One day I will finish this.

To question the certainty of these words would surely be a cruel and treacherous thing to do, for who among the living – if it can be assumed you are, in fact, among those most ungrateful of beings – may dispute that said of the breathless – of which I have become – for there is nothing for us to be gained in dishonesty. What may be perceived as fable is far too bleak and hideous a ponderance to be of the minds concoction. Alas, the tale in which you find yourself entangled, the moment which sealed a fate before it began, it belongs to me; and I to it. No matter what would become; what insufferable woe would befall us hereafter, we were to be bound together in hell and in eternity. It is in that hell I burn, I shudder, I share my most imperishable of moments with you. You who, without fail, shall come to know the betrayal, terror, and loathing, which forever stifle my never beating heart.

Had I been able to partake in the scenery around me I would tell you of the never ending, bloodless mounds. I would share with you of the lands that were to remain immortally barren and would evermore succumb to the unquenching, unforgiving, ever beating heat of the overhead sun. I would describe the silver paths laying to the left and the right of the enclosure – upon whose fleeting shade they trespassed to shield themselves from the bitter rays – one leading to life, the other, more vivid of the two, to death. Had I the chance to gaze out I would describe the rift which, through unutterable darkness, ended the existence of one panel while giving life to another. What lay through the wooden curtain I was never to know. I shall admit– though it is with profound disdain these words are spoken – I was yet withheld from all those sensations which are so effortlessly cast aside by those whose world is full. Aye, I assure you of these sights I know not. Oh, mournful and heinous contraption of loathing and despair! Oh vile betrayal against life itself! All I have known is darkness. Darkness, hell – and that sound, that ever-present sound. The sound that has haunted my dreams and overtaken my reality. That sound was to be my death for I knew, as long as that steady beat, beat, beat, continued – mine would not. My moments were fleeting and soon would come the vessel leading to a torture so grand it would rip the essence of my being right from my vehemently pleading soul.



**To give a little background, I am obsessed with the language differences between Edgar Allan Poe and Ernest Hemingway. Both I classify as my favorite authors and largest influences on my writing because both paint such vivid scenery and invoke an emotional reaction but they do it in such contrasting ways. Hemingway seems to hate words and will leave his sentences as sparse as possible while Poe seems to use every adjective he can possible fit in there. Hemingway is the king of the sentence fragment while Poe is the king of the run of sentence. I, because of my love of both of them, end up being the queen of both, as any professor I have will tell you.

The assignment was to do something creative. I was blocked for the longest time, to the point where I actually had to get an extension.. My big idea was to write a Hemingway story in the style of Poe and see what could be born. This was not as easy as one would think. To change the writing style of someone is to change the deepest essence of their story. Anyone who knows anything about these authors knows that the narrator is kept very distant within a Hemingway story yet with Poe the narrator is the heart of the insanity. Therefore the narration of the unborn fetus was born. Finally I put the computer away and got out the parchment and ink quill, exchanged the lights for a few dim candles and set to work on my moms old wooden desk with my whiskey by my side. The only way to write Poe is to be Poe.. Did I succeed? Not as well as I would have liked but I am proud of the result (which is actually only the first paragraph of Hills like White Elephants plus a lot of Poe-like Banter I felt needed to be added.) and I think it creates an interesting look into what style adds to literature...

This is the original Hemingway:

"The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies."

That was about all I used.

One day I will finish it but writing this much was quite a moment and I don't want to take away from it. I did combine my story with the rest of hills and make a complete screenplay out of it but that was another direction all together, more of the Hemingway sparseness.

I keep the half finished bottle of whiskey (Yuck by the way) in my living room as a silly reminder of Poe and the reason why I love literature.