A Day in the Life of Beornegar Redbeard Fightmaster

     This morning, I did not wake up. I never wake up. I never sleep. I simply become more aware of my surroundings after leaving an almost trance-like state. After I 'awoke', as you boring people would call it, I started my daily mission of being myself. In short, I go about being the most awesome thing ever to grace the Rockies. Before eating breakfast, I stopped by at a waterfall, to take a shower. I laid my clothes on some rocks to be pummeled my water. It washes them out well enough. After my shower, I waded downstream to catch some fish. I saw some bears in the stream who had the same idea. When they saw me, they ran. I grew angry ever time I saw a bear trying to catch fish. Shorty after I moved to the Rockies with my cabin on my back, they saw me catching fish with my mouth as the slippery buggers jumped up. Soon afterwards, the bears began to copy my method. 

    I caught a fair sized breakfast before long, enough for my polar bear and myself. While I drank my morning jug of coffee, I looked out over the mountains at the city near by. I considered going into town to freak people out, but I realized that I had some serious lumber-jacking to do. So I sipped the last gallon of coffee, and got to work. I started out to jack some lumber, because that's what lumberjacks do. We jack lumber. 

    I had felled five trees in twelve minutes, and was about the start on a sixth. The pointlessness of my task hit me then. I did not do anything with the trees, I just left them where they fell. All I was doing was destroying any green plants still alive here. I thought about this for a while, then started on the sixth tree. I decided to make a longboat. In this longboat, I would ride down the river, storming into the city, forcing them the plant more trees. I nodded my head and grinned in satisfaction. My logic was more than sound, and I really wanted to make a longboat anyway. 

    It was completed in about three hours. I was fully stocked and prepared for her maiden voyage in another hour. I pushed the ship away from the bank, ready for a moderately thrilling ride. I went down several waterfalls without a problem, but I then came to the city. No one looked at me twice as I sailed down the stream of green slime they called a 'river.' They felt no fear. This was strange. Everyone feared me. I went home after yelling at them for a while. It was upriver, so I had to carry it all the way back up. 

    My day was moderately eventful, and I felt what I assume boring people feel when they need to sleep. So I stood in the middle of my cabin, and rested.

Ferryman

     The plane was far less crowed than O'Hare airport, or at least the first class cabin was. Peppered here and there throughout the soft leather seats were pompous businessmen. They radiated wealth, but never sharing a cent of it. They dressed themselves in the most expensive suits that money could buy. 

    There are two kinds of businessmen out there. Ones that show off, and ones that show off a little less. Unfortunately, I was there, in that airtight tin can, surrounded by some of Chicago's richest gits.

    But we were not alone in there. I could see, well, almost see, the other passenger; our mystery guest. Always in the corner of my eye, my eye! No one else could see him, from what I could tell. They did not move out of his way when he went through a crowd, vendors completely ignored him (of which I envy him to no end). I wasn't even sure that he existed at all until a few weeks ago. I had always thought that he, or she (I never got a good look) was simply a random person walking down the street, disappearing into the crowd when I turned to look. I thought that he, or she, was simply many people, and they all dressed similarly, and out of coincidence happened to be in WalMart when I was. 

    It was only a few weeks ago when I realized differently. I saw him in my own house. This time, I knew that he was not some random doppleganger. At first, the idea that my wife was cheating on me with this person flashed through my mind. I had the sudden urge to take a knife to her throat. The thought passed quickly, leaving me feeling terrible for not giving my beautiful wife as much trust as she had earned over our fifteen years together. I was still curious of the stranger's name, or even just his reason for being always nearby. 

    Presently, one of the flight attendants began going through the safety instructions in case of crash, decompression, or emergency landing in the middle of the ocean. I couldn't help but smile as I imagined the dangerous oceans between Chicago and Las Vegas in which we would require an emergency raft. We were instructed in the art of seat belt buckling, air mask usage, and we were enlightened as to the locations of the emergency exits above the wings. After what seemed like an hour, but turned out to be only half that, the plane began to move ever so slowly. Ten minutes later, we were in the air, on our way to Cheyenne for our first stop, then on to Las Vegas, the City That Never Sleeps.

*****

    We touched down at Cheyenne Regional at 3:30 p.m. One of the flight attendants told us that it was okay for us to unbuckle, talk on cell phones, and use laptops. We were also allowed to head out into the guest area of the airport for drinks, snacks, or to use the restroom. I realized as soon as she mentioned it that I needed to go quite urgently. We were not allowed to use the on-board restrooms when the plane was on the ground, so I stood up and worked my way down the aisle. Once I was on the breezeway, signs that pointed to the bathrooms, cafe, and various fast-food establishments came into view. I turned left as the breezeway became a large visitors' hall. The bathroom was at the end of a short, conspicuously clean passageway. I paused for a moment, confused by the fact that there was no women's restroom, though the only signs for a restroom pointed down that hall. My contemplations lasted only a moment, however. Just long enough to remember why I was there. I pushed through the thick door to the men's room. I approached the line of white urinals to do, as the Bible says, "What must be done."  There was one other man already there when I arrived, and  he left quickly without washing his hands, flushing the toilet, or zipping his fly. 

    When I was just about done, I heard the door open and close behind me. After about five seconds, but I didn't hear anyone walking, flushing, or running one of the sinks. I turned around to see if anyone had come in at all. There was no one. 

    Then I saw him. It was him, I was sure of it. Once again, as always, when I turned my head, just a little, to get a good look, he was gone. I don't scare easily, but I was slightly perturbed by this. I finished quickly and washed my hands. I cast one last glance at the restroom. No one. I looked under the stalls. No one. Convinced that I was seeing things, I dried my hands and headed for the door. When I was just about to leave, I noticed that the handle on the door was glowing, as if red hot. I held my hand near the metal, not touching it, however, but felt no heat from it. I grabbed the handle, expecting to be burned, but it was cool to the touch. With a shrug, I opened the door. 

    Fire. All I could see was fire. I couldn't even see the hallway from which I had come. The flames belched forth smoke and unbearable heat. I was both blasted back by the heat, and sucked in as the blaze consumed the bathroom's oxygen. After slamming the door, I ran to the other side of the  restrooms. Thinking quickly, I removed my jacked and soaked it in water from one of the sinks. I squeezed this water out over my head, drenching myself, and repeated this process until I was soaked to the bone. 

    I crouched in the corner of the bathroom, trying to think of something. Thick, black smoke poured our from beneath the door, and I waited for the time when the one barrier would burst into flames. Then I saw him again. He was there, coming at me slowly from the corner of my eye. I began to turn my head, just in time to see a nightstick come slamming into the side of my head, then everything went black.

    I awoke after what could have been either seconds or hours. I was lying on the floor of the bathroom. It was only after a minute or two that any of my senses returned, an I realized that I was completely dry. I tried to bring my head up to look around, but was dealt another blow from the man's nightstick. After this I managed to move my head bit by bit to see what he was going.  I had not seen his face yet, though he wore a long, brown overcoat and black shoes. He walked into one of the stalls, and returned with a gasoline can. The more I tried to focus on his face, the more, I could not. It was always changing. Sometimes, he would take the appearance of a friend or acquaintance of mine. Mostly his horridly vivid features would seem foreign to me. Every time it changed, his face would flicker to a blank slate, then back to another form. 

    I did not have long to ponder my assailant's curious face for long, however, for he approached me once again. He uncapped the gas-can, then set to work covering my prostrate body with the volatile liquid. I wondered for a moment why he would do this. Then I remembered the fire outside. It only then occurred to me that I was not doing a single thing to stop or even slow my horrible death. 

    The man was possessed of an unnatural strength that should not have been expected from one of his build. Nonetheless, I did make an honest attempt to resist, I did. I am not sure whether he was too strong or I was simply too weak, but he overpowered me with ease. As he dragged my pathetic, gasoline-soaked form nearer to the door, my worst fears were realized. He was really going to do it. He was going to burn me alive. I kicked, wriggled, punched, and screamed for help. I knew what was coming, but I also knew that one could steer his fate as he steer a train. That is to say, not at all. As this new realization came upon me, my struggling slowed, and I tried to study more fully my assailant. He had an unearthly power about him, as though he had sprung from the mind of a science fiction writer.

    The door came ever closer, and I once again resumed my struggle against fate. If this was indeed my ferryman to the underworld, I knew that fighting back was hopeless, but I tried anyway. Once we reached the door, the man threw me down, and pulled the door open. The fire burned more dangerously and menacingly than before, or maybe I simply thought that because I was about to be thrown into it. He grabbed me by the collar as I attempted to crawl away, and hauled me up to face him. I suddenly felt my face begin to contort. It was not painful, not overly unpleasant, but disturbing. His face began also to change, ever so slowly. I watched in horror as his blank, fleshy mass transformed into a new face.

    My face.

    I had no eyes, but somehow I could see; no, not see, feel, everything that followed. He wrenched me up, then, with a slight shove, sent my frail body into the flames. I was falling for an eternity. There was no hall, only a never-ending pit of fire. I watched in horrid fascination as my face, on his body, resumed its cycle of change. 

No clue what to call this...

The ancient magnolia stood proudly on the top of the hill,  tall and majestic. It's uppermost boughs swayed over one hundred feet above the whispering grass, by one young lad's guess.
    I came here often, mostly because of the hill, which was more like a cliff. The gently sloping mound rose slowly to its summit some thirty feet above small North Carolina town I callled home. Where the downward slope leading into the town should begin, there was only a sheer drop. The grassy overhang was always a favorite hang out of mine, and just about every other young boy or girl my age.
    I approached the overhang, peering over the grassy lip.  I sat myself down at the ledge and swung my legs over the solid turf cliff. The view was... okay. The hill provided a good vantage point over the entire town, which is hardly entertaining, at best. It was enjoyable, however, to sit with my leg's hanging out over the cliff, feeling as though I had successfully climbed a mountian.  I was on top of the world; my world. True, this world of mine was very small, and flat, but it was my world, and I was on top of it. I was on top of my world, and could not possibly go any higher.
    Then I remembered the whopping hundred foot tree behind me. I sprang to my feet and spun around to face the magnolia. Of course! Why had I never climbed it before?  Then, as I cast my eyes upon it, I remembered also the reason why not.
    No one had ever done it before, not for as long as I had known the huge magnolia. Many had tried, but just as many had failed. John A. had tried to last year, but came away from the experience with bloodied fingers and a broken wrist when he fell back to earth. I could see why; the massive trunk shot straight from the ground, and did not split or bend until maybe ten or twelve feet. I cast my now despondent gaze upwards, staring at the barren stretch of bark between myself and where the twin trunks broke from each other.
   It was hopless, of course. There was no way that I could climb far enough to reach that split. This defeat that I suffered before I had even started was made all the more painful by the fact that beyond the two trunks, it appeared to be impossibly smooth sailing. Despite the fact that  I was badly altitudinally challenged, I decided to give it my best shot.
    I circled the magnolia a few times, trying to find a good handhold in the bark. After finding one, I leaped up as high as I could, running up the tree like they do in those crappy action movies. Well, that was the plan, anyway. It worked, so I was thankful for that, but sure was I glad there was no one else around! Turns out it's a lot tougher than they make it seem in the movies.
    I held on to that little knot in the tree with all my strenghth for long enough to get my feet under me. Looking up, I realized that I was already halfway to where the trunks split. That first leap had been mostly luck and quick reflexes, and I wasn't sure I could do it again without solid ground to jump from.  That didn't stop me from trying, though. I braced myself against the tree, readying myself for the spring.
    What followed, I can hardly remember. What I do know, however, is that it was far from graceful, yet still a sight to see. I suppose that the only way that I could have done it would have required some squirrel-like scurrying. Next thing I knew, I was nestled safely between the two trunks. I had made it! I had made it. What was even better was that I was the only human in recorded history to have made it.
    The rest of the eighty-or-so-foot climb was, as I had suspected, impossibly smooth sailing. In maybe another quarter of an hour, I was perched on the highest stable branch, looking out over my small world. I gazed out over the corn and tobacco fields that surrounded my small world, and knew that nothing could beat me now. I saw many tall trees that from any other height would seem immence, and I knew that in defeating this one, I had defeated them all.
    On the way down from my lofty seat, I fell and broke my wrist.

Odyssey Eaters Essay

Lotos Eaters and The Odyssey 

    When I first read through "The Lotos Eaters," by Alfred Lord Tennyson, I could not immediately see any similarities with The Odyssey. After reading it for the second time, I understood a little bit more, and with the third read, even more. I will start off by giving a brief summary of both pieces. In The Odyssey, there is a great hero from the Trojan War named Odysseus. The epic narrative is the story of his journey through many harsh conditions and vile beasts. Eventually, he returns home, in Ithaca, only to fight many suitors away from his wife. 

    "The Lotos Eaters" is a poem that elaborates on one particular misadventure in The Odyssey, when Odysseus and his crew port at a mysterious and gloomy looking land. "The Lotos Eaters" starts off the way an epic poem might, with the lines;
        -"'Courage!' He said, and pointed toward the land,
        'This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.'-
The first five stanzas in the poem are narrative, like you might read in The Odyssey. It is told from an omnipotent viewpoint; the author can see everything, hear everything, and knows everything. After the "mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came,' they give gifts of Lotos flowers to the crew. When the men eat of the exotic flower, sounds and voices seem to become far off, and they are lost in their dreams. They tell Odysseus that they wish to say here, with the Lotos eaters, and not return home. From here on, there are no clear similarities with The Odyssey. The remainder of "The Lotos Eaters" is told from the viewpoint of the ship's crew. They describle at length the troubles and hardships that they have gone through on their journey. Throughout the remainder of the poem, the crew does a fairly good job of displaying how miserable their lives have been. They say that because they have been away from home for so long, returning home would only make things worse for everyone involved. So instead of going home, the crew desides to stay where they are, with the Lotos-eaters.

    This contrasts greatly with The Odyssey in that throughout the Odyssey, the ship's crew is hardly even considered in decisions of importance, especially if that decision was to give up their attempts at reaching home. Odysseus is the only one who makes choices, let alone talk for more than three lines! In "The Lotos Eaters," however, there are seven stanzas, and one of them the size of two, all dedicated to the crew and their complaints. This takes the reader deeper into the internal struggles of all the sailors. The Odyssey never goes into any depth concerning the feelings of the crew, or even Odysseus, for that matter.

    Another main difference between the two pieces is one that I have already mentioned. The Odyssey is epic poetry. I will quickly explain what separates epic poetry from more common poems. Epic poetry usually begins at the "medias res." This means that the narrative begins around the middle, or even the end, of the story instead of following more conventional linear timeline. Most epics, including The Odyssey, start off with the author or storyteller offering an invocation to the muses. This means that he asks the muses, the Greek goddesses of music and storytelling, for help in telling the tale. The settings in epic poetry often covers vast areas of the Ancient world, from historical locations to mythical lands. One last major characteristic of epic poetry is the gods. The poems often show divine intervention in mortal affairs. This final point stands out clearly in The Odyssey, when every time something finally goes right for Odysseus (usually because of help from Athena), one of the Gods, often Poseidon, will ruin everything for him and his journey.

    Though The Odyssey and "The Lotos Eaters" deal with some of the same main characters and even the same story, the two are completely different. I read each one once, then each at least once more when the assignment was giving. I looked for any similarities that I could find, but mostly found only differences. I did enjoy the little look into the crew's opinion of the whole journey, because in The Odyssey, Homer focused on nothing, but every event and misadventure was actually slightly vague. There are very few detail, names, and certainly no personal thoughts that are mentioned. "The Lotos Eaters" made the crew members seem more like people, with real troubles, worries, fear, and cares. The poem characterized them, and made them seem more like real people, and less like "Red Shirts."

A %#$&ed Up Room

Graham Klebba

Honors Literature

01.05.09

Just a Plain Old Room? Right?

    The door handle creaked to the side, then the other side. The door did not move. The handle was still for a moment, then it jiggled spasmodically. The old, wooden door swung up slowly, offering its complains in the form of a long, creaky whine. A young boy crept into the dusty room, looking about to make sure no one was around. He laughed at himself a moment later. No one had lived in or even visited this house for a good four years. 

    Feeling confident that he was alone, the lad walked over to the centre of the room. He lay down in the dust, twining his finger behind his head. Staring up at the ceiling, he let his mind wander. He imagined made up stories, telling about every crack, hole, scratch, or nick in the walls, floor and ceiling. Nothing escaped his spectacled gaze. He could see every imperfection, every detail.  

    He knew that one scuff in the floor came to be when holiday gift wrapping was being done. People were hurrying, and one young girl tripped on a box, dragging her new shoe on the floor. He saw clearly the culprit in the case of one large hole in the baseboard. A mouse had made his home behind one panel, and the home owner family enlarged the small entrance in a failed attempt to catch and kill the rodent, despite the disapproval of the smallest girl in the family. One particular dent in the wall told of great Christmas, one where a boy received a wooden toy sword. The battle that ensued was of epic proportions, but not without it's fair share of time spent with noses in the corner afterwards. 

    A stain in the ceiling reminded the child of a long, hard rain a few years back, when everyone's roofs leaked. Home owners had to place all their spare sheets between the roof and ceiling, just to be dry at night. Four scratches in the floor next to his head lead the boy's imagination to a richly finished antique desk, moved by children to help in making a fort.

    The boy awoke two hours later, seeing a perfectly empty room. There were no scratches, holes, dents, divots, leaks, stains, or nicks in the walls, floor, or ceiling. Stretching, the lad left the room, the room that is to be his own. Once all the boxes had been moved in.

Coming Home

Graham Klebba

Honors Literature (Freshmen)

12/17/09

Coming Home

   

 

Coming home, after so long.

It felt like a dream, like it wasn't real.

Boarding the plane,

While the speakers overhead 

spoke of turbulence, departure, and arrival. 

Things I did not understand.

America, the Land of the Free.

Only an eight hour flight away.

With movies, games, and a comfy seat

 to keep me company.

I looked out the window

At the fields and villages, 

and knew I would miss it.

But not yet.

Now I miss it.

I knew I would be so happy here,

 in the "New World."

What I did not realize,

was that I was happier there,

in the "Old World."

Animal Poem

Graham Klebba

Honors Literature (Freshmen)

12/07/09

You jump gracefully

from rock to rock,

barely touching the ground.

Running uphill, fast.

Your soft pads,

slowly catching up with the heavy hoofbeats.

The mouth of the doomed deer froths.

He cannot keep it up much longer.

You keep running, your flanks and forelegs

Rippling with muscle.

You pounce!

The deer's flank is left with four

scored claw marks.

You pounce!

The deer wriths under your grip

Your head jerks forward,

snapping the neck of the helpless deer.

The puma cubs will eat well.

Paradox Poem

Graham Klebba

Honors Literature (Freshmen)

11/25/09

Freedom

Wars are fought,

Battles are lost,

Battles are won.

When the war is over

A new battle begins.

Freedom is promised,

It's there at first

It fades over time,

Slowly, slowly.

Those who fought 

 So their descendants

Could have freedom,

Were able to see it.

Their descendants,

Would never have it.

 Wars are fought,

Battles are lost,

Battles are won.

When the war is over

A new battle begins.

                    

Life is a Swamp

Life
is a Swamp

 

    Life is a swamp.
It is a bog with hidden paths, quicksand, and tar pits. When a human being is
thrown unwillingly into the harsh and unforgiving marsh, the foolish young child
automatically chooses the easiest path. When the selected trail leads to
unexpected pits and nests of foul, biting insects, the sudden realization that
this will not be easy, comes to the child. As he forces his way through the
quagmire, the once shallow waters become deeper, and rocks hide just below the
surface of murky, stagnant pools. Tendrils of unnamed, slimy weeds pull at sore
ankles as the young man wades through dark, filthy waters. Vines hang in his
path, forcing the traveler to either dodge them, or cut them down. The man
wandering the marsh must carry a long stick in front of him, and test every
step, before placing his full weight on the clump of weed and rotting wood. He
must be more careful now than ever in choosing his paths, because he is now in
the middle of the bog. Creeks and pools of brown water are deeper than they
appear, and the path that looks the most tempting will lead him astray. Lumps
of grass that look strong fall away and sink into the mud when he takes a step.
Slowly, so slowly, the paths becomes slightly easier to follow, and safer to
walk on. Most of the hard work is over now. The old man can see the end of the
unbearable bog through the trees and cat-tails. Finally, with creaking bones
and tired joints, the elder breaks through the line of trees, to come to a
better place. I do not know what that place is like, for I am still fighting my
way through the biting insects and unexpected pits.

 

Ode to Sticks

Graham Klebba

Honors Literature (Freshmen)

Ode To Sticks

Ode to Sticks

Such a simple thing. A branch.

Nothing less, but so much more.

More important to a child

than any primer or picture book.

When the boy holds it, he is more than a boy,

He is a knight, ready to slay any dragon

or free any princess.

But he is also a boy.

Wielding a stick, 

keeping cootie - ridden girls at bay.

Such a simple thing. A pole.

The vital supports for a tent in the woods.

Keeping up bedsheets, stolen away from home.

So easily cast away, unless you find a good one.

You hope to keep it forever,

Never to lose it.

You will keep it, and give it to your children, 

when they are young.

Yes, this one is perfect. 

You will keep it with you, always.

Until the bell for dinner rings, that is.

Then it is dropped so quickly, 

Left by the door.

The perfect stick.

Sonnet to Sonnets

Graham Klebba

Honors Literature (Freshmen)

12/06/09

Sonnet 1753

Sonnets are way too difficult to write.

There are by far just too many guidelines.

They should be illegal like a chicken fight.

If Iambic Pentameter aligns

Correctly with the predetermined rhyme,

Then what you have is a true piece of art.

But what this art really takes is time.

What this requires is a poet at heart.

This sonnet is really quite terrible.

As is so clear, I am not a writer.

My sonnets are simply not bearable.

I'll set this on fire with a lighter.

    If this was a contest, I would not have won. 

    This sonnet has no one at all outdone.

13 Ways to Look At...

Graham Klebba

Honors Literature (Freshmen)

13 Ways to Look at...

1

The inevitable storm

Unstoppable, unavoidable.

2

The Liberator

It frees nations

and overthrows tyrants.

3

The Destroyer

Raping, pillaging, burning.

It moves across the land,

Leaving nothing untouched.

4

Hatred. Pure unbridled rage.

Stopping at nothing,

Venting itself on the weak and helpless.

5

A new beginning.

Tearing down old rulers,

Setting up new ones.

6

A family feud.

In time, the cause is forgotten.

7

A holy war.

Sanctified, 

Not with God's grace,

But with blood.

8

Protecting a people

From an enemy 

Who had never threatened them

9

Destroying a people, 

Who never threatened anyone.

10

A quagmire.

So easily entered,

But impossible to leave.

11

The widow maker.

Families are left fatherless,

Motherless.

12

The driving force,

It brings rivals together, 

And pitches friends against each other.

13

The Liberator, Destroyer

The End, the Beginning.

Hatred. Rage. 

The many faces of War.