Up, Up and Away

Meu projeto de Inglês. A idéia era escrever uma história pessoal, onde a eu teria que descrever um pouco do que eu sentia no momento. Ai vai

“Up, Up and Away”

The calendar marked August 5th. I woke to the dim light that came from outside. The sky was gray and the weather cold; such a beautiful winter day. I looked around and saw both my sisters, still asleep. Their mattresses were good three feet from me, but I could hear their deep breaths. They were the only sound in the place. That empty furniture-less, beige room.

I got up slowly as not to wake them up. Looking at the long hall that separated the living room and the bedrooms, I could see that my parent’s door was still closed. I walked towards the kitchen at the other side. There was still a mahogany table in the center (with some food on it), while the rest had been sold. Funny how I could not remember how big it looked, all empty. I stopped for a moment, my feet touching the cold, white-tiled floor. Someone had opened a door. It was my dad, who had come to wake the house. We had a place to go. A barbecue.

When I finally checked the clock, the small hand lay motionless at ten; the big one marked 47. By eleven we were all ready and set to go. My relatives and my parent’s long time friends were already there. We arrived in no time, and, as much as I tried to enjoy that day, there was always the sensation that it would also, be over in no time. Yet I refused to accept that it actually would. Time played with me; we had to go. “Good-bye” here, “Someday we’ll see each other again,” plus tears, and tears, and more tears. I couldn’t say goodbye to anyone. I didn’t. Instead, I asked to stay longer. They left to get ready, leaving me with the rest of my family. It was night; the sky had been dark for more than an hour already. Frightful. I looked at the wet, red eyes, my aunt had, then sitting down, I – for the first time in months – cried.

It took my aunt’s entire strength to convince me not to quit. I wept. I was scared. I looked around and some people were still emotional. My cousin sat beside me; he was like my brother. How could I leave this? How dared I, say goodbye to my life? This change we had ahead wasn’t necessary, it was a choice. “What a stupid choice,” I thought, while I cried for a good hour. Several of my parent’s friends – and mine – came and talked to me. It made me feel a bit better, but not fully. So many that cared about me. I missed someone; my aunt Sandra, who was sick. We never said farewell in person; it would only be weeks later that I would finally talk with her… over the phone.

I felt helpless at that moment, defeated. It soon was over, and I was taken home. My parents had everything ready when I got there, at about 9pm. In a blink, we were all off to bed. What a cold night. Never had I felt so miserable. Never.

* * *

It was now the 6th, the clock stopped at 2:30. My dad came once again to wake the house; I had not slept well. The cab would arrive soon, and would take us to the airport. 3:00. The cab arrived in a sudden. I had part of the luggage with me, while we walked downstairs. Once again time had played with me. All were comfortable in the car; my parents with my sisters in the back; I sat in the passenger seat. As the car slowly started to move, I looked at the building – which I called home – for the last time. Goodbye. The driver did not talk. The world held its breath, while my family slept a little. I couldn’t close my eyes. The night was still too cold.

* * *

At about 4:30 we had arrived at the International Airport of Guarulhos. It was now about three hours before the plane actually took off, but who can trust airports these days? My relatives promised to be there with us until it was time. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Tick. Tock. The clock now faster then ever. 7:00. Something had happened on the way, and they were late. My heart sank with the possibility that they would never come; and with the anguish, I waited more. It was not until 20 minutes before we had to go that they finally arrived. It cheered me a bit. Unfortunately 20 minutes wasn’t enough. More hugs, more goodbyes, but no tears. I was dried out, besides it was too late. We finally walked into the corridor. I looked back though, while my feet walked me forward.

The plane took off at about eight. I was lucky enough to sit by a window. Brazil, my country, my life, became smaller with every second. It stayed in place, while I flew to a new place. 11 hours later I would be over Miami.

Someone once told me that life is negative. Well, it isn’t if you are looking at it from up there. Just when I was sad the most, life threw at me such a beautiful view, welcoming me to a new phase. “Hello America,” I finally thought. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Beautiful Mess

I felt so angry. I couldn’t stop myself. She just yelled and complained lately. She had run over my dog, yesterday. My poor dog had never hurt anyone, but she just laughed. Where was the beautiful mess I fell in love with? People don’t change like that; I was just too blind to see the truth. I was written out on her face. She was as though a politician… so many promises. If we were I wouldn’t be so depressed, I would have everything. She was so right. I’m not depressed; she would kill me if I was. I have everything… that would make someone cry.

I demanded an answer from her. Know what she did? She spit on him. “I’m the only thing you need,” she said. A tear fell from my right eye. I would’ve been a dark one if water had any color. My brain couldn’t process the information. I had made the decision before it was over. I saw the hammer, and I looked at my dog. And I hit her. In my head I heard a scream, someone telling me to stop. I did. I looked at her unconscious on the floor. I could control…

“Sir, I get it,” said the lady as I came back. “She was a psycho, harmful. You couldn’t control yourself, which makes more of a crime of passion. But the first blow didn’t kill her, did it? You hit her again. That’s first degree.”

..myself. Then I thought “Wow, I finally have my life back”. And you know what? I had a rush through my system that told me to go on. I hit her again, as hard as I could…

“I can certainly tell you that you won’t ever have your life back, sir. You are under arrest for the murder of Heather Anadarko. I’d get a good lawyer, sir.”

…and her words came back to me. “If we were, if we were…,” such small words, such big questions…

“I don’t need a lawyer,” I answered. “And believe me; I do have my life back.”

…I wrapped her up in an old blanket and put her body close to a sewer drain. Perfect resting place I thought. I kept thinking about the if’s she ever told. How her live was never about being objective. How she was always right, because she was always in doubt. What if we really were? No… I told myself. We finally are. She dead. Me alive. That’s how we are.

THE LIES AGREED UPON.

Thanks Diogo in his DimEcaverna for the tip.

THE LIES AGREED UPON.

“Thank you, sir. Your new identification card will arrive soon”. I hang up the phone as I thought of all the other calls and requests that had to be made. 8:24. Must hurry. Job. I got up to take a shower. My boss would know my new identification by now. My badge remade, my desk switched, and all the papers I had ever signed would be replaced. Got out, dressed up, and looked out the window. The gigantic tower of the Republic cast a shadow over the city, and blocked my sun. 8:45. Must hurry. Job.

I walked out, pressing my thumb in the pad beside the door, automatically sealing the house. The car was by the front porch. An 1990 Chevrolet Camaro. It was 32 years old, but to me it worked as though it was new. 8:49. Must hurry. Putting the small black suitcase in the passenger’s seat, I drove. The Republic was not far, and the building – or the torso as I called – was not hard to find. Still, no one ever remembered its street. People never took directions nowadays. It was pointless. They would be relabeled. They always were. 8:56. Finally arrived.

Passing through the security system, they checked my saliva. As soon as the 10-seconds-process was complete the guard let me pass. “Good morning, Mr. Imbecile”. Just yesterday I had been Mr. Baldy, but I guess that being Imbecile was now more cared about than being bald. Stopping at the front desk, Mrs. Charming gave me my new badge. I took the elevator. 9:00. I was at my desk. My new desk. It had my new label on it. I looked at my computer, and saw the post-it note on the screen. Sitting down, I took the small yellow paper off my monitor and read it.

RL – book on desk

There was a book on my desk. Apparently the author of “The green house of the hilltop” had been cheated on by his wife. His whole image of perfection had been blown. He was now Mr. Fraud. My task was simple. Re-label his name on the cover and inside the book, and destroy the old version. An order was being released to all citizens to giver their copies back. The new relabeled one would be given in return. They Republic thought people would not notice. We all knew it. We all lived it.

I was tired. My whole life I have had the worst labels. When I was born I was Dysfunction (I had been born prematurely). When I first went to school I had become Lame. In High School I was Faggot. Until yesterday I was Bald; now I’m Imbecile. And they were right. I am as Imbecile as one could be. Imbecile enough to be slave of those labels. Right now I’m changing someone’s life work. Re-labeling it. Denigrating it. I became what I loathe. Maybe my next label is Kiss-ass. The Republic made my life miserable too long. Enough. 9:20. The book is relabeled. The other burned. I myself have a copy. I’ll keep it.

The day goes by. More labels to change. Not names, not titles. Labels. Like those white ones you use to identify the parts of a school binder, and get tore and dirty with time. Those you can easily replace. That’s all we have, all we live for, or live of. Labels define ourselves, our friends, our lovers, our body, and even – in some cases – our sexual preference. No girl wanted me in High School. Even though I liked them, they didn’t like faggots. Mind is pointless. Still is the only place where I am my label-less me. My mind has not agreed upon the lies that are my life. God… is humanity lost? Even God has been relabeled. He is now Commander. 6:02. They are wrong. To me God was God, and Mr. Fraud was still Mr Perfection. And I… I was Mr. Free. 6:03. Time to go.

In the way back I turned on the radio. All the books had to be turned in by now. Some of my co-workers went home earlier on to get their copies. I kept mine. 6:11. Home sweet home. I opened the mail box. My new documents had arrived. Mr. Imbecile here had now four hours to return the old ones; they worked over night. I had dinner alone, always alone. The house smelled of pity. 7:36. went to bed earlier.

BAM! 11:17. I heard the noise. Four armed man kicked my door and circled me. “Mr. Imbecile. You did not return your copy of “The green house of the hilltop.”

“No. I kept my copy. I like it better without being relabeled.”

“Sir, do you understand this is a capital crime?”

“A crime? What crime is in wanting the truth,” a man entered the room. That face was known to me. Mr. Head, a powerful figure within the Republic.

“Mr. Imbecile. I will give you a chance. Just give us you book and you can get any label you want,” the offer was promising, but I had made up my mind. I didn’t answer. Instead, I closed my eyes and lay down back in the bed.

“Very well. You shall get a new label. Brainless,” he motioned and gave the command.

They shot. The final lies that were my life had been agreed by all but one… my mind. 11:25. I was the Brainless Mr. Free.

The Pedestrian

THE PEDESTRIAN

by Ray Bradbury

To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o’clock of a misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of 2053 A.D., or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar.

Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house. And on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unequal to walking through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night, or there were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomb-like building was still open.

Mr Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening.

On this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell.

‘Hello, in there,’ he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. ‘What’s up tonight on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?’

The street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a hawk in mid-country. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the center of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the street, for company.

‘What is it now?’ he asked the houses, noticing his wrist watch. Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?’

Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when nothing more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not one in all that time.

He came to a cloverleaf intersection which stood silent where two main highways crossed the town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now these highways, too, were like streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.

He turned back on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was within a block of his destination when the lone car turned a corner quite suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it.

A metallic voice called to him:
‘Stand still. Stay where you are! Don’t move!’
He halted.
‘Put up your hands!’
‘But-’ he said.
‘Your hands up! Or we’ll shoot!’
The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one police car left, wasn’t that correct? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets.
‘Your name?’ said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn’t see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.
‘Leonard Mead,’ he said.
‘Speak up!’
‘Leonard Mead!’
Business or profession?’
‘I guess you’d call me a writer.’
No profession,’ said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.
‘You might say that,’ said Mr Mead.
He hadn’t written in years. Magazines and books didn’t sell anymore. Everything went on in the tomb-like houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the gray or multi-colored lights touching their faces, but never really touching them.
‘No profession,’ said the phonograph voice, hissing. ‘What are you doing out?’
‘Walking,’ said Leonard Mead.
‘Walking!’
‘Just walking,’ he said simply, but his face felt cold.
‘Walking, just walking, walking?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Walking where? For what?’
‘Walking for air. Walking to see.’
‘Your address!’
‘Eleven South Saint James Street.’
‘And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr Mead?’
Yes.’
‘And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?’
‘No.
‘No?’ There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation.
‘Are you married, Mr Mead?’
‘No.’
‘Not married,’ said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and dear among the stars and the houses were gray and silent.
‘Nobody wanted me,’ said Leonard Mead with a smile.
‘Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to!’
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
‘Just walking; Mr Mead?’
‘Yes.’
But you haven’t explained for what purpose.’
‘I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk.’
‘Have you done this often?’
Every night for years.’
The police car sat in the center of the street with its radio throat faintly humming.
‘Well, Mr Mead’, it said.
‘’s that all?’ he asked politely.
‘Yes,’ said the voice. ‘Here.’ There was a sigh, a pop. The back doot of the police car sprang wide. ‘Get in.’
‘Wait a minute, 1 haven’t done anything!’
‘Get in.’
‘I protest!’
‘Mr Mead.’
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. As he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no one in the car at all.
‘Get in.’
He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft there.
‘Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,’ said the iron voice. ‘But-’
Where are you taking me?’

The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by punch- slotted card under electric eyes. ‘To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies.’

He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead.

They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness.

‘That’s my house,’ said Leonard Mead.

No one answered him.

The car moved down the empty riverbed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty sidewalks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.

There Will Come Soft Rains

There Will Come Soft Rains

Ray Bradbury

In the living room the voice-clock sang, Tick-tock, seven o’clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o’clock! As if it were afraid that nobody would. The morning house lay empty. The clock ticked on, repeating and repeating its sounds into the emptiness. Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine.

In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh and ejected from its warm interior eight pieces of perfectly browned toast, eight eggs sunny side up, sixteen slices of bacon, two coffees and two cool glasses of milk.

“Today is August 4, 2026,” said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling, “in the city of Allendale, California.” It repeated the date three times for memory’s sake. “Today is Mr. Featherstone’s birthday. Today is the anniversary of Tilita’s marriage. Insurance is payable, as are the water, gas, and light bills.”

Somewhere in the walls, relays clicked, memory tapes glided under electric eyes.

Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o’clock, off to school, off to work, run, run, eight-one! But no doors slammed, no carpets took the soft thread of rubber heels. It was raining outside.

Interview with a Wolf

Eu escrevi essa estória ano passado para escola. Enjoy

—

INTERVIEW WITH A WOLF

By Fabio Lima

Little Red Riding Hood, basket in hand.
The Wolf’s in the woods, he makes his own plans.
You going to Grandma’s with a basket of treats
and you don’t see his shadow as it slithers and creeps.”

Linda A. Copp

The way to the house was quiet. I passed the woods, and went on the road to the beast. Far from the people a wolf lives, blaming himself for a work he did. Work done at the first house of a village. The house described in the verses that opened this story. Who’s him? The Wolf who killed Little Red Riding Hood.

I knocked on the door and waited a little before he finally opened it. The Wolf looked sad, a bit depressed – I would say – but he’s still a big and ferocious wolf. His dark brown furs gave him the aspect of indestructible, but his eyes showed a shaken creature.

I got in, and we went to the living room. The house was not big, but comfortable for him. We sat in his sofa, I thanked for the opportunity and he started his story.

“That face scares me all day long. Cursed day I decided to eat that little girl, that Little Red Riding Hood girl.”

“It was a great day, except for me. I was hungry; I would eat a horse if I could. I had had my last meal three days prior to that one, and my stomach was asking hopelessly for food. So I decided to walk in the wood, hoping to have success in find something to eat. Nothing… the woodcutters were close, and I could not approach.

I was going back to the road, when I saw her. That black-haired girl – with blue eyes – looked at me, and went towards my direction saying a happy ‘Hello’. I was hungry, my brain wasn’t working, I wanted to eat, and I saw my opportunity. I wanted to have my little dinner at that moment. She would not have chance, but then I remembered that he woodcutters were too close.

I thought it wasn’t too cruel, to be real. My only chance to have a decent meal in days and I couldn’t… until I thought again. A perfect and unfailing plan came to my mind, and I filled myself with hope.

I decided to ask where she was going. It was simple. I could follow her and finally have my dinner. The problem is, she could maybe be afraid – what I found out she wasn’t. As I asked, she answered me with a kind of pride.

‘I’m going to my grandmother’s house. She’s ill, and I’m taking this basket with food to her.’

My eyes were bright. Two meals were best than one. ‘It would a piece of cake’ I thought.

“Does you grandmother live far from here?” I asked.

“Yes, she lives in the village after the woods.” she answered. ‘’But, I’m taking this road, because it’s the shorter way to her house.

When I heard this, I had the confirmation that I would have a banquet in that day. She was so naïve. Unfortunately to her, and fortunately to me, she was taking the longest road. Then I asked:

“How does the house look like? Be sure to not get lost.”

I knew it would work. Concern gives thrust to kids, especially Little Red Riding Hood. Next she would give me the best description of the house she could have given, and as she did I smiled inside.

“Oh! Don’t worry. It’s the first house when you get in the village. Unmistakable! I won’t get lost. Now I need to go, bye!”

As she said bye I hurried to take the other road – which was the shortest to the village. Another chance like that one would not appear two times. I knew the way, I knew what to do, and I knew how hungry I was, so nothing would stop me now. Today I wish I had stopped at that point.

In the walk – or jog – to the village I thought in all the possibilities to kill and eat both, the girl and the grandma. I knew the old lady was sick, which would make it easy to finish her. But the little girl… she was naïve, but not stupid. It’s not hard to find that a wolf wants to eat you. I didn’t have time to keep thinking, because as I looked forward I saw the house.

It was a beautiful place. Light-blue windows, with wood-cut walls. That house looked calm. It was a house of peace, which I turned in a house of death.

I knocked. A thick voice questioned “Who’s there?” Pretending that I was her grandchild, I made a tin voice and answered “It’s Little Red Riding Hood, your granddaughter. I’m here to bring this basket of food to you.”

The woman bought it so easy. She told me to push the door, because it was open. I went inside, and looked to the place. Then, I went to her room. As she saw me, tears started to fall from her eyes. She tried to scream, but her sickness stopped her to do so. I could se despair; I could see she knew it was her end.

She died fast. You know, a bite on the neck is an instantaneous death. I ate her all up, leaving her clothes to trick the girl, who was coming. I cleaned the entire place, dressed up, and went to grandma’s bed. In some minutes I heard a knock on the door. I wondered how quickly it would be. I did the same as the girl’s grandmother did.

“Who’s there?” I asked with a thick voice too.

“It’s Little Red Riding Hood, your granddaughter. I’m here to bring this basket of food that my mom sent to you” – that girl was close to be my prey, but she was so happy.

“Push the door, my darling. I’m in my room”

She came by, almost singing. She asked if I was better, and to not show all my face I said that not much. She approached, and I could see she was a little cared. And then the girl made the questions.

“Grandma, why do you have so big ears?”

“The better to hear you,” I was insecure if it would work.

“Grandma, why do you have so big eyes?” at this time she gave a little step back

“The better to see you, darling,” I thought in giving up, but before it she made the third and worse question.

“Grandma, why do you have so big mouth?”

“The better to eat you” I roared. It was it, it would be done soon. I bit her arm and she fell down.

I got up the bed. She was screaming, crying, begging for compassion. That face stopped me for a second. How cruel I was. She was just a girl, but it was too late. Se would tell everybody about me. I had to get that done, and I did. One just bite in the neck, and the color in her eyes went away.

She was dead, and her blood on the entire floor. I couldn’t eat all the body. It was killing me, that I killed so beautiful and innocent creature. I left her rests in the house and came back to my place.

The local police found the dead girl – or what was left of her – two days later, and since then people is afraid of me. I’m afraid of me. I would give anything to have her back alive. But I can’t, and I’m sorry for it.

I was condemned to pass the rest of my life having these memories, and worse than ever, I was condemned to immortality. My family, my friends, and all the people in the woods passed away, but I’m still here, slave of the fear.

I’ll forever be the Wolf, who killed Little Red Riding Hood and her grandma, and my story will be passed from generation to generation, until I had paid enough to maybe die in peace.

On the Marionette Theatre

On the Marionette Theatre

by Heinrich von Kleist

Translated by Idris Parry

One evening in the winter of 1801 I met an old friend in a public park. He had recently been appointed principal dancer at the local theatre and was enjoying immense popularity with the audiences. I told him I had been surprised to see him more than once at the marionette theatre which had been put up in the market-place to entertain the public with dramatic burlesques interspersed with song and dance. He assured me that the mute gestures of these puppets gave him much satisfaction and told me bluntly that any dancer who wished to perfect his art could learn a lot from them.

From the way he said this I could see it wasn’t something which had just come into his mind, so I sat down to question him more closely about his reasons for this remarkable assertion.

He asked me if I hadn’t in fact found some of the dance movements of the puppets (and particularly of the smaller ones) very graceful. This I couldn’t deny. A group of four peasants dancing the rondo in quick time couldn’t have been painted more delicately by Teniers.

I inquired about the mechanism of these figures. I wanted to know how it is possible, without having a maze of strings attached to one’s fingers, to move the separate limbs and extremities in the rhythm of the dance. His answer was that I must not imagine each limb as being individually positioned and moved by the operator in the various phases of the dance. Each movement, he told me, has its centre of gravity; it is enough to control this within the puppet. The limbs, which are only pendulums, then follow mechanically of their own accord, without further help. He added that this movement is very simple. When the centre of gravity is moved in a straight line, the limbs describe curves. Often shaken in a purely haphazard way, the puppet falls into a kind of rhythmic movement which resembles dance.

This observation seemed to me to throw some light at last on the enjoyment he said he got from the marionette theatre, but I was far from guessing the inferences he would draw from it later.

The Tell-Tale Heart

The Tell-Tale Heart

by Edgar Allan Poe

TRUE! –nervous –very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses –not destroyed –not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily –how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture –a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees –very gradually –I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded –with what caution –with what foresight –with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it –oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly –very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously –cautiously (for the hinges creaked) –I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights –every night just at midnight –but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.