Love Kills (Sleepy Hallows from Katrina's POV)

I ride past the old abandoned school house and slow Wild Flower down to an easy trot. Ever since the loss of Ichabod Crane the school house had fallen into shambles. Wild grass protruded from the windows and cracks in the wall. The ancient pine wood logs were starting to decompose, leaving the area with an eerie aroma of decay. The school house, which used to be the symbol of my childhood, is now a place of scary stories and a place for young boys to show off their manliness by going there at night. Now everything is in disarray. Ichabod’s old maple wood desk had collapsed from the over powering weight on the decayed legs. As I rode past the demolished school house I couldn’t help but think of Ichabod, the man who had happened to find a crevice in my heart.

I had always thought that Ichabod was a peculiar type of man. He was different from all the other men, with his loose form and narrow frame, his love of scary stories no matter how gruesome, and his strict demeanor that could change on a whim. He had been my school teacher my whole life growing up. He was quite harsh at times and was known to go on tirades when a kid wouldn’t do his homework. Ever since I turned 15, he seemed to have a thing for me, but I didn’t care much since I have a lot of admirers. Not to be arrogant, but I’m one of the prettiest and most popular girls in all of Tarry Town. Ever since I was five years old, I had realized boys fighting for my attention. The first time I remember a fight over me was in Kindergarten, when Alex punched Jonathan because they both liked me. Since then, the fights have escalated to the point where Ichabod Crane, my school teacher, has gone missing. Some suspect foul play by Brom Bones; some others (mainly the house wives) believe it was the Headless Horseman.

            It all started when Ichabod Crane started liking me and competing against Brom Bones. I don’t think I ever really gave Ichabod much of a chance. Maybe it was his lanky body and low paying job, but I just didn’t find him very attractive. On the other hand, Brom Bones was the complete opposite. He was a strong man, a skilled horse rider, and the town hero. Brom was liked by many and scared off most of his other opponents. He was capable of making even the biggest man abhor being in his presence. When other men approached, they would speak to him in a tremulous voice. I don’t quite understand why Ichabod wasn’t ever intimidated by Brom. Maybe it could have been that he tried to avoid him, but I believe that it was because he felt something more for me, something that Brom didn’t, and this impelled him to keep fighting.

            The time was coming for me to marry, and I could tell that my dad was beginning to feel impatient. So he sent out invitations for a party the next night at our house. The plan was for me to choose the man I wanted to marry. Ichabod didn’t conceal his excitement when he got the invitation. I think he may have forgotten that I was in the classroom because he started rushing the class and doing things as fast as possible, eager to get ready for the party. We finished about an hour early that day; the room was in shambles and everything was amiss.

 When I got home I helped Father oversee the set-up of the party. Golden ribbons streamed from one corner to another, and a delicious roast was prepared to feed 50 people. When everything was done Father prepped me on the kind of guy he wanted. Basically he described Brom; it was obvious who he wanted. The guests started arriving and the musician started playing. Right at seven ‘o’clock Ichabod walked in clad in his best suit. Ichabod seemed mesmerized by the sheer size of my house. He stood there for an awkward second taking on the house before greeting us. Throughout the night I danced with many men. Ichabod was by far the best dancer, making sure to move every part of his body. Brom came in his finest tailored suit; he had very nicely combed hair, and what I recognized as very expensive French shoes. I was wearing a new pink and yellow ball gown that had little roses sewed onto it. The gown was made out of the finest material in all of Tarry Town and was tailored just for me.

The night went on and guests slowly started to fade until finally only Ichabod was left. I knew that my final choice would be Brom Bones, so I decided to have some fun and started flirting with Ichabod. He started getting very into it. He entreated for me to love him, but I decided to tell the poor man that I didn’t want his love. I suppose I may have been a little harsh, for he stormed out in quite a flurry. Ichabod was quite the irascible man when he lost something.

The next day at school we sat outside of the school house for almost three hours. What began as an idle wait soon escalated to insults and fighting without the supervision of an adult. Finally a dad of one of the kids told us that Ichabod had gone missing and that school would be cancelled for the day. I instantly felt a wave of guiltiness, fearing that I had been the source of the problem. Later that day his horse was found wandering aimlessly at his front gate without a saddle and it appeared much shaken up. A group of the strongest men went out searching for him. Though I’ve never told anyone, I’ve had a secret side of me that loves gruesomeness and scary things. I secretly went out later that day when I heard accounts of the men finding his saddle by the edge of the ravine with a smashed pumpkin lying next to it. I personally saw where the saddle and pumpkin were found and I came to my own conclusion. I doubt the existence of the Headless Horseman and I don’t really believe that Major Andre’s Tree and the bridge are haunted. I believe that Brom had dressed up as the Headless Horseman and had killed Ichabod so that he could have my love. To this day, Brom still finds so much satisfaction in hearing the story and at the part where they find the pumpkin he begins to laugh. I ended up marrying Brom as I planned, but every now and then I do wonder how my life would have been with Ichabod. I guess love can kill.

Reflection of The Broker

The Broker, by John Grisham is a book about a man who had it all and then lost it, and how he had to survive with nothing. The book is named The Broker because the main character Joel Backman is a huge power broker in Washington D.C. before his world gets flipped upside-down. I found this title simple and boring; a better title for this book would have been “Pardoned” because he gets pardoned at the beginning of the book, and it leaves the reader pondering the meaning of the title.

            In The Broker, by John Grisham. Joel Backman a huge power broker gets sent to 15 years of solitary confinement for treason for trying to sell the most modern satellite that had been hacked. Joel is shockingly pardoned at the 11th hour of President Morgan’s presidency, as a plan by the C.I.A. to see which country kills him first to determine who’s satellite it was originally. Joel is rushed off to Bologna, Italy where he lives for the next few months staying low and trying to fit into the Italian culture and learning Italian. His identity and his appearance are changed to help him fit in, and he gets a new name, Marco Lazerri. In Bologna he is paired up with Luigi his care taker who is watching him closely, and when the time comes will have to witness his murder. Joel lives in Bologna for about 4-6 months, and when the time comes the C.I.A. purposefully leaks the information to 8 main countries. Joel begins to realize that something is wrong when he gets stopped by two Americans who call him by his real name. He makes an escape and contacts his son Neal who sends him a smart phone and begins to communicate with Joel. All of the countries who received the leaked information go to Bologna to attempt to murder him. Joel has to escape repeated attempts until he finally makes his way back to Washington and makes a deal with the Pentagon to ensure his safety.

            Joel really matures from the beginning of the book to the end. At the beginning he is a ruthless broker who only cares about power and money, he never really cared about family or others. He had three kids who he rarely ever saw and he was married four times. At the end he finally begins to realize what a terrible father he was and how he never did find true love. He goes to Culpeper, Virginia were he finally sees his granddaughter for the first time. He also finds true love in Italy with his Italian teacher.

            My favorite character in this book was Neal because he is a fun exciting person who even though his father was never there for him he becomes the bigger man and helps him when he most needs it. Neal is going through some hard times and is on a very tight budget, but when he gets a letter from his dad he secretly takes out $4,000 to aid his dad. “Joel was not a topic Neal like to talk about. Or think about. He had been a lousy father, absent for most of his childhood…Now he was back asking for money that Neal did not have” (238). One person who I didn’t like at first was Francesca, Joel’s second Italian teacher. At first she seemed mean and very strict, but as the book went on she became more generous and at the end she plays a key role in Joel’s escape. Joel takes the identity of her dying husband to fly back to the U.S. At the end he goes back to Italy and you can infer that he will marry her.

            I loved this book and I think that this would be a great read for anyone who likes action packed books. The author did an outstanding job developing the plot and keeping the book interesting. He was very descriptive and created intricate relationships with the characters. Overall this was a great read.   

Mikes Glove

Looking into Mike’s warm blue eyes I found weakness. It was hidden in the back corner concealed by an impenetrable wall of false strength and power, the same strength and power that he used to have only one depressing year ago.

            Sitting next to him, on an ancient maple wood desk was his tan, leather, left handed catcher’s glove. The pocket was worn smooth from hundreds, no thousands, of fastballs, sinkers, and even some curve balls which were very rare for his age. He was only eleven, yet he still managed to be an A+ student, Little League MVP, and he was the most popular kid in his whole elementary school.

The glove was as old as my Great Grandpa Chuck. We called him Chuckles because of his cheerful disposition. He was the very man that gave him that glove when he was only five years old.  Mike had always idolized Chuckles; he thought of him as highly as God himself. To tell you the truth, they were nearly identical. Chuckles played catcher, so Mike played catcher. Chuckles liked Bing Crosby, so Mike liked Bing Crosby; Chuckles loved poetry, so Mike loved poetry. The list went on and on. The last one was the most depressing. Chuckles died of leukemia, and Mike was soon to follow in his footsteps.  

Chuckles gave him the glove on the day he died. Written with green pen in the center of the pocket was a poem called, If You Forget Me. Mike loved the idea of writing poetry in his glove, and after every loss or chemo therapy treatment, he would write another poem as a way to lift his spirits. I slipped my hand into the glove. Its insides had been covered with white, furry hair. The hair had turned a yellowish color and had bunched up into wads from the sweat over the years. I turned it over to read some of the poetry, but to my horror it was all gone, all smudged into a dark green blob. Then I remembered it. It was a terrible memory, but I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of it

It was a rainy day in late fall, and two important things were happening that day. First, it was the day of the Brooklyn Little League Championship, and second, it was the six year anniversary of Chuckles’ death. Mike had been in a bitter mood all morning. Even though Chuckles had died six years ago, Mike remembered him as if it was just yesterday. The game started at noon, but mom insisted on getting there at 10:30 a.m. to get prime, front row seat. The game started right at noon at lasted for what seemed like forever. After two hours of playing, it was 4-5 in the bottom of the ninth inning. There were two outs and runners on first and third. The championship would be theirs with just two more outs. Jason, the star pitcher, threw a 60 mph fast ball that was just inside. Mike, the catcher, was lost in thought thinking about Chuckles and reading the poetry on his glove. The ball was a little bit inside and hit Mike on the side of his helmet. It bounced off his helmet into the fence. All of a sudden, he stumbled and fell into a deep puddle, unconscious. An ambulance was called and my whole family rushed onto the field. Mike’s glove was all smudged from the puddle and I couldn’t read a single word of it.The next day a doctor told us the most horrific news, Mike had a severe case of leukemia. It was the last thing that I would’ve expected to hear. It left me in shock for almost a whole week.

Here I was now watching my little brother on the cold, white hospital bed. I never told him I kind of idolized him. He was the little brother I had always wanted. In the next few moments I watched my little brother drift away. His eyes gently closed and he lived no more. Only his memory would live on.  Now every time I pick up the glove I feel as if I can almost touch him.

Enslaved

February 17 1662

My Dearest Efuru,

           

I know that you will never receive this letter, and if by some miracle you do, you probably wouldn’t be able to read it because I’m writing in the native language of the settlers in this new world. I have been able to learn the language by using a guile plan that I came up with. Once a week when my master and his family are all asleep, I creep into their house in the dark of night and secretly take the little boy’s English homework. I study it for hours on end and finally before the cover of night fades away and the little boy wakes up, I return the papers to his bag and go back to my living quarters. I know that if I were to ever get caught my hateful master would gruesomely beat me.

It’s been almost seven years now since that tragic day when the white men came and took me from our house. It is imperative that I know how my child is doing. It breaks my heart that they took me away before I ever got to know him. I hope that he will make a great warrior and someday take my place as a strong leader of our tribe.

            I was taken to the new world on an unsanitary ship that was even disgraceful for slaves. We were forced to row for hours on end, and if we let out a word of complaint we would be starved for days. They wouldn’t dare beat us because they wanted to keep us strong so they could sell us for more money. If I had my old disposition I would have fought back, but now that I am a slave, I follow the orders of my masters. I was brought to a colony in the south, which I think is called North Carolina.

            I was sold to an older man by the name of Mr. Johnson. He has a family of 5, and 12 other slaves to work his cotton farm. Ginning cotton is hard work, and when a spontaneous strain of small pox pervaded throughout the plantation, 5 of the slaves died and work was almost doubled.

            I highly doubt I’ll ever see your precious, loving face again. But as I stare up into the sky while writing this message, I see the stars and I know that you are at the other end looking up at the same stars. I will never give up hope of seeing you again.

                                                Love,

                                                         Kweku  

Vulture Eye

I grimaced. The scream was short, electrifying; it lasted no more than a few seconds. But that’s all it took. I knew it instantly. It came from the old mans house right across the street. I had been weary of that house ever since the mad man went to work there. I had once known the mad man. He was a very nice man, of course that was before he went mad.

            He was a young man by the name of Alexander Johnson. He was a tall, handsome, gingerly man, until it happened. Alexander was working for me at the time. Although he knew he would always be poor he wouldn’t complain. He took on a job just to help his mother; everything he did was for his mother. His mother was a generous, kind woman. But she was poor and no matter what she did she could never get out of debt. She endeavored that by the time Alexander graduated from high school she would be out of enough debt to send him to college. Unfortunately she would never live to see him off to college. One day she had gone to the bank, which the old man had owned, to apply for another loan. The old man told her that if she did not pay off her debt bad things would happen. She wasn’t able to repay her debt, and 10 days later she was found dehydrated, dead in a shack outside of town clad in bloody sheets. Though no one could corroborate that it was the old man who had done it, everyone knew that it was he who had committed the foul crime.

            Alexander was never the same. He went to the old man’s house one night and had screamed at him in an abrasive tone until he had no voice left. Next he gruesomely drove a stick into the old man’s eye, knowing that that very eye that had witnessed his mother death. It blinding him forever, leaving the old man with a vulture eye. Alexander would wake up at night screaming for his life. I took inventory of how many times he did this and on the tenth time I succumbed to the idea that I would have to fire him. It was a hard thing to do; of course it wasn’t his fault. I just couldn’t live with a mad man in my house.

            Now, three years later Alexander had secretly changed his identity to evade the police (I only happen to know this because I had accidentally happened to stumble upon some forged documents he had in his room and had given them a cursory glance). He also was able to get a job with the old man as his assistant. I could sense he had a gruesome plan, but I felt pity on the boy after his mother died, so I decided not to turn him in. But the second I heard the scream I surmised that it was the young man getting revenge on the man’s eye that reminded him of his mother’s death. I simulated the death in my head as I lay awake. Maybe he crept up on him in the pitch dark of night and stabbed him brutally. But I knew he wouldn’t have; the man might have been mad, but he wasn’t an idiot. He would know not to leave a trail of blood. I rapidly phoned the police and concisely told them of what I surmised might have occurred. When I spoke to the police as they were leaving the house, I derived information about what happened inside the house. I was told how when the police went in to investigate they initially found nothing, but after a while the man went mad and showed them were he had stashed the suffocated body under some loose planks.

 I was told that the death penalty awaited him in the coming months. I was sad to hear of this, but I decided that he had committed a crime worthy of death. A heartless judge wouldn’t care to hear of the troubles this young man had been through that led to such an atrocity. I guess the young man would die happy knowing he had avenged his mother’s death.

Day 1- Making a Blog

You can’t imagine how hard it could be to come up with a blog name. When Armaan needed a name I was able to come up with one right away, "Armawesome". Then I had to think of one for me. “It can’t be that hard” I thought. I started thinking, and thinking, and thinking, but I couldn’t come up with any good names for it. Mclife, PM Life, no they were both bad. Then it hit me. One of the things I like to do most is play Lax (Lacrosse). So I decided to make my name chilLAXin. I spent a while editing and designing my blog until I thought it was exactly how I wanted it. I think it’s a cool idea to do blogging and having people comment, I like a lot more then the good old fashion writing it on a paper and turning it in.