So marth is one of my better characters now...who knew?
Favorites now, in this order, are shiek, jigglypuff, marth. as if anyone cares =X
If anyone could help me analyze the following short story, i'd be VERY grateful. It's only 3 paragraphs long, and I just need to do an overview for my class tomorrow. I think I get it, but if anyone could shed some light on their take on it, that'd be absolutely fantastic. Especially the third paragraph. the bowl and the tangerine seems...huH?
This is Why We Can Never Have Nice Things
At age eleven, I murder the coffee table. I gouge with every available implement: thumbtacks, Lefty scissors, the plastic hand of my Barbie accomplice (who really should have known better). It is a slow death. In the end, there is nowhere to hide the body. When I am finally caught, the pads of my fingers fill the cracks of my homemade disaster. It is the stupidest lie I have ever told.
When my mother is dying, her skin sucking her bones like tentacles, we discuss important details: her curio cabinet with tiny vases and fragile teacups; clothes in her closet still in their store wrappers. She’s saving them for a special occasion; the discovery of a new planet, the victory of a coup in a small foreign country.
The invitation comes at two thirty in the morning. "Would you like to come and see the body?" I am just awake. In the tangled blur of consciousness, there is a woman plucking a perfect nectarine from a blue crystal bowl with slim and beckoning fingers. The most beautiful part is her hands reaching.
If anyone could help me analyze the following short story, i'd be VERY grateful. It's only 3 paragraphs long, and I just need to do an overview for my class tomorrow. I think I get it, but if anyone could shed some light on their take on it, that'd be absolutely fantastic. Especially the third paragraph. the bowl and the tangerine seems...huH?
This is Why We Can Never Have Nice Things
At age eleven, I murder the coffee table. I gouge with every available implement: thumbtacks, Lefty scissors, the plastic hand of my Barbie accomplice (who really should have known better). It is a slow death. In the end, there is nowhere to hide the body. When I am finally caught, the pads of my fingers fill the cracks of my homemade disaster. It is the stupidest lie I have ever told.
When my mother is dying, her skin sucking her bones like tentacles, we discuss important details: her curio cabinet with tiny vases and fragile teacups; clothes in her closet still in their store wrappers. She’s saving them for a special occasion; the discovery of a new planet, the victory of a coup in a small foreign country.
The invitation comes at two thirty in the morning. "Would you like to come and see the body?" I am just awake. In the tangled blur of consciousness, there is a woman plucking a perfect nectarine from a blue crystal bowl with slim and beckoning fingers. The most beautiful part is her hands reaching.