You can imagine, then, how hard it was persuade him that a break would do me good, and really, I think I left him pretty incredulous. He’s always maintained that he’d never taken a vacation in his life, and he wouldn’t ever give any to his employees, but I think he’s had a soft spot for me ever since I rescued his cat from that burning stable. That, or he’s becoming soft with old age.” I looked at Mary, who was stirring her tea distantly. I’d been talking for an hour now and she’d barely said a word. “Enough about me,” I finished. “How are you?”
“Hm, me?” Mary looked up. “Nothing much is new really. I’m so happy you’re here though, Claire.” She sipped her tea. She didn’t sound happy. The bare sunlight from the kitchen window made her face seem a ghostly pale and the bags under her eyes a bruised shade of purple. It looked like she’d aged years in the past months.
She looked up from her coffee abruptly. “How’s my family? Are they doing alright?”
“Your family? They’re doing great. They’re happy enough, but sometimes they worry. They haven’t heard from you in a while. In fact, I plan to lecture you a bit on their behalf myself. But first, Mary…” I paused, brows furrowed, studying her face. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I asked. “Are you alright? I mean, you’re so thin and pale and—have you been sleeping okay?”
Mary sighed and slowly raised her eyes to meet mine, as if to tell me that I knew her too well. “It’s just, I’ve been really fixed on writing this one thing lately, and I haven’t let myself get a good sleep in a while. But hopefully, all that’s done with and I’ll be free soon.”
She would say no more, though I could tell she was deeply troubled, so I dropped it and kept a close watch on her. It wasn’t good. She was fidgety; she trembled excessively the whole evening, and when we both finally went to bed, I heard her cry in her sleep from two bedrooms down.
The next morning, she woke me up filled with a boundless joy. I thought it was wonderful at first—that such a shift had happened overnight. When I came into the kitchen, Mary had made breakfast already, and she was sitting at the table with a full plate before her. “Good morning, Claire!” she smiled.
“Good morning,” I replied, pleased by her good mood. “You seem happier today.”
“Oh, I am. I am. I am!” she crowed, and there was a wildness in her eyes as she spoke. She was breathing fast and almost bouncing in her chair.
“Breakfast? Have some!” she muttered to me, wide-eyed and grinning. She leapt up, darted to the stove, dished me up some eggs and bacon, smacked a piece of toast on top and drizzled milk over it all. I sat in shock. She was more than happy; she was hysterical. She hopped over the chairs and clapped her hands, laughing giddily all the while.
“Mary!” I cried. “What’s wrong? Please, stop! You’re not well! What happened?”
She grew frantic, and growled, “Don’t ask me, he can tell. Oh, save me! Save me!” Mary struggled furiously with some invisible force and collapsed in a fit. She didn’t move. I tried to slow my breathing.
“Mary?” My voice echoed in the kitchen. I slumped down next to her and felt for a pulse. She was out cold.
She didn’t wake up for several days, and I worried incessantly. She said nothing when she first opened her eyes; just seemed dazed and confused, and I hoped she didn’t have a concussion. There were no doctors around here and the next house was a league away. If she was physically injured, there was no way to get help. And I couldn’t risk leaving her alone with herself; what would she do if she woke up and I was gone? The cabin was supposed to be Mary’s writing retreat, free from distractions, so the only thing to do would be to write letters, which would reach neither her husband, who was away on business for a few months, or her son, who was staying at a friend’s place during that time. It was hopeless.
So, for the next several months, we were alone. The house had ample amounts of food, and in the back there was even a chicken coop, a cow and a garden we could use for herbs. The chickens and the cow were half-dead and the herbs and roots were fairly feeble, but I managed to restore them moderately.
While Mary was still in her vegetative state, I searched for the cause of her breakdown, and pinned it down to her study. It was chaos in there compared to the rest of the house, as if all personality had accumulated in that one room: a forest of books surrounded her desk on all sides, many acting as end tables and chairs; the floor was a field of coffee-stained pages, and the walls and ceiling were plastered with hand-drawn images of a sick-looking man and a ghastly, decaying monster. I wondered if one of the pictures was of the “he” Mary had talked about. I was curious, and perhaps it was an invasion of privacy, but I looked through her files. Most of them were surprisingly empty, but I found one sealed package in the trash. It looked like a manuscript and was titled, Frankenstein: Or, the Modern Prometheus. It had been entirely burned on the back and the edges were charred on the front, but I could just make out the address of a publishing company, as if Mary had intended to send it and decided against it. Inside the package could’ve been a stack of financial papers, for all I could read of it; it was so scorched. I quit my pursuit for that day, but about a month later, when my curiosity picked up again, I resorted to rummaging through her other notes, which were largely illegible, but at least untouched by fire. I picked up a minimally damaged book labeled, quite clearly, ‘DIARY,’ and began, with a rightfully sore conscious, to betray my stepsister.
“I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion. Frightful must it be, for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world,” I read. “His success would terrify the artist; he would rush away from his odious handiwork, horror-stricken. He would hope that, left to itself, the slight spark of life which he had communicated would fade, that this thing that had received such imperfect animation would subside into dead matter, and he might sleep in the belief that the silence of the grave would quench forever the transient existence of the hideous corpse which he had looked upon as the cradle of life. He sleeps; but he is awakened; he opens his eyes; behold, the horrid thing stands at his bedside, opening his curtains and looking on him with yellow, watery, but speculative eyes.
I opened mine. The idea so possesses my mind still that a thrill of fear runs through me when I think of it and I wish to exchange the ghastly image of my fancy for the realities around. I see them still: the very room, the dark parquet, the closed shutters with the moonlight struggling through, and the sense I had that the glassy lake and white high Alps were beyond. I cannot so easily get rid of my hideous phantom; still it haunts me. I must try to think of something else. Perhaps my ghost story—my tiresome, unlucky ghost story! For so long, I’ve felt that blank incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorship, when dull. Oh! If I could only contrive a tale which would frighten my reader as I, myself, am frightened tonight.
But wait! I’ve found it. This is the story! What terrifies me will terrify others; and I need only describe the spectre that haunts my midnight pillow. Oh, how I will write! None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of literature. In other studies, exempting science perhaps, you dream only as far as others have dreamt before you, and there is nothing more to create, but in a written pursuit there is a continual food for creation and wonder. You may visit anywhere, make or unmake any world and anyone, and thread yourself into the very fabric of the page, at once bestowing in your characters your very essence, and your ideas.”
I paused, understanding that here lay the root of Mary’s troubles: in her ghost story—her Frankenstein—and in her monster and his author, who must be the figures on the walls. By degrees, she was recovering, but I didn’t think I should ask her about them. She still relapsed frequently, although by now it was starting to seem like she’d regained most of her former vigour. She was becoming much more like the person I had grown up with than the shadow I’d met on the porch when I’d first arrived, and though I was glad, I still itched to know what had tipped her off the edge.
Sensing that my curiosity would soon be answered wholly, I continued: “Reading the messages in stories, some hidden like zebras in a striped room—you see them not but if they move—and others as clear as your nose, has always been a particular joy of mine in empty hours. But here, with my creature and his master, I shall create a world better than such for my successors to lose themselves in. My idols shall cry, ‘You are among our ranks!’ as my Frankenstein becomes a medium for a zebra and a nose in not so much as an instant, delivering my message as clearly as the full moon that glows now: ‘Do not,” I read, realizing at last who Mary had become, “play God.’”
723841, English 11 E
The Creator
I reached the address Mary had given me, and sighed longingly. The cabin lay before a glassy expanse of lake and was shielded in an arc by a set of crisp white mountains. By the shore next to an old wooden boat, beds of wild roses and other bristly shrubs grew—an array of colours, muted and bright, dancing at the water’s edge.
“Mary, darling!” I exclaimed, seeing her sitting on the porch. “It’s so good to see you again! How lucky that you’re right here when I arrive!”
“Claire?” Mary beamed. As I came up the walkway, I saw that her smile was wilted, and she seemed almost skeletal—a shell. “How are you?” Her voice was off, I thought, like she was trying to hide something.
“Fantastic,” I sighed, deciding to save my questions for later. “How’s life here? You have a beautiful place.”
“G-good. Thanks,” she stumbled on her words, and I thought her strained smile faded a little more. “Why don’t we go inside?”
Mary let us in and we made our way through the corridors of the house that had been her hideaway these past months. It was immaculate. The place looked barely lived in. The oak floors were polished to a high shine, and looked as if they’d never even been walked on. It wasn’t an elaborate place; not much effort had been made in the area of décor, but it was tidy. After giving me a tour of the cabin, she made tea in the small kitchen, and I told her about life back home.
“You know my employer, right? You can imagine, then, how hard it was persuade him that a break would do me good, and really, I think I left him pretty incredulous. He’s always maintained that he’d never taken a vacation in his life, and he wouldn’t ever give any to his employees, but I think he’s had a soft spot for me ever since I rescued his cat from that burning stable. That, or he’s becoming soft with old age.” I looked at Mary, who was stirring her tea distantly. I’d been talking for an hour now and she’d barely said a word. “Enough about me,” I finished. “How are you?”
“Hm, me?” Mary looked up. “Nothing much is new really. I’m so happy you’re here though, Claire.” She sipped her tea. She didn’t sound happy. The bare sunlight from the kitchen window made her face seem a ghostly pale and the bags under her eyes a bruised shade of purple. It looked like she’d aged years in the past months.
She looked up from her coffee abruptly. “How’s my family? Are they doing alright?”
“Your family? They’re doing great. They’re happy enough, but sometimes they worry. They haven’t heard from you in a while. In fact, I plan to lecture you a bit on their behalf myself. But first, Mary…” I paused, brows furrowed, studying her face. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I asked. “Are you alright? I mean, you’re so thin and pale and—have you been sleeping okay?”
Mary sighed and slowly raised her eyes to meet mine, as if to tell me that I knew her too well. “It’s just, I’ve been really fixed on writing this one thing lately, and I haven’t let myself get a good sleep in a while. But hopefully, all that’s done with and I’ll be free soon.”
She would say no more, though I could tell she was deeply troubled, so I dropped it and kept a close watch on her. It wasn’t good. She was fidgety; she trembled excessively the whole evening, and when we both finally went to bed, I heard her cry in her sleep from two bedrooms down.
The next morning, she woke me up filled with a boundless joy. I thought it was wonderful at first—that such a shift had happened overnight. When I came into the kitchen, Mary had made breakfast already, and she was sitting at the table with a full plate before her. “Good morning, Claire!” she smiled.
“Good morning,” I replied, pleased by her good mood. “You seem happier today.”
“Oh, I am. I am. I am!” she crowed, and there was a wildness in her eyes as she spoke. She was breathing fast and almost bouncing in her chair.
“Breakfast? Have some!” she muttered to me, wide-eyed and grinning. She leapt up, darted to the stove, dished me up some eggs and bacon, smacked a piece of toast on top and drizzled milk over it all. I sat in shock. She was more than happy; she was hysterical. She hopped over the chairs and clapped her hands, laughing giddily all the while.
“Mary!” I cried. “What’s wrong? Please, stop! You’re not well! What happened?”
She grew frantic, and growled, “Don’t ask me, he can tell. Oh, save me! Save me!” Mary struggled furiously with some invisible force and collapsed in a fit. She didn’t move. I tried to slow my breathing.
“Mary?” My voice echoed in the kitchen. I slumped down next to her and felt for a pulse. She was out cold.
She didn’t wake up for several days, and I worried incessantly. She said nothing when she first opened her eyes; just seemed dazed and confused, and I hoped she didn’t have a concussion. There were no doctors around here and the next house was a league away. If she was physically injured, there was no way to get help. And I couldn’t risk leaving her alone with herself; what would she do if she woke up and I was gone? The cabin was supposed to be Mary’s writing retreat, free from distractions, so the only thing to do would be to write letters, which would reach neither her husband, who was away on business for a few months, or her son, who was staying at a friend’s place during that time. It was hopeless.
So, for the next several months, we were alone. The house had ample amounts of food, and in the back there was even a chicken coop, a cow and a garden we could use for herbs. The chickens and the cow were half-dead and the herbs and roots were fairly feeble, but I managed to restore them moderately.
While Mary was still in her vegetative state, I searched for the cause of her breakdown, and pinned it down to her study. It was chaos in there compared to the rest of the house, as if all personality had accumulated in that one room: a forest of books surrounded her desk on all sides, many acting as end tables and chairs; the floor was a field of coffee-stained pages, and the walls and ceiling were plastered with hand-drawn images of a sick-looking man and a ghastly, decaying monster. I wondered if one of the pictures was of the “he” Mary had talked about. I was curious, and perhaps it was an invasion of privacy, but I looked through her files. Most of them were surprisingly empty, but I found one sealed package in the trash. It looked like a manuscript and was titled, Frankenstein: Or, the Modern Prometheus. It had been entirely burned on the back and the edges were charred on the front, but I could just make out the address of a publishing company, as if Mary had intended to send it and decided against it. Inside the package could’ve been a stack of financial papers, for all I could read of it; it was so scorched. I quit my pursuit for that day, but about a month later, when my curiosity picked up again, I resorted to rummaging through her other notes, which were largely illegible, but at least untouched by fire. I picked up a minimally damaged book labeled, quite clearly, ‘DIARY,’ and began, with a rightfully sore conscious, to betray my stepsister.
“I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion. Frightful must it be, for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world,” I read. “His success would terrify the artist; he would rush away from his odious handiwork, horror-stricken. He would hope that, left to itself, the slight spark of life which he had communicated would fade, that this thing that had received such imperfect animation would subside into dead matter, and he might sleep in the belief that the silence of the grave would quench forever the transient existence of the hideous corpse which he had looked upon as the cradle of life. He sleeps; but he is awakened; he opens his eyes; behold, the horrid thing stands at his bedside, opening his curtains and looking on him with yellow, watery, but speculative eyes.
I opened mine. The idea so possesses my mind still that a thrill of fear runs through me when I think of it and I wish to exchange the ghastly image of my fancy for the realities around. I see them still: the very room, the dark parquet, the closed shutters with the moonlight struggling through, and the sense I had that the glassy lake and white high Alps were beyond. I cannot so easily get rid of my hideous phantom; still it haunts me. I must try to think of something else. Perhaps my ghost story—my tiresome, unlucky ghost story! For so long, I’ve felt that blank incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorship, when dull. Oh! If I could only contrive a tale which would frighten my reader as I, myself, am frightened tonight.
But wait! I’ve found it. This is the story! What terrifies me will terrify others; and I need only describe the spectre that haunts my midnight pillow. Oh, how I will write! None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of literature. In other studies, exempting science perhaps, you dream only as far as others have dreamt before you, and there is nothing more to create, but in a written pursuit there is a continual food for creation and wonder. You may visit anywhere, make or unmake any world and anyone, and thread yourself into the very fabric of the page, at once bestowing in your characters your very essence, and your ideas.”
I paused, understanding that here lay the root of Mary’s troubles: in her ghost story—her Frankenstein—and in her monster and his author, who must be the figures on the walls. By degrees, she was recovering, but I didn’t think I should ask her about them. She still relapsed frequently, although by now it was starting to seem like she’d regained most of her former vigour. She was becoming much more like the person I had grown up with than the shadow I’d met on the porch when I’d first arrived, and though I was glad, I still itched to know what had tipped her off the edge.
Sensing that my curiosity would soon be answered wholly, I continued: “Reading the messages in stories, some hidden like zebras in a striped room—you see them not but if they move—and others as clear as your nose, has always been a particular joy of mine in empty hours. But here, with my creature and his master, I shall create a world better than such for my successors to lose themselves in. My idols shall cry, ‘You are among our ranks!’ as my Frankenstein becomes a medium for a zebra and a nose in not so much as an instant, delivering my message as clearly as the full moon that glows now: ‘Do not,” I read, realizing at last who Mary had become, “play God.’”
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