[New Assignment]

1. The Coma. Write from the point of view of a person in a coma. This is a permanent condition; the patient will not come out of the coma but still understands the outer world. The catch: voices of loved ones are familiar, even intimately familiar, but the comatose person cannot attach names to the voices. The coma patient has lost this capacity. 500 words.




reminds me of Emily Dickinson.
Maybe I can rewrite one of her work into the form of stories: "The Last Night that She Lived" or "I heard a Fly buzz-when I died"

Mary Jane, an old lady is now in the state of coma. Her grand daughter Rachel takes care of her, reads her Jane Austen's novels. However, at the end of the day, Mary Jane dies; wondering the owner of the voice reading the novel. 

Write from the point of view of a person in a coma. This is a permanent condition; the patient will not come out of the coma but still understands the outer world. The catch: voices of loved ones are familiar, even intimately familiar, but the comatose person cannot attach names to the voices. The coma patient has lost this capacity. 500 words.

            I think I’m lost. I cannot recognize where I am. I see nothing and spend my whole day sitting or walking in the absolute dark. Sometimes, I run: than soon exhausted, I again sit down on the dark floor and spend some meaningless time. I cannot recognize what time or day is it. It has been some several days since I lost the sense of time.

I think I want to get back to my normal life. Or I think I don’t want to do so. It has been some time since I forgot my own thoughts. The only contact remaining, to the ‘usual’ world, the space and time once I had belonged to, is sound. I hear some sounds of people moving around—especially ladies’ skirts, when they sweep the floor—some voices, and some flies buzz. One of the voices is repetitively heard. I think I know its owner. Considering her voice, she is a young lady who talks in a really soft manner. She calls me Mary Jane. I think I have heard of her voice. It sounds quite familiar. I hear her having conversation with others, sometimes talking to me, or reading to me.

            She reads me some novels. Considering their topic, plots and styles, they are all written by the same writer. Sometimes she gives me her own comments on some parts. Some severe, some sweet; but her overall comments are bitter, usually having a sad ending. It always happens like this. Once she reads a sentence, “There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well.” Then she stops there, for a second, then adds her own emotion to that: “Mary Jane, I think this can be applied to me. I don’t really have many people who I love. I didn’t think of them frequently, either…but you were one of the few that I have loved, and I will love you forever. Unless we cannot talk and hug each other as we once did.”

            I think I am important to her. Maybe a kinship or something, but how can’t I remember her name? I know nothing about her, just her kind attitude. I hope someday I recognize who she is.

            I heard a fly buzz when she is away from me. I think it wanders around in the room. It buzzes. It buzzes and buzzes and buzzes and buzzes. I think its sound get far and far away from me. I think it goes far and far from me. I think—, I think—

[092612]Self-Reflection

Self-Reflection

When I was young—

Seventeen in my dream was deathly sweet

On the green hills of willow boughs was I

Laying, pages of Ovidius veil my naïve face

From trespassing sunshine—as did Daphne’s

Laurel skin from Apollo’s stretched arms

Yet I grew old—

And found time splits: Did when the Horais

Shoot the Cupid’s arrows misleadingly?

Speechless Daphne bursts for her lost arms

Bleeding on the winner’s bright forehead

Epics remains epics, praises perpetual for

Winners, while the Victimized crawl in shadow

So in my real seventeen, dearest moments

With through companionship as gifted bless

I again put my thumbs on Orwell’s page

Or Golding’s, Dickens’, Sartre’s, rather than

Austin’s or Bronte’s—all those rosy clouds

And read and wrote for the all worldly shadows

For bleeding Daphne, weeping Persephone

All those names on tangled threads

With not a shallow pity or empathy I write,

But in a total indifferent outburst—

Since only an apathy makes an objection grave.

Let Historia gloriously crowns the winners

Yet Poeta brims light on the forgotten ellipsis

[090512] Short story

It is a pleasant Sunday, morning. Glittering sunshine falls in his room so beautifully. It has been about one hour since the boy woke up and sat on his bed, calmly. Now he turns on the radio and the host of the show asks: “Good day, extraordinarily! How’s your weekend? Great? I guess your Bacon taste better than yesterday’s plate?”

Now the boy slowly turns his gaze to the glass vase; yesterday he put it on the table in living room with a full-blossom of lilies in it, but no water. He lethargically stands up and walks till he reaches the vase. He stares at the lilies, once bright and fair. Yet they have turned into some limp, grey object with offensive pollens: he speaks not. With a few seconds of stubborn gaze, he throws the vase away as severely he could. The crushing sound of the vase, both helpless and resistant, is heard. He falls on the ground, squeezing his head. 

It was obvious: It has been started again. Again, again and again. It would never stop until he reaches the last moment in life.  He sobbed, trembling with fear, sadness and rage.

Ben Normad, 17 years old, lived in New York City in States alone. Had brown eyes and hair of same color, he had such long fingers, often called to be attractive. For most part of his life, Ben seemed nothing to be threatening his life. Everything seemed to be well organized and tranquil, except for some—he suffered from being involved in some arguments with his intemperate and tough characteristic—occasions. However, he did not need much time to find everything sacredly mashed up. Ben’s life was filled with solid isolation since he realized his mental disease. He moved to New York straight, when he knew about his issue, and rarely contacted anybody. He thought nothing, but a gratitude for having such prosperous family: at least he was able to rent a three-bedroom apartment without having any financial concern.

His mental issue, which he regarded to be harmful for others, was a sudden violence; it didn’t matter that there were people or dogs or objects or something around him. When he became extremely intemperate, he indiscriminatingly hit surroundings. In this way, he was already beaten his dear brother, which was a main motivation to separate his life from his family. Living separately wasn’t worse although not better, but he at least didn’t hurt his beloved relationships. To struggle with loneliness, he worked himself up to read, write and think more than before. His efforts did made some achievements so that he was attending to the online program of renowned university. It seemed that his life was restoring its ordinary comforts: even a psychology professional was working with him to save himself out of the mental disorder.

However, his life was confronting another turning point, which he himself didn’t acknowledge. Having a unexpected flatmate, which neither he welcomed nor requested, brought such a tremendous change in his life; which Ben, of course, never recognize at this moment. 

To be continued, someday:)

Words I got for my RANDOM character were: Ben/brown eyes&hair, also long fingers/tough personality/17 years old/"not trained"/lives alone in NY and mental issue for problem. "not trained" was Ji Yoon's idea; she thought her character to be a dog, NOT A HUMAN BEING. Thus, I adjusted the word as "intemperate". Hope the word "train" not only includes the meaning of instruction or education, but also some kind of ability to restrain oneself. 

The flatmate, not actually appeared in the story, is another female character created base on the random words plus my imagination. Her name is Lyn, favorable and honest girl of age 19. She is a technology genious(which I sincerely envy of) and lives with her grandmother in Paris. She can't sing anymore, which implies a past trauma in her life. My imagination added some more: she used to be a Chinese descendent in Paris, but recently moved to NY for an internship program in university labatory. She had no place to go, and a friend of both Lynn and Ben, Tom (another character I got; has extremely small eyes, has fun personality, 17 years old but a successful businessman, belongs to a weird family and troubled with a romantic relationship), introduces Lynn to Ben and make Ben to share apartment with her. 

The remaining plot will end up to be a romance story:) Since both of Ben and Lynn have mental or psychological matters, they will be able to solve the matter by helping each other. Hope I complete this story to be quite long and interesting!