Blog Entry #12 - Vocabulary

1. Stop the Sun by Gary Paulsen
commotion, foundered, ruin, inert

         I was literally groaning and swearing the traffic jam at 5:00 yesterday afternoon when my dad was driving me home on his black motorcycle. As he struggled to proceed forward, I partly understood why we were still stuck on the road even though one hour had already passed. Further forward, we spotted a commotion surrounded by a crowded group of people. I saw one man with his hands on the hips, looking at something where other people were also looking at, made a face of disgust and said something to the man besides him. Don't these people have something else to do besides ... My thoughts suddenly foundered with schock when I saw a ruined  BWM on the ground where next to it was a smashed motorcycle laying inert and covered by bloody puddles.

2. Gentleman of Río en Medio by Juan A. A. Sedillo
negotiation, innumerable, boundaries, descendants

          Years ago in 20,000 BC, Naagarjun was occupated by the Dadarian Empire, and was forced to do backbreaking labor to serve the Dadarians' lives while they were mistreated by the Dadarians. People of the two empires kept on fighting generations later until the descendants of Naagarjun were exhausted  and went to negotiate with the Dadarian Empire about the peace truce between the two empires if the Dadarian Empire agreed to give Naagarjun's people back their freedom. The Dadarian Empire denied, and Naagarjun therefore was impatient, starting to wage a war on the Dadarian Empire. Through intelligent strategies and a quite adequately equipped army, Naagarjun managed to take back all of their land and the innumerable resources it had. By 18, 000 BC, Naagarjun finally got its independence, claiming its boundaries and began to organize a potential wealthy empire.

Blog Entry #11 - Literary Focus of "Gentleman of Rio en Medio"

6.  Infer Why doesn't Don Anselmo reveal who "owns" the trees on his first visit to the lawyer's office? Was he being clever, or was he unaware of the potential problem? Explain.

       

        I assume Don Anselmo was unaware of the potential problem when he didn’t reveal who “owned” the trees on his first visit to the lawyer’s office basically because of his background.

First of all, he is and old Spanish man who lives a simple life in the mountains, and “He also wore gloves. They were old and torn and his fingertips showed through them. He carried a cane, but it was only the skeleton of a worn-out umbrella.” (P. 299) shows that he perhaps does manual labor and lives an ordinary, inadequate but nature-living life style. 

It proves that he takes things easy and may be his knowledge is limited, in which it put him in a situation where he can’t picture the consequence of not telling about the trees. 

Additionally, probably due to the Spanish traditions, he considered the trees his descendants’ property and therefore could not sell them. Part of it is true, but in business, things have to be clear and usually should not be affected by emotional statements.  

 But, if he was to take advantage of the problem and ask for more money, he could have accepted to receive all of the money in the first play. 

Money???

Unaware of The Potential Problem???

Blog Entry #10 - Literary Focus of "Stop the Sun"

6. Interpret What is the significance of the story's title, "Stop the Sun"?

         The significance of the story’s title, “Stop the Sun” is Terry’s dad’s fear of being discovered and killed by ‘Charley’ when the dawn came in the Vietnam War and therefore had to hide under a dead body of a soldier, wishing he could stop the sun.

Briefly reciting, Terry’s dad was a soldier who served for the Vietnam War. One night he was crossing the paddy with the other soldiers and suddenly the Vietcong emerged and attacked them. Since it was a sudden attack, Terry’s dad was probably shocked and frightened because he wasn’t aware of this happening, and the only thing he could do was to get low and hid himself. The thought of being the only ‘gladiator’ in a combat that you were losing added up to his fright when he already knew he was the only one alive among all of the soldiers at the moment, but would be dead soon when the dawn came. He was having an internal conflict with himself while laying on the muddy cold ground under the rainy, dark night, wishing that the sun would just stop rising: he was afraid of death. He put so much hope in doing that and therefore terribly felt dead by the fact that he couldn’t stop the sun to rise. Despite that the Vietcong didn’t notice him the next day and therefore fortunately he could live longer and go to marry and had a son, still he was dead inside, suffering hard because of the Vietnam syndrome. That very incident at that very night was indeed a serious, remarkable scar in his mind that couldn’t help returning to him as ‘nightmares’ later on. And whenever it came to his mind, the desperate thought of wishing the sun would stop rising and the disappointment when knowing that it was impossible had ‘killed’ Terry’s dad also came back. What’s the purpose of living without enjoying your life and expressing your feelings or your real self? Terry’s dad lost that privilege, and his ‘sun’ couldn’t rise anymore.   

Blog Entry #9 - Short Story Assessment

Rest well, Danny!

Sweating all over, I gasped for breath while my hands jamming my dusty, trembling knees. The sight of my house loomed just a few feet away made me let out a sigh of relief. Unexpectedly, I spotted an old man with frizzy grizzled shouldered hair that covered parts of his furrowed forehead, perching on a rusty bench in front of his brown bricky house. He was looking attentively into the distance and whistled whatever song I couldn’t hear; with one leg crossing over the other and his hand grabbing a bottle of wine. Out of my consciousness, I gulped and adjusted my back with my shivering palms clutching tightly to its handles. I clinched my eyes. I sniffed nervously. I snapped my lips as if to shred them. And afterwards, I rushed wildly towards my house… “Ouch!” I shouted loudly as I stumbled over a rock and crashed to the ground. The pain of my twisted ankle kept me groaning until I raised my head and froze in panic: before my petrified eyes was the very man, the very man I had been bolting away.

“Never shall you talk to that man, son. He’s The Killer! The Killer! What an insane man he is, drinking all the times and whistling to that stupid song every single day. It drives me nuts. Stay away from him. You never know what he will do to you…” Rehabilitating to my consciousness after recalling what Mrs. Simpson – my neighbor, acquainted me, my face turned pale and my hair stood on end. I gawked at The Killer who was known for killing his wife and son as he helped me to get to my feet. He roared with laughter with a raucous voice, uttering,

“Yo twisted your leg eh? Mind if I carry you over there?”

My jaw slumped as I frowned at him with disbelief and shock until I realized it was somewhat rude. Against my will, I stuttered,

“S…sure…”

The old Killer squatted and inspected my ankles. His gnarled hands with dust stuck in his nails slightly touched here and there to test if I could still sense them. I doubted his concerned attitude when doing that! Remember Danny, He’s The Killer! I kept cautioning my foolish self just when The Killer smashed the awkward silence, arousing me from my own thoughts,

“Rain coming, ain’t it? We better get in there. C’mon young boy, come into my house for a while. I’ll treat you something.”

“Uh… I think I better get home… Mommy’s waiting for me… Today’s my…” I hummed. There was no way I would come into that dead dungeon.

“Oh c’mon, come with me son.” The Killer interrupted me as he dragged me to my feet and put his rough hands around my flabby arms.

My mind was probably dead for a while, and when I was about to resist, my awareness told me that I was already sitting on a rigid old sofa in a dark, grubby living room. Not only the living room was dark, it was dark here! Goose bumps popping from every part of my body, and I quivered in sickness of the thought that there were red eyes of the deaths gloating at me from the darkness. I couldn’t manage to see any particular thing except for the chimney on my right and a short wooden table in front of me. There was a sparkle of light way back down the hall, where the Killer paced with his big, bare mucky feet towards me, bringing over some tea and chocolate cookies. He insisted,

“Be my guest, young man! You’re probably hungry.”

I thanked him but I guess he didn’t hear it.

“Uh…”

“Call me Jenkins. Mr. Jenkins”

“Oh… Okay… Mr. Jenkins, do you live alone?” I ventured to question him as I pretended to probe around the room, striving to stay away from looking at the long scar carved under his dark, deep brown eyes, emphasizing the bushy eyebrows that made him look just like a serial killer that I once saw in a movie. Suddenly, my eye balls were refrained on a framed picture settling on a round table on the right of the sofa. As if The Killer could read my thoughts, he smiled wryly, revealing some of the chipped yellow teeth. He replied me with his cigarette-smoky breath overflowing my face, making me sneeze,

“Well, I do live alone.” He snatched the framed picture, cleared his throat and was about to continue. My expectation to hear what he would say next was dashed as his head sunk into his big hands.

I thought I would better not disturb him, and thus leaped to take a closer look at the picture. The frame was rather obsolete with scratches all over and the paint had been rubbed off. I hesitated but slowly slipped it away from his hand. He let me! Too my surprise, in front of my eyes was a picture of a boy my age, and it wasn’t a normal picture at all: it was a picture reserved for funeral. I numbed as I tried to reach my breath, thinking to myself if that was any unwanted sign at all. Is he going to kill me or something? Like he had done to that boy in the picture? Is that his son? I panted as my thoughts raced to find the answers for my questions. I was still frozen, yet sweat flowed out of my head and my eyes began to blink out water. Out of the blue, The Killer broke the ominous silence, raising his head and wailed,

It was Danny’s sixteen birthday twenty years ago on this very day. His mom and I decided to give him a surprise gift by taking him to a well-known restaurant in town. Besides, we would also celebrate for his effort of winning the Science Competition at school, and it was really important to my son. However, I was shocked after knowing I had lost my job, and therefore went to drink with my buddies until I freaked out that I had forgot his special day. I arrived late and that caused a grievous quarrel between my wife and me. It was raining… hard, I guess… I couldn’t see anything in front of my eyes as I turned the steering wheel and crashed the other car that was also driving forward with a dead speed. I was driving them home… It was a total mess…” Mr. Jenkins burst into a violent sob as he banged the table vigorously.

Without him telling me, I knew for sure that the picture was of his son. Mr. Jenkins had placed it there to remind him of what he had done, to torture himself for the rest of his life. The framed picture was his punishment! I couldn’t say a word but instead, I let out my hands and held his. As for the first time ever since being in this place, I actually felt relieved.

Several minutes later, I asked leave to go home. Mr. Jenkins forced a smile and went to get me some more chocolate cookies. Putting on my Nike shoes, I heard him said Happy Birthday before the door behind me finally shut. I was astounded, yet satisfied to hear so and kept wondering how he knew that. I didn’t want to go home right away; I strolled slowly and eventually lingered on the wet muddy path to look up into the neon sky, trying to find if Danny was up there. A blast of wind eased my mind, and without knowing, I whispered,

“Happy birthday, Danny! Rest well, for you have such a great dad…"