religion

Sammy Suryaputra

Mrs. Lovett

AP Literature / Comp

3 March 2006

Religion: Savior, Destroyer

            Explosions of impossible hues, and streams and prisms of pigments streak the beautiful sky in a wondrous expression of unnatural dominion like an aurora of infinite magnitude.  Today will be a normal, average day where the temperature is of the normal expectations—ranging from sixty-three degrees to a possible high of seventy-two.  Of the two descriptions, which seems of more worth, of more significance to pursue crusades in order to defend it?  Perhaps though the first is illusory, the belief—the faith that such splendor is possible, how can such fuel not be contagious?  Just look at the universe—an unfeasible concept, but it does exist—does it not?   Fact and Fiction are opposites, but Reason and Faith—are they?  This message, this question is what Martel depicts through Life of Pi: in a world composing of Good and Evil—Creation and Destruction—polar opposites, perhaps such parallel forces are necessary for sustenance of reality, and to prove this theory—Martel explores the nature of Faith and Reason—the implausible and the plausible—Religion and the Factual. 

            Perhaps—religion is like science, an attempt, a guess of what reality, of what the future is really like, the only difference being in which it is not on the basis of concrete rules of the universe but the abstract morals of a good conscience—the fundamental essence of a benevolent God—an omnipresence which constructs the very fibers of existence.  “The feeling, a paradoxical mix of pulsing energy and profound peace, was intense and blissful” (Martel 78).

There are so many undiscovered entities in the world; they are only deemed non-existent because “we believe what we see” (Martel 371)—which is why the notion of atheism is possible.  Man uses rationale as his only guide to life, but what a consequence to what such a gamble holds if in all of man’s pride and his belief in supremacy that the idea of man having limiting senses is an absolute rather than only a laughable belief.  The result to such an error could lead to an identical aftermath—man transforming into Richard Parker, a mere, haughty animal: “all he was aware of was that something stressful and momentous had happened, something beyond the outer limits of his understanding.  He did not see that it was salvation barely missed” (Martel 298).  Just because mankind lack the senses, the equipment to observe religion in an obvious behavior, is it reasonable to exclude the possibility?  During the dark ages, the idea of fire, the wheel, and the planets were a mystical concept, but as mankind progresses, what originates from religion assimilates into science—what starts out as a theory turns into fact, and is that not what religion is—the theory that drives life—“the measure of madness that moves life in strange but saving ways” (Martel 108)?  And because of this strange relationship between Reason and Religion, Martel symbolizes Reason as Death and Religion as Life.  The reason Reason sticks so closely to Religion is not an attempt to prove religion wrong, it is a desperate attempt to welcome the beautiful, imaginary concepts of religion into its factual fold, to force it to undergo a brilliant and magnificent metamorphosis just like “the reason death sticks so closely to life isn’t biological necessity—it’s envy.  Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous possessive love that grabs at what it can” (Martel 7). 

If man derives the burning fire of life only from cold facts of reality, there would be no point to life—religion serves as a point in the time strands which assures of a future worth fighting for, worth living for. 

GRANTED

By, Sam Gabel

            Opening the front door forced her to remember.

            She had wanted him to fight back, but all the screaming and fury she had expected was lost to a deeper impact—the deadly, blank stupor that enveloped him.  Rage left his eyes like waves returning to the ocean, and silence overwhelmed his face, it was as if life had left his body, and she had succeeded in his total submission, which made her realize that this had not been what she wanted.  He curled himself in the dark corner of the dining room with dazed eyes staring tranfixedly at the luring shadows of the kitchen cabinet.  She did this to him.  She and her husband were responsible.

            Praying silently, she turned the knob, and hoped she would hear a sign of his presence.  She did not.  With precision, she entered the house, and acted accordingly—normal—with the intention that if she attempted to deceive herself that nothing had changed—he would be as kind to return the favor of disillusionment.  It was quiet.  Panic crept upward in her mind until she could restrain no longer.  All the years rushed with her as she ran up the stairs.  He wasn’t there; no one was there.  She knew he was somewhere out there—the only question was dead or alive?

            Perhaps she was truly wrong.  But whether God would give her a second chance to make amends she did not know.  She wanted to know what to feel—the superfluous sense of paranoia, the guilt of responsibility, or the remorse of a crime?  She felt anger.  Sweltering inside her was the image of her husband—he was to blame.  No.  Tears streamed out as she realized it was herself.  She was the center—the core of years of abuse, years of taking him for granted.  All those years hit her back twice fold as she comprehended the magnitude—the exaggerated, personal scope of the situation.

            Last night, she remembered his confession—his threat.  At the instance of abandonment, he would free himself—redeem himself from torment—by swallowing every pill he could find, and sleep in the woods never to wake again—with only the surrounding earth as tragic witnesses.  She never believed he was bold enough, but her subconscious coerced her to enter the woods in search of the consequence of her actions.  It seemed fruitless to look through the large expands of woods staring accusingly at her.  She wondered if it was possible to ask the police for help without a part of her breaking free to scream at them, “I killed him.  I killed him! Don’t you understand?”  It wasn’t.

            A tiny remnant of hope still remained though if only a diluted shred, it was enough.  Her decision was to go grocery shopping to calm her nerves in a cowardly retreat knowing her tranquility would be a necessary requirement to hide her confession from the public.

            She opened the trunk, and what she found was a limping boy with pale skin lying in a bed of empty pill bottles, with no outward appearance of what physically killed him – the medicine to save, or the lack of oxygen that served as a sure way to release him from his spiritual agony.  It was her son, simply that.

WORK IN PROGRESS

Sammy Suryaputra

Bruschetti

Sixth Period

18 January 2006

Cinderella McGee in Wonderland

Part I

Forced Reality

            The unbearable clattering of chains slithered around her like a sinister serpent bent on striking from within the dancing shadows.  She stood indomitably, her figure looming visceral and stubborn among the prisoners covered in deep, dark cloaks. 

            “What you seek is not here,” something hissed.

            Cinderella peered quickly at the edges of the room looking for the source of voice.  But she could not decipher the visions of the infinitely tormented room.  Blank eyes gazed at her.  Her hand withdrew her blade ready to parry an attack from a creature belonging in the far reaches of her sanity.  But none appeared.

            Only sudden shrieks of laughter did, which had the effect of piercing the dry, drab walls of the dungeon.  The prison’s interior started to crumble all around her like a sandcastle after a torrent of water poured over it.  She awoke.

*  *  *  *  *

            Reality pulsated within her like a crooked dagger slammed relentlessly into a sheath.  Her rude awakening was greeted by the constant, ominous beat of the gargantuan ceiling fan which guarded the room with restless silhouettes. Her hands shook, her head trembled, her mind wandered.  The turmoil wouldn’t stop; it was like chattering cockroaches running rampant within the penetrable confines of her skull.  She tried to breathe in—deeply; she tried to succeed—miserably. 

            She whispered something inaudible.  She screamed something desperately.  She resisted demonically.

            Everything stopped. 

            Cinderella steadied her fragile body upright in hopes of a mirroring reality.  Sweat streamed down her face and rolled into her mouth leaving the taste of a bitter, unpleasant flavor.  Wearied, her body laid itself inside the threshold of her bed.  Next to her, a body rested.

            She muttered, “Call me Cinder.  Just one more time,” placing her arms around the figure.

Wetness singed her fingers, and crimson rivers leaked uncontrollably.  The body was soft, fleshy, and pristine, which ignited a sweltering yet comforting anger within her. 

            The mannequin-like frame was charred beyond recognition, unrecognizable as a self-evident truth buried deep within bone and dirt.  But somehow, she sensed within the sweltered body remained a guilt of the same shared essence, intangibly remorseful and distorted, which lead to a newfound jadedness of her shocking and sudden terror.

            Her hand reached over to his other side and felt her emaciated fingers grip firmly on something hard, something erect that stuck out among the ruins of the previous man in a behavior that was strangely flaunting.  It was stuck to the body; her desire being the very opposite—wanting to pull out the betrayer brutally, mercilessly.    

            Scritch.  Scratch.

            Scritch.

            The cacophony skulked from above.  Her eyes slowly traveled upward from the doorway to the ceiling following the eerie noise that sounded like bones crunching in a pool of carnal hunger. 

            Scritch.

            She saw it—fingers with sharp, penetrating nails poking through the ceiling easily as if the ceiling was oil, causing a ripple effect to permeate throughout the walls of the room as if in fear of the twins’ nightmarish resonance.  Both fully appeared—possessing greasy, spiked dark hair on top of their desolate complexions that served as a headpiece of their thin, lethal, and naked frames.  It was a freakish incident just to glance at them.  Their gorgon-skinned ligaments flailed around in a manner of abnormal abhorrence. 

            “Death,” they screeched.

            “Death!”

            The decrepit duo crawled creepily around the walls of the room—their black orbs eyeing the perfect opportunity to pounce.

            “Death!”

            There were only a few seconds to spare.  With banshee might, Cinderella jerked the object out of the man’s gut and clutched it upward bragging in its full scarlet gleam and hysterical glory.  The creatures glanced at the dagger watching lifeblood cascading downward into the roaring ground.  They gave each other an aggravated look, and readied for retreat. 

            “Death!”

            But before melting back into the fold of the disquieting foundation of the house, one of the twins spat.  The corrosive substance landed beneath their victim’s eye, only an inch below from permanent blindness of a cursed vision.  Her skin melted and fumed to form an inner carving underneath her iris – am emblem of crying black lightning.  They shrieked in what seemed to be laughter and then disappeared from visible sight.

            With the exit of her intruders, Cinderella paid close attention to the raw power she clasped within her bony hands.  It was a dagger indeed, but to describe it as a destructive device in this dimension would highly understate its function; it was a potential world slayer—doomsday in its visceral, barbaric entirety.  She felt a bond to this discovered weapon, an unspeakable fate, an unknown consequence that beckoned for release from spiritual torment.

            The ruby liquid stained on the blade glistened like an impatient snare.  Her eyes reflected the beauty of the dagger, its sparkling darkness, its vengeful edge, its apocalyptic pride.  Cinderella knew her role, her relation to this magnificent destroyer, it was bringer of infinite death, and she would be its bride. 

“Till Death do us apart,” she muttered silently.

            She turned her head, peering at the corpse, and recognized of the crucible ahead waiting solely for her.  This dagger, this alpha and omega in her hands, would tear through limbs and flesh and bones never satisfied until resting within the core of the true murderer.  She understood, and smiled—a wicked grin.

            Noticing something odd, Cinderella glanced at something glowing and growing from within the door, a white, pale aura that radiated from the gigantic, ironclad door of the room.  She stepped back in shock of the presumed inanimate hindering back to an unexpected livelihood.  A face emerged, nothing vivid, everything vague, a visage cowardly hiding behind a radian and bright curtain.  It moaned an agonizing whisper of tantalizing proportions like as if it was pleading with her.

            Cinderella placed her fingers on the doorknob, which caused the being to scream a deep, howling pain.  The point of touch spread black wounds across it like cobwebs.  But the door remained like a mountain—immovable and daunting.

            “Let me through,” Cinderella stated with cold clarity.

            It responded in a conscious tone, full of fury, “Abandon this defiled sanctum you wretched child.  Can you not hear the hour of wrath is upon us?”

            Cinderella scoffed, one of amusement and disbelief.

            “I hear it; I am it.”

            She plunged the danger into the luminescent being’s orifice with the effect of lunging burning coal into icy waters: fogs of darkness bled upward from the being like a parallax bloodletting ritual, and rays of bright light shot forward followed by the being’s thunderous screams of pain.  With a tug of finality, a supernova of release occurred, and the door opened, an entry leading further into the inner enigmas of Pandora’s Box. 

            Cinderella entered, with dark blood oozing her trail.

Part II

Tortured Reality

Part III

Twisted Reality

Part IV

Altered Reality

Part V

Accepted Reality

the first story I ever tried to write to the best of my ability

Tica’s Ordeal

It was still a blur.  He could hear the uneasy coughing of the ventilation systems.  He did a quick stretch as he felt his back muscles crack.  Marco Tica groaned as he rubbed his temples.  “What happened,” he was wondering to himself.  Apparently, something had him on the head.. and hard too.. enough for him to black out.  He looked at his surroundings.  It was a mess.  Research papers were scattered all over the cold metal floor.  Marco groaned even more when he realized that this was going to take him weeks to clean up.  He then looked at the albinoid embryos in their perfect little tanks.  They looked innocent and undisturbed.  They were a magnificent creation.  He and his fellow colleagues had been slaving over for months creating the perfect killing machines.  Something was a bit odd about the embryo tanks though.  He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“OOHH SHIT!!” Marco yelled as he realized the problem.  He frantically dashed across to check the observation monitors.  The tanks were only 78% filled with the gas solution that is pumped into the thanks to make the albinoids slumber.  It was also decreasing at a rapid pace.  If those things wake up, he knew he was in some deep shit. 

            He began desperately searching for any communication device . . . anything . . that he could use to contact the outside world.  He knew his time was limited . .  He estimated he had about 10 minutes before his albinoid creations woke up. 

            Maybe this was his punishment . . this was the consequence for playing God.  He never would have thought this was going to be his profession . . let alone the way he was going to die. 

Suddenly, somebody’s voice came on.  “If anybody is down there, get out of there immediately.  An air raid from an unknown source occurred on the surface.  During the raid, the T-Virus somehow was spilled infecting most of the workers.  Be careful, hey you.. what are you doing? Oh shi--.”

A blinking light caught his eye.  He pressed a few buttons and spoke into the microphone . . not knowing that he could possibly be the only survivor of the attack.

            “ . . . please, if anyone can hear me—this is Doctor Mario Tica, in the second floor lab.  I’m locked in, and all the tanks have gone down, they’re waking up—please, you have to help me, I’m not infected, I’m in a suit, swear to God, you gotta get me out of here—,” and with that, the communication device died down.

            Could this truly be the end?  No, pull yourself together Mar; you’re going to make it out of here.  There’s no way you’re going to let yourself die down here.  Not like this . .  Not like one of them . . . Mario Tica thought to himself. 

  “You damn piece of shit!” Mario cursed at it.  A rustle startled the panicked survivor.  Mario cautiously turned only to catch the eye of one of his creations staring back at him.  Something inside him of made him quickly kick the emergency glass containing the axe and get a hold of it.  He had to make it to the next wing.  He owed it to himself, to at least have a chance to make it out of this hell—island.  With a violent swing, he broke only a small shard of the glass wall.  He realized he wasn’t going to get out of here alive.  He wasn’t ever going to enjoy the joys of life anymore.

            With all those emotions, he collapsed.  He sat there a good five minutes crying for himself.  Why on earth did he get involved in this operation?  Why! Why!  Realizing pity was going to get him no where, he decided to move on.  The minute he accepted death as an option, he would be dead.  That’s how he saw this whole ordeal.  He chose to live, not to die.  Maybe after this, he will retire at an island..no wait—not an island . . definitely inland.  He did not want to be reminded of this nightmare. 

            He looked through the glass and saw a girl come in.  She had an athletic build, almost 6 feet tall, brunette, had a red vest on.  She could help him.  With that thought in mind, he started pounding on the glass screaming, “Help me! Help me!”  The girl saw him and started looking around for something that she could open the door with.  Marco was sweating with fear.  Something then happened at that instant.  Everything was becoming black.  He knew what had happened, an albino must have escaped and electrocuted him.  How ironic . . that he had given birth to his death. . .

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what I'm capable of now

Symphony of Self

By,

Sam Gabel

            The pen in his hand had the power to break him or make him.  It frightened Kyan Mills of the control it held over him; he was unsure if he pursued it whether it would make him the equivalent of a gambler with the stakes being the highest it could ever be – his life.  He stared at the blank sheet before him and imagined the words willing themselves unto the page.  There was a brilliant novel inside him, there just had to be.  Or else, how could his life have been significant?  In his dying gasps, would he be able to recall a worthy contribution he made to mankind?  He wondered which would be worse:  the disappointment that the world would lack or – if he himself would lack it.

            That question alone drove him to write something – anything on the page.  What seemed to be legible, intelligent writing revealed it to be scribble scrabble – writing for the sake of writing.  Perhaps he wasn’t truly a writer; perhaps he just enjoyed the look of amusement people displayed when he told them of his occupation.  But now that he thought about it, that amusement – it was not one of awe; it was an amusement at his expense.  What a fool he had been.

            Kyan Mills – the world’s greatest author, what a joke – he could already hear the scoffs in his head.  The world wasn’t worthy of the masterpiece hidden in his mind.  They would mock it and desecrate it as they did with anything else sacred in the world.  No, perhaps he should not write this novel to share with everyone else.  It wasn’t by choice – he had no choice.  Look at what they would do to it – his creation; it would be like sending his own child to the lion’s den. 

            Instead, he knew what he would do; he would listen to the symphony playing next door.  He was incredibly lucky to rent an office that was next door to the auditorium that was home to one of the world’s most renowned orchestras.  Yes, lucky indeed, in fact, Lady Luck was a frequent visitor in his family.  Kyan remembered of the times, as a kid of how his father took Kyan to work with him, and the sense of admiration that he would feel when hearing the complex melodies the orchestra would perform.  His father dreamed of being the composer there, but never achieved his dream by his lifetime.  Kyan would be different – he would not follow in his father’s footsteps no matter the circumstances.  Kyan would succeed in his endeavors.

            This music hall would be his inspiration – his muse.  It gave him the motivation, the determination, and the drive that forced him to believe in himself – it was his fountain of youth.  No compromise would be allowed.  So what if the world disliked his work? – It was a risk every creator had to take – to bask in the glory of one’s greatness – or – sulk in blind misery.  Yes, he would write his novel.  Perhaps he would complete the manuscript in only a few years – no, months – no, weeks – maybe days!  What a record he would set for future generations – they would strive to emulate his superior writing style, but fail in the fact they would be missing the source of his talent, whatever it was – he knew he alone possessed it.  It was divinely decreed.

            Kyan brought down the pen fiercely unto the page.  His hands froze.  The scribble scrabble stared back at Kyan with more concentration than Kyan could counter.  The white space enveloping the page caused him to drown in a blank stupor.  Why couldn’t the ink of the pen react the same way his body was reacting to the page? – Why couldn’t it bleed on paper?  Was there nothing left in him to release? – No worthy philosophical statement?

            Wait, there was one thing – it was genius – it was controversial – instant bestseller material.  How could he have doubted himself?  He wrote as fast as he could beneath the initial scribble scrabble.  More and more, the writing won favor in his eyes – until uproars of clapping busted into his ears.  The sign of immense appreciation – it wasn’t for him – it was for the orchestra, it would never be for him, how could he compete?  It was futile to try.  Damn it, how could he have deluded himself for thinking of such a useless goal?  It was not meant to be.

            Kyan Mills prayed to God and begged for forgiveness for the potency of his disillusionment.  Fate is predetermined; it was not his destiny to become a famous novelist – it wasn’t within his power.  Man has no volition.  What was he thinking?  Kyan Mills stood up and breathed in a large gasp of air.  Reality was getting clearer and clearer.  He exited his office, and looked back at the sign on the door – he accepted his state – he had no choice – the sign stated crisply – Janitor’s Closet.

THE END