A Day in the Life of a Psychotic Cat

Every morning, at precisely 9:42, Rhudolf is awoken by an angry clash of aggressive rapping, mingled with the heavy odour of cigarette smoke wafting over his pillow. This morning his right eye popped open first, as usual. Rhudolf paused, looked straight up at the circling blades above him, and pounced. The shrill war cry he emitted sent his owner storming in and without hesitation he turned his focus on her. Dark, greasy hair lay limp on her brow, and satanic tatoos were imprinted, forever clawing their way up her pock-marked arms. Rhudolf narrowed his eyes; crust crackled along the creases of his eyes as he narrowed in on his target. Blood-shoot eyes met blood shot eyes and a flash of fear seamed to flicker in the human pair. And then it was gone, and only contempt remained. Cracked lips drew back over fuzzy, yellowing teeth. "Stupid cat" the woman spat, leering at Rhudolf. But Rhudolf already had his nose pressed up hard against the cold glass of the window, his eyes manically darting back and forth-scanning the empty concrete lot for any sign of the infamous dog.

New Shoots Submission

Curtains

Sesquipedalian chemicals dripped into her veins; the drugs seeping into every inch of soft tissue. An empty box of Lucky Strike's were crushed on the clean plastic floor, lying next to an out-dated purse while air forced it's way through cracked lips, getting caught in thick bubbles of congealed mucous as it wisped its way out from blackened lungs.

The boy sat, his hand rested on the distended belly of the dying. Deep in between the corridors of his mother's veins a heart beat faltered. The boy was quiet, watching the long white gowns as they floated in and out from behind the curtains. They tampered with the white plastic boxes; twisting dials, cranking knobs, jamming lights

Term 2 Free Assignment

Term 2 Project

The Influence of Progress on Art and Sciences, Comparatively

         

Science is, by nature, a progressive field - something that builds from the pre-existing and proves itself either right or wrong as time carries on. In contrast, both Art and Literature, while often inspired by the works of the past, are fields that capture "the human soul" (William Long), and exist not to provide information, but to appeal to the artistic nature of man. In this way, Art and Literature are both articles that can never be proved "wrong", and are therefore not associated with progress in the same way that Science is. This is shown in the way Art and Literature of the past are treated in the modern, as well as in the definition of Literature given by William Long in his textbook “English Literature: Its History and Its Significance for the Life of the English-Speaking World”.

         

          Because scientific hypotheses and predictions change with the information available, Science is something that is continually evolving as more and more information becomes accessible. Comparatively, the innate nature of being human is something that never changes, and thus Art and Literature do not progress in the sense of improvement, but instead change only in terms of contextual approach. Individuals today and individuals thousands of years ago have the same inner workings, and it is for this reason that the Art and Literature of centuries ago still resonate with people today. This understanding of Literature and it’s characteristics is expressed by Long in three points; “The first significant thing is the essentially artistic quality of all literature”, the second “is its suggestiveness, its appeal to our emotions and imagination rather than to our intellect”, and the third, “arising directly from the other two, is its permanence”. If we choose to accept these beliefs as truths, we can conclude that Literature is a field untouched by the concept of progress. This view of Art and Literature is clearly expressed in the way we approach Literature today..

Even long after their creators have left us, we continue to study the musings of Shakespeare and marvel at the work of Da Vinci. The Bible, for example, something produced hundreds of years ago, contains sentiments that remain heavily prevalent in the way we conduct ourselves, and even play a role in global politics. That being said, the scientific aspect of the Bible is something that holds much less credibility today than it would have at the time of its creation; it has been scientifically proven that the world was not created in 7 days, Earth is not flat, and dinosaurs and humans did not co-exist. Despite its inaccurate nature in terms of scientific realities, however, the artistic and literary aspect of The Bible is still widely accepted as an appropriate guide on how best to go about life. This shows the relative longevity of Art and Literature in relation to the considerably more tentative nature of scientific exploration. Science is, by nature, a progressive field - something that builds from the pre-existing and proves itself either right or wrong as time carries on. In contrast, both Art and Literature, while often inspired by the works of the past, are fields that capture "the human soul" (William Long), and exist to appeal to the artistic nature of man, rather than simply the predictions and hypotheses of an individual, Art and Literature are both fields that can withstand the test of time, unlike many scientific studies and hypotheses. Children and people today around the world are still encouraged to "treat others the way you would have them treat you" and "[Bible quote]"; sentiments directly from the Bible.

          Art is something that occurs as a result of the nature of the human condition; it is “the expression of life in forms of truth and beauty” (Long). This depiction of Art and Literature as statements of truth, rather than as a collection of hypotheses, as Science is largely made up of, allows us to determine that progress is not associated with Art and Literature in the same way that it is associated with Science.

           

Citations:

Long, William. English Literature: Its History and Its Significance for the Life of the English-Speaking World. Project Gutenburg EBook. January 6, 2004.

Ocean

Blue.
Picasso.
Or the ocean...
Sadness?
Personification.
Blue pens.
Blue ink.
The blue that extends and floats from the corner of her papier mache mask as mine sits dull and featherless next to it.

Why do we always feel the need to personify...everything?
A colour.
A key.
A cat wearing glasses on instagram.
It's not enough to have just a colour, just a key, just a cat.
Blue isn't blue.
Blue is a sad ocean drawn in ink by a Spanish artist who lived in France.

Tap Tap

Red soaks the blindfold as she stumbles across the hall.
She smells rust and sour sweat, her heart seizing in her chest.
the hand grasping her forearm feels all too tight and her head whips around at every tickle of a sound.
But in vain; Ari sees nothing but the red of the cloth that blinds her as she is lead to her unknown fate.
whispers seam to rise from the ground she walks on, the sound of her name floating just out of reach as the masculine chuckle of her captor drowns it out.
With a sudden tug, Rich pulls her to a stop.
Suddenly, her blindfold is ripped off, and a brutal chorus cascades down on her;
   "Happy Birthday, Baby!"
The room is familiar, and each face that looks down on her is smiling, and welcoming. Ari's heart slows  as she presses a smile on her face and accepts the champagne flute Rich is insisting she take.
Reminding herself she is safe, Ari ventures into the party.

Suspense Story

Charlotte

Her hands twisted through his dark curls, pulling him closer as his strong hands reached behind her waist. Their thick breathing mingled in the Congo air. Charlotte leaned in, pressing her lips against his ear as Abasi tipped her back onto the plush cushions. “you are mine” she whispered, “all mine.”

Thumping footsteps suddenly echoed from outside the hut and with a flip of her long hair she slipped across the coach, grasping for a worn copy of “Sense and Sensibility” as the tall dark Swahili boy stole away through an open window.

The door bounced open and Charlotte glanced up at her parents, a sweet smile plumping her rosy cheeks.

"How are the natives?" Charlotte asked in a tinkling feminine voice.

Her father looked down at his little girl with adoration....

"I think we're getting through to them at last, just today a boy made his t mother cover herself. He, at least, is finally rejecting the sins of this place."

"Oh Papa, how wonderful! I knew you could make them see, this exposure is most unhealthy for the children; imagine, showing a woman’s bare breasts in public! They are so blessed to have you, bringing them salvation." she simpered

"Indeed, it certainly is miraculous” her mother cut in, “more miraculous still would be if I could find a good cut of roast in this god-forsaken place, I haven’t eaten a decent meal in near a month!”

“My dear Marianne, you musn’t fret over such trivial matters…one must make sacrifices when spreading the word of God”

“Yes Mama, and we will be home soon. Can’t you just imagine the splendid feast our church will surely have prepared for our arrival!”

 “Oh, that reminds me… The chief invites us to attend a gathering tomorrow evening, they are preparing a final meal to thank us for our work here before we leave.” The man puffed his chest “It’s their own little expression of gratitude, apparently customary.” He smirked.

“Oh, isn’t that adorable! Charlotte, you absolutely must wear that dress we brought…that cream one, you remember? Oh you will look simply stunning.” Marianne beamed.

“Of course Mother, finally we can show these primal women what a true lady ought to wear.”

Darkness was just beginning to creep down on the village when the trio strode into the makeshift banquet hall in the centre of the village. The chief greeted them warmly, ushering them in and setting them down in the only three chairs in the long dirt floored building. Nearly 50 Congolese men and women sat attentively on hard wood benches, smiling at the three white skinned people with respect and talking amongst each other in a mixed dialect of Swahili and broken English. The village chief stood at the head of the long table and addressed the room in his strong rumbling voice.

“ Tonight, we thank these people, who came from far away to teach us the ways of their Lord, and show us the ways of their people. And tonight, we return that favour by sharing with them a piece of our own tradition. So today we say, in the words of our people, thank you! Asante sana!”

All at once cries of “Asante sana!” broke out throughout the room, and as drums began to beat a large cooked hog was ceremoniously delivered to the table. The chief, now addressing only the family of Americans, leaned forward in a bow of respect and offered up the valuable meat. “Please” he said “take the first piece. “

Everyone looked intently at the trio of missionaries, as the man cleared his throat and said in a voice dripping with condescension “ Thank you people, for your gesture. I am so happy to see that what I have taught is making a difference. I hope you will join me in prayer before we eat this” he coughed. “Wonderful meal.”

The chief stepped back as the man spoke, and everyone bowed their heads as the white man’s voice spoke the prayer. 

Finally, the man stopped speaking, and slowly reached forward, ripping a large portion of meat off the skewerd animal. Tentatively, the drums once more began to pound, and the hog was passed round as cheer returned to the hall. Charlotte picked at her piece delicately, her eyes searching the room for Abasi. As her eyes fell upon his dark outline she smiled and slowly rose from her chair.

She walked from behind him stealthily, silently ran her hand down his arm, and sank slowly down beside him as her hand trailed down to the waistband of his pants. Abasi breathed in sharply and turned to smile down at Charlotte. Grinning, she slid closer to him, their bare arms pressing against each other, his breath heating the side of her neck. With a sudden twitch Abasi turned his head, his gaze landing on a slender congolese girl. The girl smiled, turning away as a coloured scarf shielded her face from their eyes. Charlotte looked up at Abasi sharply. With menace in her eyes she glared across the table and without warning grasped Abasi's chin, turning his face to meet hers and pressing their lips together in a vicious kiss. 

A sudden crash silenced the hall. Charlotte's father stood tall in front of an overturned table, his chest puffing with rage as his murderous gaze bore into Abasi's form. "Get away from my daughter." His voice boomed through the now silent crowd. Charlotte blushed deeply, fiddled with something in her hand, then zipped her purse shut and tip-toed quickly to her fathers side.

Abasi sat sheepishly, his eyes cast down as the family of Americans strode out of the hall and whispers began to emerge from the silence.

Back in their hut, Charlotte's and her father sat in a deep, uncomfortable silence. Suddenly, Charlottes father rose from his seat and, without explanation, stormed out of the building.

"I believe it is time for you to retire for the night, young lady."

Charlotte's mother stated, through pursed lips.

"As you wish, mother"

Charlotte slowly walked from the room as her mother sighed and began to undo her tight braid, slouching on the coach and resting her head in her hands.

Early the next morning a loud clattering jolted Charlotte awake, followed shortly by her mother hastening in to usher Charlotte out of the hut. Tugging at her daughter and walking at an unusually brisk pace Charlottes mother opened the door of a dirty brown jeep and got in, pulling Charlotte along with her. 

Not a second after the door swung shut, the jeep shook vigorously and rumbled off along the dirt road, carrying Charlotte and her parents away from the small Congolese town.

Confused, but resigned, Charlotte glanced around her and saw the car was packed with suitcases; her things had been gathered in the night and she knew at once where they were headed. The airport.

Sitting in the waiting area about to board the plane that would take her back to America forever, Charlotte looked up at the small television set that sat looking over the rows of empty seats. 

"An unidentified young male was found dead this morning on the ground outside of his home. Upon further investigation it has been discovered that his death was likely a homicide. If any person has any information about the identity of this man or the nature of his death please call…"

Abasi's face flashed on the screen.

Charlotte breathed in sharply and turned to glance at her two sleeping parents. A gasp escaped from her lips as she ran, panicked, to the washroom.

Charlotte burst through the door of the airport bathroom and immediately began searching through her bag, pulling out a lace handkerchief and her copy of sense and sensibility before finally grasping the object she so frantically needed. letting out a sigh of relief, Charlotte pulled the small orange container out of her bag.

  "Did you bring any illegal drugs or other substances over the border with you ma'am?" the Houston customs person smiled down at Charlotte.

"No sir," Charlotte smiled up at the man, thinking of the small container of pills sitting open on the countertop of the empty washroom in the Congo. "nothing."

Postcard A; Card 4