Song Parody: "The Missouri Compromise"

My Dear Reader,

I sang this once for a church talent show, and they still talk about it. That's because I absolutely rocked. It's a parody of "I Will Survive," and it started out as a homework assignment in my high school American history class. To learn more about the famous compromise that was a futile attempt to mantain the balance of power in the pre-civil War U.S., click here.

"The Missouri Compromise"

At first they were afraid
They were petrified
They didn’t want Missouri on the other side
But the North gave it up, and the South gave them Maine
Thanks to a guy
By the name of Henry Clay

The union’s safe
For one more day
And now that Henry’s here to help us, we’ll relax and shout, “Hooray!”
South states want another slave state
North states want another free
We compromised
In the year 1820

Go on and try
Tear us apart,
Oh, but you can’t now, we’re compromisers from the start
When they were faced with tyranny,
What did Founding Fathers do?
They compromised
And now we’ll do it too!
We must devise
A compromise
If the North and South can’t get along we surely will divide
We will give a state to them
They will give a state to us
And we’ll be strong
And we’ll all get along
Hey, Hey!

It took all the strength we had
Not to fall apart
And just try to keep the powers balanced on the chart
We are sick of fighting wars, we don’t want another one
If you want bloodshed, just wait ‘til 1861!

Just look at us, with liberty!
We’re the picture perfect model for democracy
Sure, we’re still enslaving men, but the rest of us are free
And that works well for everyone who's in the white majority!

Go on and try
Tear us apart,
Oh, but you can’t now, we’re compromisers from the start
When they were faced with
What did Founding Fathers do?
They compromised
And we’ll do it too!
We must devise
A compromise
If the North and South can’t get along we surely will divide
We will give a state to them
They will give a state to us
And we’ll be strong
And we’ll all get along
Hey, Hey!

-Cecily Jane

My Gimp Stint

My Dear Reader,

It has been requested that I tell the tale of my recent status as the resident cripple, and I am determined to never leave you disappointed. Here it goes!

First of all, one of the hardest aspects of recovering from shoulder surgery is that I had surgery on my right shoulder, and I happen to be right-handed. That means that I've been typing each entry since my operation with my left hand because I'm physically incapable of reaching my right hand to the keyboard. It also means that writing has become very tiring and time consuming these days, but it's still just as rewarding, so here I am.

Something that I didn't expect is that my arm tends to go completely limp, meaning that I have to put effort into any motion thereof. To give you an idea of what this means, let me just say that it has been suggested that I might have a promising career as an actress in zombie movies. My elbow is just fine, and I have a full range of motion there, but my shoulder is too weak to let me move my arm away from my body, which is just fine if you never have to change your shirt or shower. I manage, but it takes a lot longer. When I was wearing my sling, it was easy for me to have a motionless shoulder and not look like a freak, but now it's impossible. When I walk, my left arm will swing like normal, but my right arm won't. I have therefore developed a fake swing that I do as I walk, and while other people are going over their mental to-do list or contemplating about the meaning of life, I think up down, up down, up down. I know, it sounds stupid, but my options are somewhat limited. I can't exactly replicate my natural reaction to gravity and momentum, and it gets tiring after a while, but it works well enough to stop people from thinking that I'm a homeless vet. I'm not making that up.

After few trial-and-error experiences, I've decided that the best way to explain my condition when the need arises is to be perfectly blunt. I started out saying things like, "Could you please cut this hamburger into four?" at which point the waiter would inform me that the said hamburger came with a steak knife, and that I was free to cut it any way I wanted. I would then sit there and try to figure out how awkward it would be to tell him that I could only lift one of my arms high enough to get food in my mouth, and restaurant-style burgers required two. Then I would realize that I would have to continue by informing him that cutting a hamburger that big would also require two hands. Instead, I've found out that it's a lot quicker if I just say, "Excuse me, I have a bolt in my shoulder, could you please cut this into four? You really don't want to make me start bleeding." In cases like this, the waiter doesn't exactly need to know that the bleeding wouldn't happen either way.

I have also discovered that my shoulder is the perfect excuse for getting out of doing things that I don't like doing, such as country dancing. I get asked every other day, and if you are one of those people who keep asking me to go, Dear Reader, please accept my humble plea that you stop inviting me! I hate country music that much.* Luckily enough, now my conversations with country dancing enthusiasts goes something like this:

Country Dancing Enthusiast: Hey, let's go country dancing! It'll be quite the time!

Cecily: Um, I have a bolt in my shoulder.

Country Dancing Enthusiast: Oh, right. That might just kill you. I hereby apologize for asking.

Cecily: You should.

This is contrasted my my bosses at work, who are afraid that they are going to break me. I'm trying to figure out how to use this to my best advantage, like fainting and then asking for a raise. We'll see.

Anyway, the good news is that I am on the mend, thanks to my physical therapist who has a very pleasing resemblance to Brent Spiner. He even shares the first name. Starting last week, he introduced me into a whole new way of living, which includes a strict regimen of a half-hour of hurting myself as I wake up, followed by another half-hour of pain in the afternoon, and ending with a final thirty minutes of masochism. Brent has ensured me that this is "safe pain," as opposed to all of that unsafe pain out there, lurking in the shadows. After that, I pay him to hurt me for at least an hour and a half twice a week, while I secretly hope that he will break out into the lifeform song. I'll catch him one of these days. At the end of each appointment, I am measured, and this time not in inches, but degrees. I manage to get ten to thirty degrees closer to gimplessness.

Regards, best wishes, and shoulder mobility,

-Cecily Jane

*Yes, that's right. So do seventy-five percent of Americans and one hundred percent of every other country.

Short Story: Orbit

My Dear Reader,

I'm not sure if I like this story or not, and therefore I'm not sure how much you will enjoy it, Gentle Reader, but I thought I'd give it a try. This story stems from an assignment to write a story in first-person. Since I think that first-person narratives tend to be cheesy, I tried to be a little creative and write it in letters. I was also kind of mad at my professor when I wrote this, and you will no doubt find this reflected in the text.

"Orbit"

17 December 2029 Cape Canaveral, FL

Dear Milagros,

I write this letter to inform you that your duties from this point on are about to go through a drastic change. I imagine that you were a bit surprised when you arrived at the house today and found my things missing. You needn’t worry; all is well. While you were on vacation, I decided to take a break from my regular schedule for a while—for a very long while—but I will still need to keep the place tidy in the meantime, so you should continue to make your daily rounds.
I suppose that you are at this very moment wondering how long my leave of absence will be, and to be blunt, you may expect me back promptly at 8:00 on the morning of December 30th, 2034.
Milagros, something that you do not understand is that nothing can excite the mind like T. S. Eliot, no, not a thing. It’s no wonder that there are but a few people these days who truly understand his genius. No one knows anything anymore. Or, perhaps, I should say, no one really knows anything. They might think they know everything, like those brown-nosing upshots from Montana who litter the hallways with their empty heads and old discoveries. One thought of the pubescent huddled masses is enough to remind the loneliest of men of the virtues that come from solitude.

Of course, when I use the phrase “the loneliest of men,” do not suppose that I am referencing myself, Milagros. Only a fool would have such a grave understanding. As the Bard said: “Men at some time are masters of their fates: /The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, /But in ourselves, that we are underlings.” It is unbecoming of a person such as me to disagree with Shakespeare, and since I then have no one to blame but myself, I graciously accept the situation that I am now in without qualm. Besides, this is where Eliot is, and Eliot takes time.

My colleagues thought me strange when I made the decision, though there were few who expressed a desire for me to stay. I tried to show them the ad I had found that morning in the paper, but it did not have the effect to the others that it had on me. The ad is now framed and ready to hang on the wall. It reads:

WANTED:
One extraordinary person for the experience of a lifetime!
Call to find out how YOU can be a solo space station operator!
No one can weigh you down in space!
Be your own boss, travel the solar system in style!

It touched me so deeply that I didn’t even notice the comma splice until I’d read it a second time. I made some inquiries and found out that the space station operator duties consisted mostly of living on a space station and monitoring the systems. This includes, among other things, checking for computer malfunctions and supervising the collected data that is sent back to Earth on a continual basis. I then found that, by lucky chance, the Pluto position had not yet been filled. Normally, the employment lasts one one-hundredth of a planetary orbit (the length actually depends on the planet, and since Pluto has an orbit of approximately 248 years, the space program has deemed shifts of two and a half years appropriate). I was feeling bold that day, so I went ahead and signed up for two shifts. Now, since it takes two weeks to get there and two weeks to get back, the total time comes to almost exactly five years, or, to be precise, five years and thirteen days. The leaps that mankind has been able to make in the past few years are truly amazing, Milagros, and they tell me that it is possible to transmit data to me by Extranet at three times the speed of sound, which turns out to be a delay of two months or so.

This brings me to the true reason that I am writing this letter. Part of the terms that that I negotiated with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration allowed for me to send and receive all of the mail that I desire during my five year absence, and since I am spending my now ample spare time committing myself to the explication of T. S. Eliot’s The Wasteland, I will of course need to be constantly updated with the academic research that will take place in my absence. Therefore, I would like you to collect scholarly articles and pass them along to Mr. Garth Fleming at 300 E St. SW, Washington, D.C. Mr. Fleming will, in turn, be sending you the articles on Eliot that I intend to be writing; I know that you will be able to put them in the right hands for publication.

Now, I know you must be worried about me, but I assure you that your feelings in this matter are quite useless. I will be well-fed, and all of the instructions I need to correctly operate the station will be given to me on my two-week trip to the station. You should be happy for me, in fact, because I have finally found the only possible way that I can do my work without having to teach, and being spared from those illiterate hot-shots is more enough compensation for the sacrifices that I have decided to make. This, I hope, will convince you that I am doing this for my own personal freedom rather than because of the incident that happened in November. After all, I have put Miss Keen far behind me. As Eliot said, “O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,/Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.”

You will find that I have already put all of my affairs in order. You will receive your salary as promptly as ever; all I ask is that you see that I get the academic articles and that my articles get published in a timely fashion. That said, I wish you a happy and prosperous five years.

Richard Schnebely, Ph.D.


6 March 2030 Pluto Observation Center

Dear Milagros,

I apologize if I wasn’t clear in my last letter, but I am well prepared for the isolation that my five-year assignment entails, and will not be needing any human interaction during this period. I request the scholarly articles that I mentioned previously; no more. Your letters, while fairly considerate, are a distraction from my studies. I am so engulfed in thought and contemplation that I barely have time to read them, much less devote time to a regular correspondence with a four-month gap. I will kindly ask you to stop sending them while I inform you that this is the only response I intend to send back.

Still, I feel I must answer your question about Miss Keen’s latest accomplishment. I managed to get around to the article she published, and I briefly glanced over it, but as I’m sure I have told you before, she is still valuing her style over her content. Her voice is too strong and her use of split infinitives is quite appalling; it’s hard to believe that she was ever a student of mine. To be frank, it’s hard for me to see how she could ever truly contribute to this world that she was born into, much less the academic society that she is attempting to permeate. She thinks too much of herself to be of any real use; she drowns her theses in hubris. Personally, I wouldn’t even hire her to be a maid of mine, for after all, even you know where to put your semicolons.

In conjunction with my previous admonition, I must inform you that I have absolutely no need for your assessments of the articles you send me. I prefer to have them untainted by your opinions. You may think that your reviews of Eliot’s work incredibly clever, but until you have studied Eliot in an academic environment, you cannot truly understand the context, the mechanics, and ultimately, the artistry. Unlike Miss Keen, Eliot has the experience and intelligence to create a polished body of work that excites the traditionally trained mind in a way the unlearned cannot possibly fathom.

As for my personal life, which I remind you is absolutely none of your business, it has progressed as planned. I have covered a lot of ground in The Wasteland, at least as much as I had thought I could do by this time. It is so much better than my previous duties as professor, where I had to be continually bothered by teaching and grading, which were a constant distraction from my research. Now, it’s as if I was paid just to pursue the study of literature, which is all I’ve really wanted to do since I first stepped foot on a college campus. Now, the only thing that disturbs my work is the infrequent visits I have from a couple that travels the solar system to check on all of the space station operators. The husband is a physician and the wife is a psychologist, so I’m sure you can imagine how irritating they can be, especially when they arrive without notice.

Their first and only visit so far was a disaster. Milagros, I tell you that if I had known that they were coming I would have dressed accordingly, of course, but as it was they found me in nothing but a pair of miss-matching socks. It took me at least four hours to convince the wife that I didn’t have some kind of mental disorder. Women just don’t understand how constricting clothes can be. She tried to convince me that I was suffering from an extreme form of loneliness that was changing my perception of reality. I told her that I love solitude and that I would much prefer my job to hers, because at least I don’t have to make a living by trespassing on the privacy of others. Sufficed to say, it is lucky for me that their “rounds” can take up to six months or more, but that also means that I’ll have to see them at least nine more times before I leave this sanctuary of mine. I was looking forward to having no neighbors during these five years, but now this couple has ruined the sense of peace I feel knowing that there is not another living soul within thousands of miles of me. I’ll just have to keep them out of my mind long enough that I’ll forget about them.

As I said before, this is the last letter that I will send back to you, Milagros, so don’t bother writing me again. I am pleased that your son is doing well, but don’t send his comparative literature papers to me; he must learn to do things for himself. If you treat him like a baby at the beginning of his college career how will he be able to turn into a man? Your son is a bright boy who has the potential to do more in this life than you can ever imagine. You must put more thought into what you do before you do them.

Richard Schnebely, Ph.D.


20 December 2030 Pluto Observation Center

Dear Milagros,

I can’t take your misinformation and wild speculation any longer. What happened between Miss Keene and I was a private affair, though I assure you that nothing inappropriate took place. I have not yet had the chance to read her book, nor do I have any desire to do so, but I a sure that the character in question is not a direct reference to me. You should know better than to think that your description of him bore any likeness to me. From what you said, this fictional Dr. Smiley is arrogant, self-righteous, overbearing, and too caught up in convention to see the facts. I admit, I have seen this behavior exhibited by some of my colleagues from time to time, but to my knowledge no one has ever accused me of having these character flaws, and it seems to me that Miss Keene has created more of a caricature than the sort of character that people like to read.

That said, I cannot account for the success that Miss Keene has experienced since her novel was published. Caricatures only make it to the New York Times Best Seller List if they are part of a satire. I am somewhat relieved, however, that she has shifted from her pursuits in academic writing to something a little less challenging, though it is obviously not as rewarding. In fiction, she will find that there are less people who will notice her flaws, for most of her readers won’t know the difference between a restrictive and a non-restrictive clause, to say nothing of semicolons and split infinitives. You may be equally suited to the task of author, Milagros, for your letters to me over the past year or so show a remarkable aptitude for creativity and word manipulation.

As I previously mentioned, what happened between Miss Keene and I is only our business, but I will break the rules of propriety this one time so that you can truly understand the nature of the academic relationship that I had with her, and perhaps that will convince you that her novel is not about me. I first met Miss Keene in my English Language 353 class, a course which focused on grammar and usage. I have taught the class every semester for the past twenty-two years, and every semester I have at least one student who refuses to accept the traditional view of language, but Miss Keene was quite unique in her rebellion. Not only was she fairly disruptive in class through her rude behavior and inappropriate comments, she was also starting to attract other students to her cause. It became very difficult to keep order in the classroom, and you can imagine the kind of stress that came from her actions.

One day, after I had had more than enough of her attitude and disrespect, I asked her to come to my office after class to discuss her behavior. She arrived fifteen minutes late, threw her things all over my previously organized space, and stared at me with crossed arms and raised eyebrows. I tried to explain to her that grammar was a list of rules that governed writing in order to make it uniform and structured. She responded by saying that she was about to graduate from the university and only had my class left as a requirement. Then she quite forcefully explained that in her almost-four years of university studies she had never had to use the laws of usage I presented in lecture and didn’t see how she would ever need them in the future. I countered by explaining that it would be necessary if she was planning on attending graduate school or somehow contributing to the academic community. I also informed her that it would be very useful to have a good grounding in grammar if she intended on doing any professional writing, scholarly or otherwise. You should have seen the way she sat in her chair and twirled her hair around as she listened. It was clear that I wasn’t getting through at all. I tried to reason with her; I tried to use logic to support my case, but it seemed in the end that there was nothing I could do to dissuade her from her inappropriate attitude. When I saw that I had used every weapon in my arsenal, I reminded her that class participation was a factor in her grade and that she couldn’t expect high marks unless she showed a marked change in behavior. She looked a little shaken by what I had said, and I felt some satisfaction for finally getting through to her, but it wasn’t until then that I noticed that my face had gotten red and my voice was loud and severe. I excused her and she left, and I was grateful that she was gone and I could return to the paper I was writing about James Joyce’s Ulysses.

The rest of the story you already know, about how the political cartoons started appearing in the university paper, and how they raised the attention of the dean and eventually the president. They were spread out over a course of two months, but by the time the “series” was over there was a total of ten cartoons in all. The way I was depicted was absurd, of course, but I had already known that Miss Keene was dating a student double-majoring in art and political science, so I suppose I could have anticipated this form of retaliation; however I never thought that it would be taken to such an extreme as it was. It was lucky for me that I had left my office door open and that my office neighbor, Dr. Janet Woodhouse, was able to hear most of the controversial conversation and stood up to me when accusations arose about my threatening a particular student with a failing grade for using her first amendment rights. It just so happened that I found the ad for this job in the paper the very next day, and that I spent the next two weeks making arrangements for my departure. As a result, I was never able to hear about what happened to Miss Keene, though it appears that she has focused her energy on publishing substandard articles and works of fiction. I was assured before I left that I was more than welcome to return whenever my duties orbiting Pluto had ceased (the university seems to have a hard time finding professors to teach 353), so it is evident that Miss Keene did not have the affect that she and her boyfriend intended. It is but a small matter though. I’ve almost forgotten about the whole ordeal by now.

Milagros, I hope that this account will squash these romantic notions you have about a villain terrorizing a helpless maiden, when we both know that I would do nothing of the sort. Please do not continue to bother me with your undeveloped observations; I have a lot of work to do. Let me know when you have something more substantial to say.


Richard Schnebely, Ph.D.

3 June 2031 Pluto Observation Center

Dear Milagros,

I am devastated to hear about the death of your son, Trevor. Words cannot express what I feel for you in your state of loss, and though I am aware that your news is now two months old, I am sending this letter back with Mr. and Mrs. Greer, who you will remember as the husband-and-wife team that travels the solar system to visit the space station operators. They are going back to Earth immediately, and will therefore get there faster than Extranet can send this message. It turns out that my first shift on this station expires on the July 24th, and in light of current circumstances, I have elected to forgo my second two-and-a-half year journey and return to the house. I have already made all of my arrangements, and you may expect me promptly and 10:35 A.M. on August 8th. I would have accompanied the Greers myself, but I was informed that I could not leave the station until my replacement arrived. You may be interested to know that the name of my replacement happens to be a Miss Jennifer Keene, who I believe is accepting this position in order to escape from a certain negative reaction she has received from her last book, which attempted to expose some kind of non-existent government conspiracy. I hope that she will find my old home suitable for her needs, and I have decided to leave her certain tokens of my esteem that will greet her as she arrives.

Please inform the university of my plans to return, since I will not be able to do so in a timely manner. I intend to teach as soon as the new semester starts, and I believe that Miss Keene’s novel, which I eventually got around to reading, has inspired me to add a few new things to the class that might make it more enjoyable for the students. I think that Trevor would have approved. I don’t know if you will know me when I return, dear Milagros, for your letters and my period of isolation have managed to change me in a way that I didn’t expect. I hope it is for the better.

Richard Schnebely, Ph.D.

-Cecily Jane

Cecily vs. the Piano

My Dear Reader,

I suppose that piano lessons might be a normal right-of-passage in middle-class American families, and supposedly when you're Mormon that goes double. My Padre just so happens to be an excellent pianist, and I suppose that Madre intended for me to follow in his footsteps. I also have this secret suspicion that she wanted all of her children to be as accomplished as the heroines in the Jane Austen-ey novels that she loves so much. Either way, we had a piano, and a piano teacher lived barely a block away, so little Cecily went off to piano lessons once a week, just like she was told. And she hated every minute of it.

Okay, so maybe not every minute. Playing the piano is a very enjoyable thing, and it comes in very useful now and again. Practicing isn't even that bad. I suppose that it was the process of being taught the piano that I hated. I mean, every week, I was given a task to do, and then the next week, I was judged on how well I had accomplished the task, and depending on how well I did, I was told to perfect that task or was given a new one, at which point the cycle would start over again. And it was a fairly vicious cycle, as any kid who's been on the same lesson for a month would know. I didn't take kindly to being constantly judged and evaluated by some piano justice every week, and it really started to effect my self-esteem at this point. In a way, I really related to Bart Collins of The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T., which you should go out and rent right now if you haven't seen it already. In any case, each week turned into a battle, and those battles turned our student-teacher relationship into a war. The piano was the battlefield: if I completed my lesson, I had won. If not, the victory was hers. It may seem unfair that my teacher, who had such an invested interest in winning, should be the judge, but part of being a child is accepting the fact that you have no control in your own life.

My piano teacher was nice enough, I suppose, but besides the fact that she passed judgement on me once every seven days, I was bothered by her habit of eating and painting her nails during my lessons. I probably shouldn't have been, considering that she was a divorcée who brought home her bacon by spending her entire day with snot-nosed, ungrateful children, but I was. I mean, the way I saw it, I could have been doing a lot of other stuff right then instead of sitting on her bench and plunking out keys, and I would have rather been doing just about anything. But there I was, sacrificing my time to become a proficient, only to hear her munching in my ear the entire time. So I decided that I wasn't going to let her get away with it, and one day, I came to my piano lesson with a sucker. If that worked, I was was going to figure out how to come in the next week with some lasagna. It was an ingenious plan. But when I showed up with that sucker, the teacher looked down at me with frowning eyes, patiently requesting that I put my sucker on a plate until it was time for me to go home. It was then that I realized that I had overlooked one crucial factor of the Cecily-Piano Teacher War: I could only win if I stopped being eight. Since that was a sacrifice that I was not willing and physically unable to make, I decided to retreat.

Even after I realized that I was caught in a hopeless struggle, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it except for whine and complain, which I did at every opportunity. Beyond that, I could only try to make my hours trapped at the piano as enjoyable as possible. So when it was time to practice at home, I would spend a deceptive amount of time doing actual practice, and when Madre would have to run off after a brother or two, I would do the one thing that I was truly accomplished at: dawdling. At rare occasions, this would involve carving names into the piano. Now, any dumb kid could carve his or her name into any dumb piano, but I was much smarted than that. You see, when your name was into the piano, it was easy for Madre to tell whose fault it was. So I, through a stroke of genius, would carve someone else's name. It was as if I could choose which party too the blame, and I carefully chose with three letters: DAD. After all, Padre hardly ever got in trouble, and anyone could see that it was his turn. Besides, I really wanted to see what happened if Padre got grounded. Of course, it turned out that Padre was too smart to carve anybody's name into anything, and I got into trouble anyway. I swear, my Madre is the best detective I know.

Anyway, after all of that constant battling between teachers and pianos, I guess you might think that I never learned anything, but I ended up being okay. I didn't go to Julliard or anything, but I learned how to read music, and I built a foundation for music appreciation that I'm still building upon today, despite my best efforts at dawdling and complaining. Now, I'm horribly out of practice, but I could bounce back to mediocrity. You just watch me.

Regards, best wishes, and lasagna,

-Cecily Jane

Short Story: Mother Superior Jumps the Gun

My Dear Reader,

I'm generally awful at coming up with titles, but this time the title came first, and it was so good that I wrote a story around it. It deals with Catholicism, something I actually know very little about, and though I tried to do my homework, I won't be surprised if it turns out that I got something wrong. I hope you enjoy it, regardless. Kudos if you can get the reference.

“Mother Superior Jumps the Gun”

“Just take it, Helena. I won’t be able to sleep tonight unless I’m sure you and the other sisters are safe.”

“What makes you think that the abbey is any safer with an armed seventy-year-old?”

“I’m serious, Helena.” His eyes grew wide and his large, bare forehead wrinkled. “Take it.”

“I’ve never handled one of these before. I’m going to end up hurting someone.” Mother Abbess Helena held the gun between her index finger and thumb and away from her body as if it carried the plague. “I’m a nun, John. I’m not going to go around shooting people.”

“You don’t have to; that’s the great thing about guns,” Brother John said, though Mother Helena was very certain that there was no such thing. “You don’t ever have to use it. You don’t even have to keep it loaded. You just have to put on a show. Anyone in their right mind who sees another human being with a gun has to believe that the gun is loaded and that the owner knows how to wield it. They’ll be too scared to harm you.”

“Even if that human being happens to be a walking skeleton that wears a habit?” She shook her head and tried to hand the gun back to him. “No one will think that a person like me will actually shoot someone. And then he’ll just get angry and be more violent than he has to be, or worse, I’ll make a mistake and I actually will shoot him. There’s just nothing good about this.”

“There’s also nothing good about that monster being out there and on the loose. Trust me, Helena. If that guy shows up, you’ll be glad to have that little piece of machinery to back you up.” Brother John looked up through his large-rimmed glasses at the large ceiling that towered above them and grew quiet for a moment. It was dark outside, and the chapel stood majestically as if it guarded its inhabitants from the darkness of the world. Brother John looked Mother Helena squarely in the eyes. “You need to protect this place, and the people who live here. You have to.”

Before she could respond, Brother John raised a hand to tell her that there would be no further discussion on the matter, then turned and slowly walked away. She watched him go, feeling the weight of the steel in her hands as she wondered how much pain his arthritic knees were giving him. John was a silly man; he had always been. She should know, after all, they had played together as children in that very same abbey many years ago. Things were different then, but not John. Most people grew older and wiser, but John just grew bigger, having been born wise beyond his years. He had only recently closed the gap between his wisdom and his age, but he still thought with his heart instead of his head, and he still acted first and consulted guidelines later. No one else would insist on giving a gun to an abbess; no one who knew what taking orders meant would even think of such a thing. But John had. He had probably been spending too much time reading the news and was overly concerned. It was true, though. That monster was out there, but handing her a gun? That was why he would never become an abbot, despite his seniority. Abbots had to be an embodiment of strict obedience; John liked even the smallest sliver of elbowroom. He was impossible.

As she stood in the chapel and stared at the door that Brother John had exited, the pectoral cross that dangled below her shoulders felt heavy on her neck, as if it was trying to pull her attention to the stone floor below her. She sat down on a pew and let her bones rest a little. How old was that floor? It was one of the few things in the world that was older than she was, and that realization gave her comfort somehow. The floor, the large pointed ceiling, and even the stained glass windows were exactly the same as they has been when she was a little girl, going to the school run by the abbey. Back then, the Mother Superior had been a staunch, harsh old woman who spoke more with her eyebrows and her forefinger than she did with her tongue. It seemed strange the Helena was now in her place, and she hoped that her students thought of her on better terms than she had thought of Mother Abbess Julian in her time.

Things were different now. It was hard to count the wars that had rumbled through the world since then, some of which had called upon her friends as a sacrifice. Her father was one of those sacrifices; he had died fighting in Europe when she was very young. It was his idea for her to go to school here, and she wondered what he would have thought if he knew that she had spent her entire life in the abbey. She would tell him that she still had more to learn.

Her father knew those stained glass windows very well, for it was he who first taught Helena who all of the people were and what they meant. He told her about Daniel, who had clung to his faith even when he was surrounded by man-eating lions; and Judas, who had given up on God because he was weak and selfish. Her favorite, though, was the depiction of Saint Helena, the mother of Constantine, whom she had been named after. Saint Helena was honored for her humility and piety, living modestly even though her son was the ruler of the world. Although she was meek, she had changed the course of Christianity in the world. Helena hoped that one day she would be able to live up to the example that went before her.

The pectoral cross felt heavy again, as if to remind her that the abbey she had lived in for so long, stained glass and all, was now her responsibility. She hadn’t sought out the position of abbess, in fact, she had almost refused when she found out that her sisters had elected her into the position, but the other nuns had insisted, telling Helena that her cool head and years of experience made her the perfect choice. As she sat alone in one of a hundred pews, she felt the insecurity wash over her again, and she tried to shake it off. She loved this place, and everything that it stood for. She loved the people that came there, no matter if they went home at night or if they had made the abbey their home, as she had. There was so much to love; so much to protect. She would do anything to keep this place safe. She would even sacrifice herself.

Mother Helena had been buried in her thoughts for too long, and it was getting late. She was starting to get tired, and she knew that she still had much to do before she went to bed. In fact, she was surprised that she had already wasted so much time. She smiled a little as she got up to leave the chapel, when a sound from behind her froze her in place. Her heart stopped beating for a split second. Had she imagined it?

The noise came again, a small creak that was getting louder. She knew that sound: the outside door was opening. She suddenly felt very cold and very scared. Should she turn around? Should she run? No, she was the abbess, the mother superior. She had to take care of this.

She felt her hands shake as she slowly turned to face the intruder, and something hard hit against her thigh. The gun! She had forgotten all about it. Now was not the time. The door was about fifty feet away, and in the dim light of the ancient chapel she could only see an outline. It was coming towards her.

“Hello?” she said, trying to stop her voice from trembling the way her hands were. There was no response. She called out again, but she received no answer. Her hands started to shake even more.

“I’m Mother Abbess Helena Timothy. Can I help you?” she said again to the shadow, who continued his pace towards her, creeping along the ancient floor past the window that contained Saint Helena. Before she knew it, she had raised her arms and pointed the large metal weapon at him.

She tried to warn him, but it did no good. The figure kept coming. She told him she would use the gun, but there was no response, and the chills that were running down Helena’s spine were too much to bear. Why was her finger on the trigger? Was the gun even loaded? She wanted to check, but the inching outline kept coming, and she was trapped. What would he do to her?

She didn’t mean to pull the trigger; she didn’t want to. She was surprised when a deafening thunderclap came from her hands, and the gun pushed her back a step as it fired at the figure. Helena was horrified. She couldn’t believe herself. She looked at the gun like it was an incarnation of evil, as a blanket of regret covered her. What could she do now? She looked up to see that the shadow was still coming.

It was now time to scream, for Helena had run out of options. If this was the man the police were after, if this was the monster, the gun in her hand would make little difference. He had seen it, she had even fired, and he was unaffected. She couldn’t run. She couldn’t reason with him. She could only pray.

She quickly touched each shoulder as she started to plead, getting the words out as quickly and as solemnly as possible. The prayer would probably be her last. As she finished and opened her eyes to face her end, nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.

“Tanner?”

Tanner stopped in the light, looking at Mother Helena with a confused face. He pointed to her gun and signed a question. The shame that she felt inside of her became heavy as she motioned for him to sit down with her. With the few signs she knew, she tried to explain to Tanner what had just happened, realizing that he hadn’t heard the explosion of the bullet as it escaped from the gift that John had insisted upon. Tanner looked okay, and she definitely hadn’t hurt him, but as her eyes made a quick sweep of the chapel, she gasped quietly.

Saint Helena was completely gone.

-Cecily Jane

Teenagers and Parents

My Dear Reader,

You may think that I am being very bold, or at least a little presumptuous, when I attempt to write about teenagers and their parents. Granted, I've never been the parent of anyone, but I was a teenager not too long ago, and I have three siblings who happen to be between the ages of twelve and twenty. When I was a teen, I very much wanted to say some things to adults, but I found that my point of view was not taken seriously. While I greatly respect parenting as a heavenly calling and look forward to having children of my own someday, I find it rather disturbing that all of the literature that you will find on what is inside the teenage mind is written by adults, most of who have spent more years after teenage-dom than they ever spent in it. Since I'm now a twenty-something (twenty-two, to be exact) instead of a teenager, perhaps people might actually listen this time. Thus, I would like to speak briefly and frankly about something that I really wish parents understood: being a teenager is hard because the world is collapsing on top of you, and you have no idea how to handle it.

When I was a child, it seemed that adults were constantly trying to reassure me that I was in good hands. Whether it was a teacher, my friend's parent, or my parents themselves, I was told that parents always know what is best and always act in my best interest. As a child who couldn't fathom why anyone would do the opposite, I didn't raise many objections to the idea, and I think most children are the same way. Sure, they might protest when a parent makes a decision that they don't like, but most children generally accept that their parents have the authority. As these children grow up, however, and their brains begin to process more and more information, they start to see the world for what it is, and not for what they were told it would be. The difference is very disconcerting. The more they grow, the more they see that sometimes parents are selfish, and sometimes they make mistakes. Most shockingly, they observe that a lot of the time, parents are just making it up as they go along. Similarly, while it is easy for them to see how their parents are selfish and imperfect, the concept of human sacrifice and selflessness is a lot harder for them to see, and even harder to understand (just ask Voldemort). And while any idiot understands that no one is perfect, the behavior that they see does not match up to the behavior they were made to believe existed, and the world they used to know and trust starts to crumble at their feet.

This, very often, makes them wonder why selfish, mistaken, clueless people have complete control over their everyday life. I think that anyone in their predicament would be at least slightly concerned, after all, up has turned to down, black has turned to white, and cows have started barking at the moon. This turns into what is called teenage rebellion, a term which I believe is actually a misnomer, as this phenomenon is more accurately described as human nature. Haven't you heard of the American Revolution? When adults see that the powers governing them are flawed (especially when said powers keep trying assure them of their benevolence), they tend to have a problem with that. They also tend to get very angry and try to do something about it. Teens are essentially doing the same thing. So no matter how much adults may complain about teenage rebellion, it is actually the very first adult thing that a teenager does, because it shows that teenagers are starting to think for themselves. If teenagers don't learn how to think for themselves, they will never be able to grow up and function in the world as an adult. At the same time, however, they are still in the process of growing, and their thought processes haven't fully developed. This means that though they understand that the system they live under is flawed, they may have no idea how to change it. Still, they try.

In their attempts to figure out what the world is and how to handle it, teenagers tend to behave the way they have seen their parents behave when they were angry. After all, anger is what any human would feel when the world is revealed to be corrupt, especially if its counteracting benevolence remains hidden from them. It shouldn't be a surprise, then, when many teens turn to behavior that is often described as emotionally violent. I've heard a lot of adults complain about the way children "learn violence" from the media, and I've definitely seen that happen. But what I've actually seen more often is that many kids aren't lucky enough to learn violence from television; they see it in real life. It's one thing to see violence glorified by actors on a screen, but experiencing violence is much more effective. This is the main reason why I'm very opposed to spanking, especially for young children, because I firmly believe that it teaches kids that violence solves problems. My reasoning stems from the fact that a lot of spanking occurs when the parent is very angry. And when a parent is angry, the child might interpret the violent response as a punishment for making the parent angry, and not for disobeying the rules. Thus, the child learns that anger and violence are Siamese twins joined at the hip, and it is impossible to separate one from the other. So, the more a child is punished for making a parent angry, the more a parent is teaching a child that emotions are caused by other people, and that when people make you angry, they need to pay.

It is very lucky, then, that teenagers tend to limit themselves to emotional violence instead of the physical violence that they have experienced so many times. I think that this has to do with love and compassion on behalf of the teenager more than anything else, but fear of retribution is probably a big part of the equation as well. Still, they have seen their parents scream, so they scream. They have seen their parents ignore them, so they ignore their parents. They have seen their parents be selfish, so they act selfishly. It may seem a bit dramatic to an adult, who stands on firm ground, but an adult in a ten-point earthquake would probably do something similar. It will take years before the world settles down for them again and their internal struggle is at an end, before they will see that good and evil coexist in the universe and within every human being. It will take them years before they can forgive you for not being perfect.

I realize that the picture I have painted of teenagers in this entry has been the worst-case scenario. I have perhaps exaggerated a little, but I don't think that I have exaggerated the situation any more than adults exaggerate it to each other, for I have been present at enough adult conversations to know that adults can complain about their teenagers as much as their teenagers complain about them. You see, I can get why teenagers are so angry, and why they feel that they are at war, but I don't really get why adults fight as if they are in a war, too. Perhaps I will have to have teenagers of my own before I understand why adults are so offended when their authority becomes less and less absolute. Maybe it's because the world is turning upside-down for the parents, too.

Or maybe I'm completely wrong about everything.

Regards, best wishes, and viewpoints,

-Cecily Jane

Spenserian Sonnet: "You Are a Jerk"

My Dear Reader,

This is the first in a series of creatively fictional pieces, which will be posted every Friday (that's right—even MORE Cecily). This particular piece is a Spenserian sonnet I wrote for my early British lit class. I got a ninety-nine out of one hundred.

It is not about me.

You Are a Jerk

I asked you out last weekend, but I guess
You’ve got some other plans this Friday night.
She’s not as good for you, but I digress;
I know you knew that I’d be free tonight.
For now, it seems you want me out of sight.
You think this dating thing is just a game?
You think that I’m a person you can slight?
I thought that we had fun, but now the shame
Descends on me, and I feel really lame.
I wonder if you think I came too strong
And why you’ve got the hots for what’s-her-name
And have you always liked her all along?
Well, thinking on it, I know what to say:
I never really liked you, anyway.

-Cecily Jane

Attack of the Kitten

My Dear Reader,

Cats and I have never gotten along. I think that this probably has to do with the fact that as I was growing up, my family seemed to be constantly at war with them. Since several of my family members are allergic to cats, including both parents, I was given very strict instructions in regards to felines: I was not to pet them, touch them, or go anywhere near them, and most importantly, I was never to allow them on our property or in the home. Somehow or other, I started to get the impression that if I went near a cat, my parents would die. I admit that I had a somewhat overactive imagination in those days (which explains why I was convinced that my kindergarten teacher was trying to kill me*), and I'm pretty sure that I alone am responsible for this notion. I'm sure because of the way that my aversion of cats evolved into this kind of holy war, where I felt that had a meowing nemesis that I needed to somehow defeat for honor, freedom, and glory.

Of course, the media that I was exposed to wasn't exactly helpful at this point. Take, for example, Cinderella, where the main villain is a cat named after Satan.** I firmly believed that this was a philosophical statement about the inherent nature of such creatures. Add to that the multiple movies I watched about various small creatures whose lives are threatened by a cat, and you'll start to realize that cats tend to be demonized by our culture. As I grew up, I met others who held a similar view, one of the most notable being my philosophy professor, who taught us that the Problem of Evil boils down to the existence of cats. So it made sense that I took this treatment of cats to heart, right? I mean, they try to kill my parents and ruin the lives of angelic heroes and heroines who were minding their own business. And they caused pain and suffering to enter the world. So once again, I'm the real victim here.

So I find myself fairly lucky to be an adult, because it generally means that I only have to deal with cats when I want to, which is never. I mean, the only reason that I would have to even be around one is if I had a friend who had a cat as a pet, and I have gone to great lengths to ensure that I don't. Victory is not without sacrifice. The only time that I ever have to be in the vicinity of any animal of the feline persuasion is when a stray happens to meander into my apartment complex, but they generally leave me alone when they realize that I'm not inclined to give them anything to eat. Except for this one cat who has recently been terrorizing my neighbors.

That's right: I said "terrorizing." It is also correct that I said "neighbors," or in other words, not just me. You wouldn't think so to look at it, since it is small and furry, but this creature has it out for humanity. It darts into homes, completely unwelcome, rubs every inch of itself over every surface, and then darts back out, only to spend the next twenty-four or seventy-six hours meowing outside so loudly that any domestic tranquility is immediately forfeited. It's a menace to society, I tell you, and if you aren't convinced yet, you should see how that cat tried to kill me in my sleep last night.

No, I am not imagining things this time. I was asleep, doing nothing but dreaming about Jane Austen novels, when I was awakened by a loud, unnatural noise. And there the cat was, meowing loud as ever, and banging its body against the window. My window. Which I had left open. It was like the feline version of a mixture between a nervous breakdown and an exorcism, and it was trying to get into my room! It was pretty frightening at four in the morning, especially since I still have only one usable arm, and if my roommates hadn't burst in and saved the day, that cat probably would have nervously exorcised itself all over my face, and my roommates would have awoken to find nothing except for a few strands of fur and my mangled corpse. I was saved by the fact that they were already awake because the monster had attempted to attack them first, and their windows were closed. The next morning, we found claw marks all over both of our windows, and that cat was still meowing outside of our window. What it was trying to accomplish by frightening us to death in the dead of the night, we will probably never know. My guess is that the creature suffers from a multitude of mental diseases. All I know is that I was right all along, and that cats were out to murder my family. Funny how that works out.

Now, please excuse me while I purchase a copious amount of lemon juice with which to douse the outside of my residence.

Regards, best wishes, and dogs,

-Cecily Jane

*Call it crazy, but I still think that my kindergarten teacher is out there somewhere in a secret lair planning her next ghastly and extremely criminal mission and laughing maniacally.

**I know some people to this day who honestly think that the villain is the stepmother, but if you put the two next to each other, which one would you expect you lunge at you and bite off an artery?