"The Truth of Black": Re-write of Robinson Crusoe

Hi everyone. Hope you are geting on well with all the study. Here is the re-write I did for New Literature paper. (It's run by Paul and Esther and its great!!) Please feel free to take a look. Comments are more than welcome!!

AUT University

BA English Studies

New Literature 167102

Assignment Two: Short Fiction,
(Re-write of the novel Robinson Crusoe)

“The Truth of Black”

PART ONE



“What is life? Why do we live?
Where do we come from?
Are some people gifted with
Missions by our father and
some not?”

I struggled to think of what to write next. I closed my diary and put it down on the nicely polished table with the pen. I was sitting in my sofa with a tea cup on my hand. As I had a sip of the tea, I looked out the window and saw my Uncle’s car stopping just outside my house. I sighed.
“Uncle John again…”
I heard the bell rang and heard one of our maids running towards the front door to welcome this familiar visitor. The door flung open and I heard his usual loud voice.
“Robinson!! Is Robinson around!?”
I saw Robinson walking towards the front door, passing the door of living room where I sat.
“John! Come in! I got to tell you about this idea for my next novel!”, Robinson said, excitedly.
Within a seconds, I saw Robinson walking past me again with Uncle John following him. I listened to them entering my husband’s office, closing the door after him.
“Oh, hello, Uncle John. How are you? Oh, did you know that I lived here?’, I whispered bitterly, face smiling pathetically. It seems like he doesn’t notice my existence anymore. He is too busy chatting to Robinson about the next novel. The door of the office is kept closed at all time during my uncle’s visit. All I hear about these days is the success of my husband’s venture to this silly island and his first novel, Robinson Crusoe. It all started when he returned to England from the island with a black slave and full of righteous stories.”
“Oh, this arranged marriage was a mistake.”, I whispered.
All I have gained is the wealth, fame and the continuous visits of my uncle. He helped Robinson to publish his first novel who talks about nothing else but the venture.
And all the women!! Why do they all envy me? Do they think I am such a lucky woman who is his wife? What makes it so special to be
a wife of a writer who never love me?”, I signed. I thought of my children. I have threes precious children who love me and keep me busy. Without them, what would I be like? I will be nobody. Still, I must mention that I just have had enough of receiving stupid fan letters and seeing my husband come home late every night. All the women must be keeping him busy. What can this thirty-two year old wife do? Not much really, apart from ignoring my husband’s love affairs by focusing on the teaching at Kingston College.
I sipped the tea again and gazed out the window where I spotted nothing but the bright blue sky.

“Is there any purpose of my life and if so, where does it lead me to?”, questions stirring in my head. I imagined myself as a little blue bird, flying off this place into the empty sky. I often call this place the prison with a look of luxury hotel. The clock went. It was 12 p.m. I had to go to school to finish off marking my students assignments. I stood up and shook my head, trying to switch my mind from day dreaming to reality. I took my spring coat and a hat that I bought just the other day as walked out the front door to the bright day light.

The sunshine was particularly strong after the storm that we had last night. I could smell the wet soil and saw the trees glittering in joy with the rain we had last night. When I go outside in a day like this, I realise how dark my house is inside.
“Prison”, I mumbled as I cruised towards my school. School is just around the corner but I must go passed this old bookshop, the old bridge called Manhill Bridge and a bakery. I go there at least three times a week to get their freshly baked date’s scone. It was when I was passing the bridge, I spotted this crude oil painting of my husband with a necklace around his neck. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was the one I gave him the Christmas before he left to his venture. I was sure that he didn’t mention about it in his first novel. I stared down at this black African painter who was lying on the ground, covered with the newspapers. I could tell he was an African man because he had no shoes and I saw his black feet pocking out of newspapers. I wondered how long he has been living here, trying to sell his art works day after day. I looked at other paintings of him, wondering how he got to know about the necklace. Then, I spotted another canvas which was painted only with a blue paint. It could’ve been a boring painting of the sky or the sea, I don’t know. Another canvas I saw at the back was of a red large bird that I have never seen before. Maybe it’s from Africa. I looked at the man’s face, totally confused. Who on earth would purchase these oil paintings? After staring down at him and his art works for a few minutes, he suddenly moved and sat up, trying to block the bright sun light from his face. He caught my eyes and stared at me for a few seconds, then quickly reached to his bag and got out what it looked like a sketch book. He sat up straight and started to draw. I could tell that he was drawing me because he was staring at me and his book back and forth.
“How did you know about his necklace?”, I asked. But he did not reply.
He stopped drawing, then smiled at me and continued to draw again.
“Poor thing. He must be a bit mental”, I thought.
“I haven’t got any money for you”, I told the man. But he still remained silence.
“I can’t stay here for long, you know. I have to go to work”. I received no reply. I signed. I gave him a penny and left the bridge.
That night, I wrote about this mysterious man in my diary. I didn’t know his name so I called him Mr Manhill, after the name of the bridge. I wondered how he got to know about Robinson’s necklace.
“I must ask his name tomorrow”, I told myself. I closed the diary and turned the bedside light off.

*

Next morning, I saw Mr Manhill lying on the same spot as I saw yesterday. When I was walking passed him, he spotted me, then got up and waved at me, asking to come closer.
“What a strange man”, I told myself.
But he seemed to be harmless to me. I walked towards him. I noticed he was holding up his sketch book. I went closer to see his drawing. There was a picture of a woman in the dress I was wearing yesterday. It must have been me. I wasn’t smiling but looked very beautiful. This made me smile.
“Thank you. I really like it. How much is the drawing?” But again, I had no reply. Instead, he turned over the page and started to draw again, looking back and forth between me and the sketch book. How he drew was quite different to how I do. I usually want the model to stay still while drawing but he used gestures and told me to walk around while he sketched me. So I did. I walked around the bridge, looking at his art works. There were around thirty-three of them and all of them looked like if they were painted by children. He seemed to have no education in art what so ever.
“But that’s what I like about paintings.” I mumbled.
“I love my job”, I told myself.
I get to see students’ paintings everyday. All of them are unique and excellent in different ways. Thomas likes to paint objects like fruits or people exactly as he sees. Kate and Michael are different. They like to draw without models and express their thoughts and feelings on their canvases. With art, no such ways of painting are right or wrong and everyone has their own way of putting life into their canvases.
After a few minutes, I saw him waving at me, smiling like my students wanting to show off his work. I smiled back and went to see his drawing. The drawing had me looking at one of his canvases, smiling. His drawing is quite simple but he got the basics right. He got my face structure well drawn, same as my hands. I looked at him who was now smiling at me.
“Thank you, again. Nice drawing. My name is Catherine by the way. Catherine Crusoe. I forgot to ask your name yesterday.” I put my hand out to shake his hand. For a moment, he stopped, completely. Looking completely astonished. It is after all, strange for a white woman to introduce her self to a black man. Then he grabbed my hand and shook tightly. For the first time, he spoke.
“Friday”.
I was taken back with this word. I looked at him, very suspicious.
“He probably heard about the novel and pretending to be Friday as a joke”, I told myself. I laughed and shook my head, denying to believe it.
The man looked more confused. “Friday”, he repeated.
I remembered about the paint of Robinson’s necklace. And the red bird. Is that from the island too?
“It all makes sense”, I mumbled as I looked at his face closer, still suspicious.
“Are you really? I mean, are you Friday from my husband’s novel? But my husband taught you English. Didn’t he? Have you forgotten how to speak English?”
He didn’t say anything. He seemed not to understand what I was saying. He still had a look of puzzle and confusion.
After a few attempts of trying to get Friday to speak English, I realised that he only knew how to say his name. The name Robinson gave him. But why? Then I clicked and looked at Friday’s face in horror.
“Did my husband lie about educating you in Christianity and teaching you English? Did he use you to become famous? Did he treat you like a slave and not a friend?”
I slowly sat down on the ground, completely shocked about what my husband has done. For a while, I couldn’t bare look at or talk to Friday as I was so disgusted with the truth and embarrassed of being a white person.
“How selfish… How dear him do such a thing…” I mumbled, my voice was now shaking in anger. I felt Friday’s hand on my shoulder. He was trying to calm me down. I took his hand and stood up. His hand was as rough as rocks, covered in dust and dirt. I noticed a few holes in his shirt. Same with his trousers. He had no shoes and how feet looked pretty dirty too. Suddenly, I felt my responsibility for Friday, not only because the heartless man happened to be my husband, but as a white person. While Robinson made his fame and wealth, Friday got nothing. He was used and now chucked away. I felt my eyes turning hot and felt the tears run down my cheeks. It tasted really salty, just like a sea water. I had to stay strong.
“You need a good wash”, I told Friday, as I wiped off my face.
“Come. I will get you cleaned up and you need to eat something too”. I smiled and gestured him to pack his bag. He hesitated a little but nodded in the end. Within three minutes, we left the bridge and headed to my school. I wasn’t sure where I was going to get him cleaned. We walked narrow streets where not many people walked pass. Many people were staring at us. No white woman walks with a black man. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was not to be seem by people from the publishing company or worse, caught by my husband or uncle.

*

We managed to arrive at the school safely. When we got to the art classroom, I got the key out of my bag and opened the door. I gestured Friday to go inside. So he did. The classroom looked exactly the same as how I left it yesterday. I could still smell the paint. I grabbed his arm and took him to the basin where I found a cloth and the sink. I poured some cold water and hot water into a bucket and gestured him to take his cloth off and clean himself with the cloth. He nodded and I closed the door behind as I left the basin. I walked across the room and sat down on my desk, looking down at students’ assignments. I signed and whispered, “Thank god we weren’t caught. What do I do now? What does he need?”.

I stood up and left the classroom to go to the closest dairy where I picked up some sandwiches and pies. When I came back, Friday was fully dressed and was now walking around the classroom, looking at my students’ art works hanging on the wall. Students’ desks looked smaller beside Friday’s big body. His body are cleaned and he looked so much like ahuman being. He was smiling and it explained everything, I thought. Even he didn’t say a word, I could tell that he was grateful of what I have done for him. I gave him two sandwiches which he didn’t take very long to finish it. When he finished them, he looked even happier than ever. I slowly sat down on my desk, thinking what I’m going to do with him.
“I brought him here to keep him safe but for how long?”, I told myself.
I stared at this poor man who is now pointing at drawings on the wall, whispering something. I was the only art teacher at this school and I knew that this classroom is used only on Monday, Tuesday and Friday. So Friday has to hide during the day from Monday to Friday but he can come out from the basin during the night and weekends. But he must always be quiet. Otherwise someone will find him.
“It could be tomorrow that one of my students discover a black man hiding in the basin or if not, the day after. I must keep him hidden here some how. Forever, if necessary. I got no where else to hide this poor thing. But he can’t just hide there and do nothing. He is a human. He needs some activities.”
I jumped up the chair suddenly, excited with an idea. I quickly went into a small room where I kept all the materials for my classes. I came out with a large fabric. I neatly spread it in the corner of the classroom.
“Look, Friday, here is your place to do your paintings, now on!”, I told Friday.
Friday looked confused, staring down at this little piece of fabric. I grabbed his bag and put it on the fabric. I then went to get the easel and a brand new canvas and placed on the fabric. I opened his bag and got out his paints and brushes. He seemed to understand what was happening by then. I could see his eyes wide open, staring down at his new work place, totally astonished. He then turned around and held my hands with his hands, very tightly. He didn’t say anything because he couldn’t speak English. All he did was smile in tears and kept nodding.

I reached to my bag and got out a handkerchief and gave it to him. He wiped his face and stared at my face again, with a great respect.
“You really deserve better but all I can do for you is this”, I told him softly. Then I looked out the window into the sky. I signed and whispered in my heart.

“I wonder how long he will be able to live here before anyone finds out”.

My previous essay on analysing weblogs

Hey Guys. This is one of my previous essays on weblogs. I hope it helps.

Rhetorical analysis of Weblogs

When weblogs firstly appeared online between 1994 and 1998, there were only handful users. They posted commentary, personal opinions and essays to maintain and share their personal and professional perspectives, concerns, beliefs and interests. According to Walker (2003) a weblog is frequently updated with dated posts organised in reverse chronological order. Most recent posts appear on the top. Weblogs were used for academic and professional purposes until a community of people started to publish their own blogs. The community started to create their own personal weblogs from 1999 when do-it-yourself blog tools were introduced (Clarke, 2006). While it took 38 years for radio and 13 years for television to attract 50 million listeners and viewers each, it only took 4 years to attract 50 million surfers (Gabay cited in Hammemyr, 2003). According to Rak (2005), this significant escalation of weblog users came from the increase of people who believed in their individual rights and freedom to express their opinions and views on events from around the world.

Today, weblogs can contain some unintelligent or false posts as they are not checked by editors, unlike newspaper articles where everything is filtered (Blood, 2000). This could possibly lead to readers not trusting the information provided in weblogs. If this happens, readers are more likely to go to other weblogs. To prevent or minimize this, weblog editors apply some rhetorical techniques to keep readers within the weblog as long as possible. This essay will introduce and critically discuss ethos, kairos, pathos and interactivity applied to a selected weblog. The chosen weblog is edited by a 37 year old male who is one of the supporters of US presidential candidate Ron Paul.

Ethos
According to Aristotle cited in Cockcroft and Cockcroft (2005, p.72), ethos refers to the ethical appeal created by speakers. By presenting a well planned oratory, it is possible to create the image of having knowledge and credibility on the given topic. Carroll (2004) suggests that the weblogs do not have the filtering system that traditional print media organisations do. As a result there is no one to make sure that all articles contain trustworthy information. However, authors can establish ethos by providing genuine, convincing, realistic, open, honest and useful information (Carroll, 2004).Therefore readers of weblogs create a grounded judgement about the credibility of authors by discovering their identity, motives, expertise and associations (Warnick, 2004). It is important for authors to present themselves as knowledgeable people in order to persuade readers that what is written is true (Warnick, 2004).

In the selected weblog, Ron Paul: 08 [Manny – CT], there are a several features which demonstrate ethos. Firstly, the editor provides his profile on where he lives, what he does and what he looks like. In his photo, he is wearing a nice suit and red tie with a smile. It may be possible to suggest that this was his way of establish the character that is friendly, honest and open which is appropriate for a person who applied for the presidential election in 2008. With the slogans “Ron Paul for president in 2008”, he immediately lets people know what exactly he wants to achieve this is his motive. Secondly, he provides detailed information on how Ron Paul came in 2nd on the voting dome by Fox Debate in the section of “Ron Paul comes in 2nd on Fox Debate”. He also provides a link to a recording of a live broadcast of the Debate encouraging people to watch the live show and inform the importance of him to Americans. Thirdly, he provides video clips of Ron Paul’s speech which use a lot of rhetorical features. It enables us to see his face, body language and hear his voice. These images and sound bytes present him as a serious, powerful, authority and a knowledgeable person. He provides a lot of statistical information on how the current president is wasting the nation’s money on troops and other nations. Ron Paul states the importance of national security and the welfare of American people before spending significant amount of money in other nations. Here, he mentions the importance of American citizens which who he is getting votes from.

Kairos
The application of kairos refers the authors’ ability to spot the right moments to apply rhetorical language in order to persuade audience successfully (Newall, 2005). Authors also need to be able to spot the right moments to apply rhetorical language in order to persuade audience successfully. Miller and Shepard (2004) also describe kairos as the understanding of timeliness. Authors who can implement kairos are people who can recognise the time to use polite behaviour that is correct, acceptable and appropriate in for the context of their weblog.

Miller and Shepard (2004) suggest that authors need to maintain their weblogs in a way so they are constantly updated with new, up-to-date, unique and interesting information. Authors also need to be able to spot any useful information or intelligent comments posted by readers to evaluate which lead to improvements in the quality of their weblogs.

Miller and Shepard (2004) also discuss how weblogs provide private information and makes a comparison to reality television programmes. During the 1992 presidential campaign, Bill Clinton endeared himself to the voting public. He portrayed himself as a fairly relaxed and fun person. This appealed to younger voters; he introduced them to his family and let them know about his private life. It is possible to argue that this helped to weaken the boundaries between private and public information. In the same year, MTV leased a television programme called The Real World. The programme was about seven young people moving into an apartment together. The every move of these people was followed and it was exciting for people to watch. This is believed to be the origin of the reality television programmes and the culture still remains strongly in programmes such as Celebrity Big Brother (Miller and Shepard, 2004). This increase of people’s interest in “other people’s business” has continued to spread throughout the weblogs as there are space and time to chat or gossip about celebrities. Today, people don’t just chat only about celebrities. They are now chatting about normal people, the individuals. This is seen in majority of weblogs and even magazines. People can now write letters to magazine editors and tell their personal experience or story to get published.

I must agree with Carroll (2004) who suggests that weblogs have advantage to be able to deliver any breaking news faster than news papers can do. As well as speed, weblogs can bring a big advantage by using cutting-edge technology such as the use of cross-links, audio and video clips to create quality global networking. Because Ron Paul: 08 [Manny – CT] is updated almost daily and provides up-to-date information, it has the image of being reliable, useful and up to date. It would also makes it more interesting and entertaining if he locates audio and video clips above the fold, this would help to catch the reader’s attention. Unfortunately, with this particular weblog, video clips can only be viewed by clicking “play” button on the main page or links attached with posted articles. The editor hasn’t posted any photo or video in the “view my” section which is supposed to be the main location for them. As this weblog is all about Ron Paul and American politics, it is possible to argue that he deliberately chose not to write about Ron Paul’s private life as it may make him appear less serious and reduce the effectiveness of ethos. However, I believe that if he posts photos of his family, the weblog might create the intimacy with readers by portraying Ron Paul as a normal person, a family man. Furthermore it may appeal to the reader’s desire to know about other people’s private life, similar to the reality TV phenomenon.

Pathos
Pathos refers to a speaker stirring the emotions of their audience and controlling their action or thoughts in the way the speaker wants them to behave or believe. This technique also reflects the human nature as it is totally natural for emotions to affect how we behave (Aristotle cited in Crockroft & Crockroft, 2005, p.77).

In the main page of the weblog, there are two video clips which apply pathos. They present rhythmical music with Paul’s speech. This raised the attention of mine as it was more like a fun game to watch rather than political speech which are often boring to listen to. Perhaps, this is a way to apply the 3-listing repetition method within the context of video clips as viewers can hear many powerful speeches that are patched up so one comes after another. The video clips also contain slogans from previous speeches. Examples could be “We need to understand that the more government spends, the more freedom is lost” and “…. Instead of simply debating spending levels, we ought to be debating whether the departments, agencies, and programmes funded by the budget should exist at all (Congressman, Ron Paul, March 25th 2004)”. It is may be possible to say that by displaying the facts or honest thoughts of Paul, readers are more likely to agree with his opinions and keep watching the video clip and hopefully persuades people to vote for him.

Furthermore, the editor takes an advantage of the fact Paul is against sending American troops to Iraq. To reinforce his stand the author has included these rhetorical questions also from earlier speeches, “How many innocent civilians in our nation and others, are we willing to see killed?” and “How many American civilians will we jeopardize?” It is possible to suggest that in the first slogan, Paul deliberately added other nation’s civilians to American civilians to show that he cares about both American and world peace. The use of “we” perhaps refers to the meaning of American citizens who vote for other politicians are responsible for the death of civilians. Interestingly, at the end of the video clip, he uses the 3-listings, the repetition of “He has never”, in slogans, “He has never voted to raise taxes”, “He has never voted for an unbalanced budget”, “He has never voted to raise congressional pay” and “He has never taken a government-paid junket”. Possibly, this list of facts also helps to prove that he stands by what he believes in. By establishing the trustworthy character, viewers are more likely to believe and agree with what he says.

Interactivity
As Warnick (2006) suggests, interactivity may refer to the interaction between the editor and readers through the weblog. There are three situations: the first case is the user-to-system interaction. Users can click on links or customise site features. Secondly, the user-to-document interaction refers to users posting comments on discussion boards. Third case is the user-to-user interaction where they communicate directly through online chat or sending/receiving instant messages (Warnick, 2006, 143). However, interactivity can also refer to an editor of a weblog using first person, active voice, first-name reference and direct address to readers. This is said to attract readers’ attention and increase “the sense of presence and immediacy” (Warnick, 2006, p.143). Inclusiveness is a very important feature of weblogs.

Furthermore, as weblogs are constantly changing, updating and linking to other texts, Warnick (2006) describes it as an organism rather than just a “work”. According to Kaplan cited in Warnick (2006, p.140), because weblog readers are constantly choosing where to go and what to read next, unlike a continuous document like an essay, readers often read texts in different orders. Warnick (2006) also suggests using short sentences, highlighting, bullet points and numbering lists to keep everything simple and tidy. It is also important to remember to express content in chunks and put the most important information above the fold. This is because when a reader enters a particular weblog, if he does not find any relevant information that he is looking for, then he is more likely to leave the site instead of scrolling down the page to see the hidden section. Warnick (2006) also suggests never to locate “outlinks” in the middle of a text as it provide readers a chance to jump between texts and they may not fully receive the message the author is trying to pass on.

There are many examples of Warnick’s theory found in Ron Paul’s weblog: numbered lists of links, highlighting and underlining of important topics in the 14 January post, and bullet points to summarise the article in the 19 June 2003 post. The editor also uses the quotation marks and exclamation marks to demonstrate the active voice. Examples could be seen in sentences such as “The United States has sent billions and billions of dollars overseas for decades to do fine-sounding things like “building democracy,” “fighting drugs,” and “ending poverty”, “add your comments, too!!!” and “keep them growing!!!”. Interestingly, the list of articles is located at the top of the main page where readers do not have to scroll down the page. As Warnick (2006) suggests, this will keep the readers in the site longer. Also, the short sentences and the use of “(view more)” will make the section tidier and smaller in order to fit above the fold. The editor does locate “outlinks” in the middle of some articles; however there aren’t that many of them and this should not really disrupting readers from getting the message. I believe that this is actually providing opportunities for readers to get extra information from somewhere else as politics involve great amount of data including statistics and long articles from other politicians.

In conclusion, technological improvements have resulted in the use of telephone, radio and television as communication tools has expanding into the creation and operation of many online tools including weblogs. This allows users to expand their social network much further. However as weblog users can be connected globally, it is almost impossible to judge the trustworthiness of the information provided. Focusing on the selected political weblog, this essay has identified and critically discussed the key rhetorical features including ethos, kairos pathos, and interactivity. They are used by the editor for the purpose of entertaining, persuading and maintaining interests of readers as well as keeping them inside the site as long as possible. Furthermore these features are used to create trust. As the majority of weblog users are not educated in term of persuading readers through the use of language and the organisational skill, it is common to see weblogs missing some of key features covered in this essay. Unfortunately, some of key features were missing in the selected weblog, Ron Paul: 08 [Manny – CT], however, this essay provided reasons why he should apply them, methods and expected outcomes.

Law (2007) suggests, nearly 75% of existing blogs are written in English, Japanese or Korean. This indicates the popularity of weblogs amongst countries that have achieved some degree of economical development. The languages countries that are currently developing such as India and China will probably join this group sometime soon. It will be interesting to see whether Indian and Chinese people will use these rhetorical features of weblogs in the same that English, Japanese and Korean speakers do.

References

Blood, R. (2000, September 7). weblogs: a history and perspective. Retrieved May 23, 2007, from
http://www.rebeccablood.net/essays/weblog_history.html

Carroll, B. (2004). Culture Clash: Journalism and the Cummunal Ethos of the Blogosphere. Retrieved May 23, 2007, from http://blog.lib.umn.edu/blogosphere/culture_clash_journalism_and_the_communal_ethos_of_the_blogosphere.html

Clarke, R. L. (2006). A blogging we will go: on HFMA blog? What is the world coming to? Healthcare Financial Management, 60(1), 160-161.

Crockcroft, R. & Crockcroft, S. (2005). Persuading people: an introduction to Rhetoric. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

Law, S. (2007). Market Watch Technology: The Participative Web: Social Networks And Beyond - Web 2.0 has arrived. Information Resources, Retrieved May 31, 2007, from (resource lost).

Miller, C. R., & Shepherd, D. (2004). Blogging as Social Action: A Genre Analysis of the Weblog. Retrieved May 24, 2007, from http://blog.lib.umn.edu/blogosphere/blogging_as_social_action_a_genre_analysis_of_the_weblog.html

Newall, P. (2005). Rhetoric. Retrieved March 13, 2006, from

http://www.galilean-library.org/int21.html

Ron Paul: 08 [Manny – CT], (2007). Weblog: Ron Paul: 08 [Manny – CT]. Retrieved 31 May, 2007, from
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=191363250&Mytoken=5BCFCFD5-CAC4-490F-AE7EDF62333AA16B83280719

Tobias, V. (2005). Blog this! An introduction to blogs, blogging, and the feminist blogosphere. Feminist Collections: A Quarterly of Women's Studies Resources, 26(2-3), 11-15.

Walker, J. (2003, June 28). final version of weblogdefinition. Retrieved May 24, 2007, from http://huminf.uib.no/~jill/archives/blog_theorising/final_version_of_weblog_definition.html

Warnick, B. (2004). Online Ethos: Source Credibility in an “Authorless” Environment. Retrieved May 24, 2007, from
http://autonline.aut.ac.nz/webapps/portal/frameset.jsp?tab=courses&url=/bin/common/course.pl?course_id=11743

Warnick, B. (2006). Rhetoric on the Web. Retrieved May 24, 2007, from http://autonline.aut.ac.nz/webapps/portal/frameset.jsp?tab=courses&url=/bin/common/course.pl?course_id=11743

Milky: Final like fanfic

Hey guys. I changed the beginning and the end of the first draft. It's quite bit different.

Pls let me know what you think.

Sora, an ordinary thirteen year old boy, lived in a big city called Koriko. One day, he was standing in the middle of his bedroom, staring at his book shelves where his favourite story books are neatly arranged. His took a book of the shelves and sat down. The front cover had a picture of Auntie Kiki flying on a broom saving Tombo’s life. Both of them are smiling in the picture but Sora’s mum has told him that it was really difficult as her magical power was weak at that time. He closed his eyes and held the book very tight in his chest. It has been thirteen years since the day Auntie Kiki saved the life of a young boy called Tombo who fell off an air ship. Sora had grown up listening to his mum telling the story about her.

He gazed at the picture and sighed…..
“I wish I could fly like her. It’d be so cool….”
But it didn’t matter how many times he read the story or dreamed about flying, it didn’t mean that he could fly.
Sora heard his mother yelling.
“Kiki. Are you ready to go to Okusama’s place?”
“In a minute, Osono!”, said Kiki from her bedroom upstairs.
“Sora? Sora? Where are you?”, said Osono.
“Coming!!” said Sora in a grumpy face. He put away the book nicely on the shelves and turned to the door. He knew that he was about to be asked to look after Kaze and the bakery while his mother and auntie Kiki visited their friend’s house. They go every Thursday afternoon for what they call ‘ladies afternoon tea time’.
“Oh, don’t look so grumpy. We won’t be too long today. We are just dropping off some bread that Okusama has asked us to bring. She isn’t well you see.”
“I know”, said Sora, still looking grumpy.
“You look after Kaze and the shop while we are gone, please? If anything happens, you can always call your father. He is upstairs, sleeping.”
“hmm…Okay.”

Sora sat on the chair behind the counter and took a biscuit from the basket next to him. As he munched the biscuit, he looked out the window. He could see his mother and auntie Kiki walking away from the bakery. He watched them until they disappeared from the sight and then sighed. ‘I wish I could fly like auntie Kiki. She is so cool when she flies on her broom sti……’
Sora’s eyes caught auntie’s broom stick. It was leaning on the wall close to the door which leads to the kitchen. He could hear his heart pounding faster.
‘I wonder if I just…..play with it again.’
He looked around. “Well, no one's watching” he said to himself. He then quickly hopped off the chair and walked around the counter. When his hand nearly touched the broom stick, someone yelled.
“Sora! Don’t even think about it!”
Sora turned around and saw Kaze running towards him from the kitchen. She was wearing a yellow dress which has a large picture of sun flower in the front. But it was covered in paint. She must’ve been doing some painting in the lounge.
Sora gave Kaze an annoyed look and said “Think about what?”
“I know you were just trying to play with auntie Kiki’s broom. Mum always tells us not to play with it!”
“Shh. Be quiet. You might wake Dad up. eyIf you don’t tell mum, you can have a little go too. And I won’t tell her either.” He grinned at Kaze and continued.
“Who knows. You might be able to fly a bit like me.”
Sora lied. But this seemed to be the only way to persuade Kaze to let him play with the broom.
Kaze looked up at his face.
“You can’t fly!” said Kaze in angry voice.
“Yes I can. Well, only a bit though. Do you wanna see it?”
“Go on then. Let’s see it.”
Sora stepped over the broom stick. He has played with Kiki’s broom stick before. He has never actually flown only managing to lift a few inches off the floor before.
He breathed in and out, trying to stay calm. He stared at the tip of the broom stick, trying to concentrate. Then lightly, he kicked the floor. His body slowly went up in the air. After ten seconds, he landed back.
“Wow!! You really did it! You looked like a wizard!”, said Kaze in excitement.
“Do you think I could do that too?”
“Well, you gotta try”, said Sora as he stepped off the broom stick. He handed it over to Kaze.
Kaze hesitated and said “I’m scared. You remember the story about how auntie Kiki lost control of her old broom stick when she was trying to rescue Tombo, don’t you?”
“That was not a broom stick. Auntie said it was a push-broom that she borrowed from an old man. It wasn’t hers”, said Sora impatiently.
“But….”, said Kaze in frightened voice, tears coming out of her eyes. She looked up at Sora’s face, begging him to hop on the broom stick with her. Sora didn’t like the look on his sister’s face. She always gets her own way, he thought. If she was so scared, why doesn’t she just give up and watch me fly again? Bloody woman! Sora shook his head.
“All right, all right! Stop crying! But you have to hop on the back though coz I need to see where I’m going”.
Kaze nodded as she wiped tears from her eyes with her sleeves. Now her face was covered in paint.
“Are you ready?”
“…y…yes….”
Sora held the broom stick tight. He knew that he probably had to concentrate more to lift two people this time.
When he was just about to kick the floor, the front door of the bakery swung opened.
Osono and Kiki were standing outside the door, looking at two in shocked and terrified face.
“What are you two……!!!!”, said Osono. Sora could tell the anger rising in her mother’s face.
He could only think of doing one thing.
“Hold me tight, Kaze!” said Sora, kicking the floor as hard as he can. The broom lifted about one metre high. He bent his body forward so he could fly fast towards the door which was wide open.
They flew out of the bakery to the blue sky. The broom carried them higher and higher.
Sora could hear his mother screaming, “Nooooo!! Sora!! Kaze!! Get back here!!!”
Sora looked down and he saw his mother’s and Kiki’s face getting smaller and smaller. Then he looked away to the blue sky above him.
“Where are we going?”, shouted Kaze who was now gripping Sora’s shirts firmly, trying not to fall off the broom stick.
Sora looked at her and grinned.
“To Hogwarts!!”
He clutched the broom stick tightly and quickly disappeared from the sight of his mother and Kiki.

Milky: final like fanfic

I changed the beginning and the end of the fanfic. Pls let me know what you think of it.



Sora, an ordinal thirteen year old boy, lived in a big city called Koriko. One day, he was standing in the middle of his bedroom, staring at his book shelves where his favourite story books are neatly arranged. His took a book of the shelves and sat down. The front cover had a picture of Auntie Kiki flying on a broom saving Tombo’s life. Both of them are smiling in the picture but Sora’s mum has told him that it was really difficult as her magical power was weak at that time. He closed his eyes and held the book very tight in his chest. It has been thirteen years since the day Auntie Kiki saved the life of a young boy called Tombo who fell off an air ship. Sora had grown up listening to his mum telling the story about her.





He gazed at the picture and sighed…..
“I wish I could fly like her. It’d be so cool….”
But it didn’t matter how many times he read the story or dreamed about flying, it didn’t mean that he could fly.
Sora heard his mother yelling.
“Kiki. Are you ready to go to Okusama’s place?”
“In a minute, Osono!”, said Kiki from her bedroom upstairs.
“Sora? Sora? Where are you?”, said Osono.
“Coming!!” said Sora in a grumpy face. He put away the book nicely on the shelves and turned to the door. He knew that he was about to be asked to look after Kaze and the bakery while his mother and auntie Kiki visited their friend’s house. They go every Thursday afternoon for what they call ‘ladies afternoon tea time’.

“Oh, don’t look so grumpy. We won’t be too long today. We are just dropping off some bread that Okusama has asked us to bring. She isn’t well you see.”
“I know”, said Sora, still looking grumpy.
“You look after Kaze and the shop while we are gone, please? If anything happens, you can always call your father. He is upstairs, sleeping.”
“hmm…Okay.”


Sora sat on the chair behind the counter and took a biscuit from the basket next to him. As he munched the biscuit, he looked out the window. He could see his mother and auntie Kiki walking away from the bakery. He watched them until they disappeared from the sight and then sighed.
‘I wish I could fly like auntie Kiki. She is so cool when she flies on her broom sti……’
Sora’s eyes caught auntie’s broom stick. It was leaning on the wall close to the door which leads to the kitchen. He could hear his heart pounding faster.
‘I wonder if I just…..play with it again.’
He looked around. “No one seems to be watching” he said to himself. He then quickly hopped off the chair and walked around the counter. When his hand nearly touched the broom stick, someone yelled.
“Sora! Don’t even think about it!”
Sora turned around and saw Kaze running towards him from the kitchen. She was wearing a yellow dress which has a large picture of sun flower in the front. But it was covered in paint. She must’ve been doing some painting in the lounge.
Sora gave Kaze an annoyed look and said “Think about what?”
“I know you were just trying to play with auntie Kiki’s broom. Mum always tells us not to play with it!”
“Shh. Be quiet. You might wake Dad up. eyIf you don’t tell mum, you can have a little go too. And I won’t tell her either.” He grinned at Kaze and continued.
“Who knows. You might be able to fly a bit like me.”
Sora lied. But this seemed to be the only way to persuade Kaze to let him play with the broom.
Kaze looked up at his face.
“You can’t fly!” said Kaze in angry voice.
“Yes I can. Well, only a bit though. Do you wanna see it?”
“Go on then. Let’s see it.”
Sora stepped over the broom stick. He has played with Kiki’s broom stick before. He has never actually flown only managing to lift a few inches off the floor before.
He breathed in and out, trying to stay calm. He stared at the tip of the broom stick, trying to concentrate. Then lightly, he kicked the floor. His body slowly went up in the air. After ten seconds, he landed back.
“Wow!! You really did it! You looked like a wizard!”, said Kaze in excitement.
“Do you think I could do that too?”
“Well, you gotta try”, said Sora as he stepped off the broom stick. He handed it over to Kaze.
Kaze hesitated and said “I’m scared. You remember the story about how auntie Kiki lost control of her old broom stick when she was trying to rescue Tombo, don’t you?”
“That was not a broom stick. Auntie said it was a push-broom that she borrowed from an old man. It wasn’t hers”, said Sora impatiently.
“But….”, said Kaze in frightened voice, tears coming out of her eyes. She looked up at Sora’s face, begging him to hop on the broom stick with her. Sora didn’t like the look on his sister’s face. She always gets her own way, he thought. If she was so scared, why doesn’t she just give up and watch me fly again? Bloody woman! Sora shook his head.
“All right, all right! Stop crying! But you have to hop on the back though coz I need to see where I’m going”.
Kaze nodded as she wiped tears from her eyes with her sleeves. Now her face was covered in paint.
“Are you ready?”
“…y…yes….”
Sora held the broom stick tight. He knew that he probably had to concentrate more to lift two people this time.
When he was just about to kick the floor, the front door of the bakery swung opened.
Osono and Kiki were standing outside the door, looking at two in shocked and terrified face.
“What are you two……!!!!”, said Osono. Sora could tell the anger rising in her mother’s face.
He could only think of doing one thing.
“Hold me tight, Kaze!” said Sora, kicking the floor as hard as he can. The broom lifted about one metre high. He bent his body forward so he could fly fast towards the door which was wide open.
They flew out of the bakery to the blue sky. The broom carried them higher and higher.
Sora could hear his mother screaming, “Nooooo!! Sora!! Kaze!! Get back here!!!”
Sora looked down and he saw his mother’s and Kiki’s face getting smaller and smaller. Then he looked away to the blue sky above him.
“Where are we going?”, shouted Kaze who was now gripping Sora’s shirts firmly, trying not to fall off the broom stick.
Sora looked at her and grinned.
“To Hogwarts!!”
He clutched the broom stick tightly and quickly disappeared from the sight of his mother and Kiki.

If you're reading this

Ok i guess it's my turn then, this is my draft (sort of) as i am not completely satisfied.

However i hope you guys like it, and that it's not confusing to you.

It is a Harry Potter fan fic, based on the song 'If you're reading this' by Tim McGraw, i can post the lyrics if anyone wants to see them? (let me know)

Also if you have read the books or don't care about spoilers, i found this video on youtube which i thought fit really well with the story:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B8TJ3ZbLQQE

Other than that, enjoy!

Ida xxx

(click on my name and you'll get to my fanfiction.net profile)

If you’re reading this

The curled-up letter was lying at his feet; he hesitated for a moment before picking it up again, uncurling it as he got back up to his feet. It was wrinkled and the writing had started to smudge off slightly, the paper having been curled and uncurled countless times, the beautiful handwriting still stared up at him, urging him to read the words.He ran his fingers through his black, greasy hair, his hollow dark eyes taking in every feature of the paper in his hand, as if it could change the writing or make it go away. He closed his eyes and imagined the words being written, her hand dancing over the paper, her green eyes fixed whilst in deep concentration.

Dear Severus,

If you’re reading this,
I’m already home.

He swallowed. The letter was dated about ten years earlier, but he had only recently come across it. He had not been meant to find it earlier. Even though somehow he wished he had.

If you’re reading this, there is going to come a day

You move on and find someone else and that’s okay

Just remember this

I’m in a better place

Soldiers live in peace and angels sing amazing grace.

He recalled the evening The Dark Lord had set out to kill the boy. Severus had begged for him to spare the mother, the woman he cared for more than anything else in the world, the woman he loved. That was the last time he had seen The Dark Lord, but he had never dared to believe that he was gone completely, knowing that if he were to return, Severus’ own position would be a lot safer if he remained where he was. He had been a coward, seeking refugee with Dumbledore within the walls of Hogwarts, and for the last ten years he had been struggling to cope with his own selfishness. He could have tried harder, he could have saved her, and now she was gone and that arrogant husband of hers were gone. He did not concern himself too much with James, but her, even after all these years, it hurt to think about her. Not a single day went by that he did not miss her or think about her.

Finding this letter, dated the evening of her death, intensified his long-suppressed feelings and threatened to bring them bubbling to the surface. He had always been portrayed as cold, heartless and sarcastic, but that was the only way he knew to prevent anyone from finding out, and by now he had grown sp thoroughly into his role, he no longer had to act. If only they had known that underneath that rock-hard icy surface of his was a heart, a heart being refused to love by his own stubbornness. His eyes returned again to the letter curled up in his fingers. He must have been rolling it unconsciously.

never ever stopped caring for you Severus, Even though I never told you so often enough.

I know as you read these word now That you never told anyone about what we shared.

(as you know I am an expert when it comes to hexes and I have made sure you will not be able to read it until I need you to)

I do not deny that we had something beautiful; It means so much more than I ever could put into words.

I know it was hard for you to accept that my heart now lies with someone else.

I love James, but you should know that one piece of my heart will always be yours

His dark eyes were now blank as tears welled up. For first time in ten years he let his emotions get the better of him. He had indeed thought about that last time, knowing there was no one to share it with, the last time she had touched him and smiled at him, the very last time he had spent minutes staring into those deep green eyes, drowning in their compassion. Every time he imagined those eyes, he fell in love with her again. All the feelings he had back then returned, when he closed his eyes he was not Snape the Potions Master, head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts. He was just Severus, just himself.

I write this letter because this is the year my little Harry will be taking his first steps through the gates of Hogwarts and he will be a full member of the wizarding community.

You reading this, means I will not be there to send him off, but you will be there

To see him arrive

Harry. He had seen her son only once, the night she had died. He had gone to warn her, but he had frozen outside, staring through the window of the happy family. The baby racing around the living room on a small broom, his laughter filling every inch of the room as his parents watched him speed up, almost knocking his father off his feet. Was this little cub a threat to the great Dark Lord? How could someone who was part of her be the last obstacle on his Master’s road to eternal glory?

I should never have hidden it from you in the first place, It might be too late already but it is your right to know

An anger was building up inside him just thinking that the boy would walk through the gates only hours from now. He would be breathing the air that should have been hers, seeing things that she would never see and being alive when she had so brutally been denied the right to continue living. He was bound to look like her in some way; would Severus have to walk around for the next seven years being constantly reminded of his own cowardice? Glancing down at the now tear-stained parchment, palms touching his cheeks to find them wet, the mere thought of James Potter’s son awoke a long sleeping loathing inside him, but the knowledge that he was also her son, mixed warmth into spite. He folded the letter and pocketed it as he hurried off to wash his face, running his fingers through the black hair yet again and wrapping his cloak tighter around his body.

He found himself scanning the Great Hall as the students piled inside and found their tables. Any moment now the boy would walk through that door and walk into his life. The door sprung open and the first-years flowed in behind Professor McGonagall in a straight line, looking around nervously. It was easy to pick him out from the crowd. Even without the scar, Severus would have known him. Those green eyes were just like his mother and the black hair partly concealing the lightening-shaped scar made him look a lot like his father too. He knew then that he would have to spend next seven years being reminded of her and of that one night they had shared just over eleven years ago.

He reminds me of you Severus.

He is strong and determined, like his dad; like you.

I could never tell James the truth, he would not understand.

I know it must be hard, but I hope in time you will grow to love Harry,

Care for him and look after him.

I will always love you my dear

He was alone once again with the letter he had read over and over again for the past couple of hours. He did not know if he ever would be able to accept Harry, but he would always be a part of him and of her; the result of the love that no one could ever know about.

If you’re reading this,I’m already gone.

Yours truly,

Lily Xxx

Dumb Fairy

Title: Dumb Fairy

Author: Aldous Niu

Summary: This fairy story is basing on the Movie “Pan’s Labyrinth”, the story and life about the Ofelia’s little brother, it’s the continuous story of the movie. Guys, to be honest, it's my first time to write the fairy, comments please, don't be shy, haha^_^

Rating: Teen

Genre: Fairy

“If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended,That you did but slumber’d here while these visions did appear.And this weak and idle theme is no more yielding then a dream.”
--------William Shakespeare

“Little brother, can you hear me? Please grow up fast, mother and I have a hard and frustrating time in this gloomy, freezing and old house, in this bloody and cruel world. I’m going to tell you a fairy story…” When Ofelia faces to the pregnant mother’s stomach, the tears' coming out full of her beautiful and innocent face, just like some small elf playing the water ball, sad, sorrow,emotional can be described her feeling . Her little brother is sleeping peacefully inside it, she extremely feels so lonely and sadness but nobody understands her. She hate the captain, the cruel devil which can be seen the killing master during the civil war. She will never know that her little brother in her mother’s stomach can hear and understand everything she’s talking about because he is a very special boy who was born with the strong powerful magic.

Some days later, when Captain Vidal was killed by the civilian members, he said in a peaceful and pride accent.

“Tell my son the time his father died. Tell him…”

-“No, he won’t even know your name.” Answered Mercedes full of the anger.

After Ofelia died, her little brother was brought up by the civilian members. He is such a quite good looking boy, talent but quite and lonely. He goes up into the mountain to be alone and to think, and also the civilian members let him because he is such a silent boy. In his mind, he doesn’t know that where is he come from, who are his parents. He only knows that he got an aunt called Mercedes and all the civilian members can be seen the big family for him. They are gentle and care everything about him in his life. However, there is one thing he still remember in his unclear memory, he got the dream every night, it is so strange that the dream in each night is totally the same, he dreams that he was living in a kind of place which full of the water, he seems like a sweet sleepy baby peacefully lying in there, he can see a girl outside the place and sounds like a angel to tell him the beautiful fairy story and sings the nice song for him every night. He believes that one day the Angel will come to him again. From time to time, he starts to smile yes but it’s a dark, quiet smile that looks like he’s mocking himself when he smiles. He is forced to smile because he wants the big family be happy even though the shadow still hide in his heart. He likes to sing though, the song which the Angle sang for him in his dream, he sings the song when he’s alone and thinks Mercedes isn’t listening. He dances sometimes with shadows that only he sees. Pedro has taken to call him the spoilt dandy, because he primps and is such a gentle child.

He’s eight now, and such a serious boy. Not given at all to fancy. Mercedes had thought early on to tell him the stories from his sister’s books because she had loved him so and died to protect him. But the boy had fixed her with those grim eyes he takes from the dead and looked away. Mercedes shivered a little when he stared at her like that, remembering, and put the books away.

On Sundays, he sneaks away from their home and goes town to watch Franco's Army as they pass. He’ll sit in Plaza watching the horses and cars pass and stare into the ocean of baby blue uniforms, searching. Pedro asked him once, in frustration, why he loved the show so much and explained to him why they should be hated. The boy had listened quietly, nodding in obedience and said nothing.

As an infant, he favoured his mother but as he grows Mercedes sees the better parts of him shake off like autumn leaves. He’ll look like his father. He looks like him now: with those piercing eyes, strong jaw, hair as black as ink. The seriousness in his face, gravity in his voice when he chooses to speak; all of them scare her even though she doesn’t show it. She just waits.
He’s wonderful of course. Loving in his own way and dedicated to the family, even to the Cause. He ran errands for the guerillas several times, stole from Nationalist shipments and even guarded a captured soldier once, all because Pedro told him too. He never questioned them, or seemed afraid.

He’s such an obedient child. He never asks about his family. He knows he’s named after a doctor friend of theirs that died before he was born. Mercedes told him about his sister, and his mother. He suddenly finds that the Angle in his dream is his sister. He listened and nodded but never pressed for retellings or details. It is totally different that he never feel emotional and sad maybe angry about the story which Mercedes told him. He is completely dumb in his mind. And even though she knows he wants to, he never asked about his father. Early on, they had told him he was Pedro’s son, from a love affair long ago. He had told them simply that it was a lie and never spoke of it again.

He wonders but does not ask. Instead he sits in the mountains, on that perch overlooking the old ruins of the Mill that long since burnt down and was abandoned, and stares at the Labyrinth’s mouth.

Speaking to shadows that no one sees but he.

And Mercedes waits, knowing. It’s only a matter of time.

She can feel it ticking away, there is a really bad feeling that something evil things will be come to this boy… One day, the day full of the cloud and wind, the leaves from the trees follow the wind and dancing in the air, like praying something. He is peacefully walking out of the house, the dumb emotion on his smiling face, he knows that it’s the time for him to find the Angle, to find his sister Ofelia, to come to the fairy world where got no sadness, no crying , no darkness, no war, no cold…However, he will never knows that there is no fairy world in the true life, he must face the truth, he can’t live in his magical mind anymore. When he slightly jumped into the mountain gap, he is kind of feeling like flying, so natural, no hurting anymore,he knows he’s flying to a new world, a world always in his mind as it used to be…

The Queen's Reflections

A white rabbit emerged in the clearing. Six year old Harry tumbled through the scrub, making a not so strategic pounce for the stressed creature, now scampering towards the undergrowth of an old tree. Arthur awkwardly, pursued the predator and his prey, persistent to participate in his brother’s game. Their younger sister who had, from the moment she could put one foot in front of the other, had trailed after her two siblings away from the watchful eye of her mother. She now too had reached the tree the rabbit had retreated to but her brothers were no longer there; confused and realising she was alone, young Alice began to cry. Not far off a tea party in play came to a stand still as the alert was heard by the children’s parents.

It had been many years since the rabbit hunt incident. Alice had been too young to remember what had really happened and had become accustomed to her parents ‘scarlet fever’ stories. She was now 10 years of age and had become a very reserved child whilst still maintaining the adventurous and curious spirit that had once led her to follow her brothers.

It was a brisk spring morning in the Liddell’s garden, Alice had decided to take Dinah her new kitten for a walk and to gather some daffodils for the breakfast table in hopes that the gesture would encourage distraction from the fact that she was meant to be preparing for her performance at this afternoons Garden party. She detested the butterflies that had inhabited her stomach and could not remember a single verse of the readings she was to recite. She went over the words as she dreamed her way through the meadow “How doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail...” “That’s not how it goes...oh Dinah, Dinah what ever am I going to do?” She was interrupted by a sudden rush of wind past her leg with a queer noise erupting from the tall grass beneath her “I’m late! I’m late!” She was a little startled first by what she saw next a pure white rabbit stood on its hind legs above the greenery and produced a pocket watch from a pocket attached to a discreet white waistcoat. “Curious, Dinah did you see that?” As Alice watched the peculiar sight unfold she noticed the creature had dropped what seemed to be a pair of white gloves and a white fan “Oh sir, Mr. Rabbit sir, wait! You dropped these!” “Sir, indeed Alice my dear this is a rabbit you’re talking too” she noted to herself. “It would be very unfortunate though to lose such things as ones fan and gloves, I must indeed return them immediately after all he is late, and he must need them where he is rushing to.” So without thought or logic Alice began immediately to pursue the white rabbit in hopes of returning to him his lost belongings.

The rabbit was heading through the Forest at the end of the garden now at such a speed that Alice barely noticed how far she had delved into the forest herself. She observed the rabbit as it slowed down it’s pace and leapt through the undergrowth of a strangely, familiar, old tree. “I’ve been here before... curiouser and curiouser...” She ventured closer to the tree but her footing was stolen as the undergrowth parted and Alice was swallowed into an enormous, dark rabbit hole. The terrified Alice was relieved to find the gravity in the hole was a little kinder than the one she was immune to, instead of plummeting to her demise she began to float like a feather in the wind. As she descended the hole it began to grow lighter and she could now see a warm glow and a possible end to her fall. Alice found her legs and began to follow the tunnel, forgetting her previous pursuits, she was now intrigued at where she was. The tunnel soon widened and opened into a great cavernous room made entirely out of marble. But it was not the many doors surrounding the walls of the room that fascinated Alice, in fact she didn’t even notice them until second glance, she was entranced by a remarkable mirror that seemed to hover in the middle of the room. No ordinary mirror of course, for as she examined it closely she was amazed to be staring her two lost siblings in the face, overwhelmed, Alice ran forth to embrace them but as she neared the mirror she saw herself already inside the mirror. Her Brothers did not motion to her neither did the other Alice, they seemed to be in another place inside the mirror, the strangest thing though was the fact that the Alice on the other side, mirrored her exact movements but her brothers reflections remained unaware of her presence. Distressed Alice began to cry, why could she not reach out to them or be with them in the mirror world? How were they even there? Her mother had always told them their brothers had died of scarlet fever. She began to call to them but their images became distorted and soon the reflections changed into the image of a beautiful rose garden. The garden became animated and the vines from the roses scaled Alice’s torso persuading her towards the mirror. She did not though attempt in any way to rebel, instead she gave in to the puppetry of her limbs, closed her eyes and was embraced by the mirror.

To her dismay the mirror world was not as beautiful as the reflection in the mirror had shown. In front of Alice towered a much larger version of the Liddell forest, somehow different, darker than the one she was familiar with. Most unusual was the shrill laughter to be heard within the boundaries of the trees. Alice immediately ventured forth in hopes of finding someone who could help her. But she was not alone close behind Alice was the white rabbit. Long had he been luring children of the human world to wonderland but he was particularly amused by this particular girl. She would not become one of Wonderlands citizens like the rest; no she was not young enough; she was just old enough though for something much greater.

No sooner had Alice taken two strides into the forest had she been ambushed by a Hatter and A Harea and what appeared to be a magnificent looking tea party. The likeness of the two characters to her brothers was extraordinary. The Hatter was tall with a boyish grin, and was wearing a top hat which was obviously a size to big for him. Whilst the Hare though much like a regular hare had a human body with just a hint of innocence in his large brown eyes. Alice was taken aback what had become of her siblings; just moments ago she had seen them clear as day in the rabbit hole. Her thoughts were put aside as the two character s approached.

“Smashing my dear, simply marvellous you must join us,” The Hatter ushered Alice to a seat.

“Indeed my dear fellow, but what is it?” remarked the Hare
“I am Alice” She retorted
“An Alice? I’m afraid we know not of this Alice business, tea anyone?”
“Tea? Do you not recognize me? Harry? Arthur?”
“Harold, I knew a Harold once, know how did he go again?”

"Moove Dowwn!”

The sudden exclamation from the Hatter made Alice jump out of her chair and follow suit.
As she rearranged herself in her new place setting she realised it was useless trying to get any answers out of these two, they were as mad as Alice felt.