Before me stood a massive figure, with hair so gray it seemed to suck the happiness out of the environment.  His eyes were open so wide, it seemed as though they would never blink.  He consumed his sons, one at a time, tearing their flesh apart as the blood of his victim streams down its body.  I walk up to the terrifying sight, as he tears the arm off of its body.  I ask him, “Who are you?”

“My name is Saturn,” he replied, “and I am here to devour my sons.”

“But why are you devouring your sons?” I would then ask, as his hands clenched the back of his victim so tightly you can hear the bones cracking within.

“The throne is mine,” he boldly stated, “and no son of mine will ever come to replace me.”  He started to chew the flesh of his victim, almost as if he enjoyed the taste of his own son.  He never blinked.

He then went on to tell me of his life as a titan.   He, in fact, dethroned his own father, only to live in fear of his own actions.  He took a pause from his snack, and looked down upon me.  Fear was stricken in his eyes, as he grew paranoid of being replaced.  I ran as fast as I could, while he grabbed his infamous sickle that he used to slay Uranus, the father who preceded him.

As I sprinted away from this gigantic figure, I looked for safety wherever it may be found.  Eventually, I found a building in which I found a woman, who’s identity was never made clear.  She handed me a wrapped gift, and told me to use it to my advantage.

I wondered what was in the wrapping, but there was no time to spare.  Those giant legs began to chase towards me once again, and so I continued to run away.  He drew nearer and nearer and I started to feel hopeless.  What was I to do?

I then handed the wrapping to Saturn, simply hoping for the best.  When I readied myself for what I assumed to be my end, I looked at the wrapping to see a face on it, staring back at me lifelessly.  The woman had made the wrapping to look like a baby, even though it seemed to have no more than a few stones within it.

I inhaled what could have been my last breath, and handed to baby-like wrapping to Saturn.  He stared for a while, in a daze that could have been either confusion or shock.  Either way, he was unsuspecting of what was just handed to him.

“Agh!” he proclaimed.  “My latest son, we shall call him Zeus.”

It was then that Saturn let the tiny wrapping slide into his mouth where he spared no time chewing.  In one massive gulp he swallowed the bag of rocks, and then turned his gaze back to me.

“What have you done?” he asked.  It was then that the woman from earlier reappeared.  She soon explained who she was and what she had done.  She was Rhea, wife of Saturn, and she wanted to protect the children she would give birth too.  Furious from Saturn’s selfish actions, she hid the real child that would grow up to be Zeus, and fed Saturn a couple of stones, which inevitably tore at his insides, making him suffer before his untimely death.  It was at this moment, that Zeus would replace his father, Saturn, at the throne.

Victor Rerick

Arts in NYC

Professor Graff

October 23, 2012

The Card Players

A loud clanging sound woke me.  Three times it echoed around the walls, and each time a chorus of cheers followed in quick succession. Dazed, I lifted my head.        I was sitting on a small wooden bench, my head resting on a splintered table.  I lifted my head and quickly surveyed my surroundings.  I was inside of a small kitchen, barely furnished except for the stool and table on which I reclined.  I had fallen asleep here last night, after three day of running from the French forces through the open country.  I knew little of the war, but when hundreds of soldiers unexpectedly flooded into our village last week, we were all forced to run. Some families fled together, but as a poor orphan I decided to retreat alone.  By now I must have put miles between the invading forces and myself.  I had stumbled upon this house under the cover of night, and was now seeing it for the first time.

An old stove burned quietly in the corner. The only window was open, and as I stood I could see a field that rolled over the never-ending hills that stretched to the horizon.  The pungent smell of cheap liquor hung in the air.  My eyes danced rapidly in all directions, looking at once to the north south and west.  Nothing was visible except for the hills.  They were completely covered by rows and rows of corn.

Clang! Horrah! Clang! Hoorah!  I turned around swiftly. I remembered the sounds that had broken my slumber only a minute ago.  A sense of dread consumed my body.  I was not alone in the house.  Clang! Horrah! Clang Horrah!    The cheers grew louder with each clang, and appeared to reach a deafening crescendo.  Suddenly, I heard the noise of steam bursting forth from a small teakettle interrupt the chorus.  The house fell silent.  They knew I was here. They must. They would come for me.

“Piere Le…. Leau chaude. The hot water you fool!”  The wiry voice came from behind a tiny closed door I hadn’t seen before.  Heavy footsteps grew increasingly near. I panicked and considered jumping for the window but it was to close to the door. Too risky.  I jumped behind the stove, my only other option for staying out of view.  The door creaked and then swung open.  It smacked into the wall, causing the room’s lone painting to come crashing to the floor. I was out of view, but could see through a small crack in the aged stove.

A towering man stood in the doorway.  He was dressed in fine military apparel, but his shirt was loose, his belt undone, and his feet were bare on the wooden floor.  Curly hair hid his ears and neck, and a large bushy moustache dominated his otherwise small facial features.  He wrecked of alcohol.  He opened his lips but for a moment no words arrived.   When they did they were slurred and slow. Le chaude, Bien sur!

A large drunken smile spread across his face.  He lumbered forward, grabbed the tea-kettle from the stove and stared at it like a young child fascinated by a small animal.  He began to mimic the teapots whistle and let out a deep laugh, amused by his antics.  But his mouth closed abruptly.  His eyes swung below the stoves surface, to the corner between the stove and the wall where I lay cowering.

“Allo mon ami. cachant le plaisir.”  My heart dropped to the bare wooden floor.  I did not understand his words, but I knew they were directed at me. I had been spotted.   I jumped out from the stove, under the man’s legs and dashed for the door. My foot caught an exposed nail and I crashed to the living room floor.  Three startled soldiers jumped from their chairs, and drew their swords.  Two of them, one dressed in green attire, and the other in a matching blue uniform, turned to each other, and laughed.  The other man, a particularly slender and pale fellow, stepped forward.  He extended his hand and spoke to his comrades in words I knew. “Another one, eh Pier. “

“Wei”, came the reply from behind me, where Pierre now stood in the doorway, teakettle in hand.  “I thought we had found all the hideouts but ahh cest le vie.”

“Come,” said the tall man, “join us, we are all friends here.  You hide from the war, and we hide from the army. We are all just hideouts, interlopers in each other’s misfortune. He motioned towards an unoccupied stool. My sense of fear was slowly dissipating.

I sat down, and waited for further instructions.  But none came.  Pierre came and sat beside me, the odor of alcohol now intensified by the presence of the other three men. The slender soldier grabbed a bottle and poured the remaining drops into their cups.  Pierre picked up a fork and clumsily smashed his cup with it. Clang! A brief moment of silence followed. The men threw their heads back. “Hoorah!  And long live the King” shouted the soldier in blue.  The others laughed.  Pierre collected the playing cards scattered across the table. He turned to me and managed to mutter, “ You can play this game”. Confused if I was being given permission or asked a question, I took the cards in my hand and nodded. Pierre grinned mightily, and turned back to his now empty cup.  And so Pierre, his three comrades, and myself, played through the night, clanging glasses and shouting hoorah, until the moon climbed high over the rolling corn-fields.

Joshua Sloan

10/24/12

Professor Graff

Short Story

The year was 1840 as I stand on the precipice of the hull overlooking eminent death. It was not a choice of mine to board this ship, subjecting myself to the squalid conditions provided for me, but I presume that is the nature of the matter.

Swoosh!!! Splash!!! The stern is beginning to submerge in the abysmal oceans encompassing this hell I spent these last three months on. Everyone is rushing around the ship in frantic attempts to resurface this now useless peace of wood and battle the undefeatable storm; I remain where I am, accepting my fate.

Bang!!! Knock!!! The yells and commands echo around me but I am unperturbed. As I hold my ground at the front of the ship, I am confronted with mournfully wistful countenances occupying everyone’s once sanguine dispositions; this as well doesn’t perturb me. There is only one thought that is dominating my mind right now: Why? Why is everyone so fearful of what’s to come?
As the intensity of the maelstrom increases to something thought to be only fictional, or something only imaginable in a painting, the submersion becomes detectable – the incline from stern to hull is reminiscent of the incline in a giraffe’s neck as it grazes from my native safaris. The prodigious force of the storm combined with newton’s gravity, begins to jettison members of the crew from the ship. A sordid image one may say, but the slightest feelings of sympathy refuse to graze my emotions.
Crack!!! Gulp!!! The ship is being consumed by the inexorable will of the ocean. I am forced to hold on to the banister, but not for dear life, there lays something more profound in preserving my existence.
Only the hull remains surfaced, and along with it the captain and myself. I can see his paltry grip weakening as he beckons to me for help. The winds obliterate his sound waves, leaving me with only the sight of his pathetic lips imploring me for my help. Even in the tranquility of a beautiful day at sea his words would have a similar effect on me: nothing.
Gurgle!!! Help!!! As the last air bubbles escape the innards of this horrible beast struggling to stay afloat, the struggles of the captain prove to be of similar efficacy: one of my last images is of that reprehensible human being falling to his death. I can’t say I’m lucky to experience this rare scenario, but it certainly is the most gratifying experience of my life.
I am now submerged along with everything else that once occupied this ship. The ocean begins to pervade my lungs, but I don’t struggle. I accept my fate, and I accept it with triumph. On a ship designated to import slaves into a life of subjugation, I won; a slave was the last one to survive.

J.M.W. Turner, The Slave Ship (1840)

Joshua Sloan

In the contemporary world, people idolize musicians and constantly wish they had the life of those celebrities. As children we all dreamed to be one of the popular musical artists, although we refused to see the human aspect of their lives. Fame doesn’t necessarily translate to happiness and a life of fulfillment. Mozart’s letters truly illustrate this point, and depict the monetary and familial struggles Mozart dealt with throughout his entire life.

Mozart’s letters were generally fashioned in an obsequious nature: he would constantly beg people for patronage – whether it was for a contract of sorts to help secure him financially, or just blatant begging. Although this aspect of Mozart’s life generally goes unnoticed, it cannot be disputed as fact; people have difficulty transcending the preconceptions they have of famed artists, and accepting the reality of life.

Although people will read these letters and immediately disparage Mozart for his sycophancy, we must understand that Mozart was financially burdened, and the actions he took were in order to preserve his life and the life of his family. It’s difficult to see revered composers out of the limelight, but we must also recognize that due to his begging, he was able to create an environment where he could compose masterpieces.

Purely from the letters between Mozart and his wife, we see that there was tender intimacy coupled with concision. Despite the amorous relationship extrapolated from Mozart’s letters, it is hard to reconcile the briefness of the letters. If you compare the extensive letters written to friends and those written to his wife, it is evident where his true passion lied: in music.

Although most people hear the name Mozart and think of success, happiness, and a life of fulfillment, Mozart’s letters portray a diametrically opposite picture. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart lived a life of recluse and poverty, although he did everything in his power – no matter how humbling it may have been- to persist through the hard times and create music that will eternally affect peoples’ lives. Through Mozart’s struggles and sacrifices, we are graced with his art, and a look into the reality of fame.