The Lottery: Free choice, self knowledge and Guilt
FINDING YOURSELF THROUGH THE PAIN Based on the Novel: The Lottery By: Beth Goobie Student: Monique Roopanram Teacher: Ms. Kirshenblat Course: ENG1D5-04 Date: Friday, June 8, 2007 There are many instances in our lives which prompt us to ask ourselves the questions: "Who am I?", "What am I doing here?", "Does anyone know I exist?", "Does anybody care about me?", "Why am I doing this?", and "What was I thinking?". Life is full of opportunities to achieve excellence or failure. Some of us choose excellence, some choose failure, and some are not given a choice. In the novel The Lottery, Sal Hanson is chosen as the year's lottery winner at her school Saskatoon Collegiate (S.C.). This role enables the Shadow Council to take advantage of her by making her do their "dirty work". Not only is the role of the lottery winner demeaning, but it also takes Sal on a journey where she learns free choice, self-knowledge, and guilt. Having free choice is essential for individuals in order to define what kind of person they are, and who they aspire to be. After Sal Hanson is chosen as the lottery winner, the luxury of free choice is taken from her. The Shadow Council has control over Sal's choices that, now, consist of following Shadow Council's orders to a tee or suffering the consequence of receiving demerits. "She felt the leash around her throat, tightening like the silence
Morning of the execution. Within a few hours, her brother would be executed for something he hadnt even done. The injustice of it all! Her eyes prickled and fire burned inside her.
The Moring of the Execution Iris stared in silence at the glowing galaxy of stars she'd got her father to stick on her ceiling when she was a child. One, two, three. The little one was her youngest brother, Dennis. The big one was her. And the meduim-sized one was... She squirmed uncomfortably in her bumpy bed, sick with sorrow. Everything reminded her of him. Everything. Although her father had stopped all the clocks apart from his watch the previous night, the clock inside her head reminded her of what little time her brother Derek had left. Tick tock, tick tock. Within a few hours, her brother would be executed for something he hadn't even done. The injustice of it all! Her eyes prickled and fire burned inside her. The flames leapt higher and higher, louder and louder until she couldn't hear herself think. As quick as a wink, it was gone. A cool breeze swept over her and cooled her down. What was the point in getting angry? Nothing could be done about it. Not one thing. The darkness whispered the horrible feelings she hated to admit: defeat, disappointment and discouragement. Iris turned over in her bed. She hoped that sleep would welcome her into its arms. No such luck. In her head, she saw various images. Images of her nine-year-old brother Derek sitting in a lonely cell, trapped inside his nineteen-year-old body. Images of his scared, petrified
Original Writing, Tonight
Tonight we're not seeking applause. Tonight we're not grabbing fame. Tonight we're not here to entertain you. Tonight we're not something old; yet, tonight we're not something new. Tonight we're not selling out. Tonight you will change. Tonight, we are the entertainers. The advert is quite enticing you know. They seem like they might be worth a visit, it was only down the high street, although I've never heard of the venue it mentions ("The acid"), and where it's situated seems a little obscure. A lot London venues hide fantastic new talents, however, magical mushrooms among the plethora of thorns and pricks that come out of most London bars and bands. The leaflet was bursting with colours, perhaps signifying something about the music? Perhaps it was to make the band seem new and edgy? And that description, well, it set my imagination on fire when I read it. So eloquently worded, such suspense dripped off of those letters. Of course, it could just be sentimental bullshit. I suppose, given that I'm an agent finding 'young bands bursting with original new talent' (as is inscribed on my own advertisement) is my job. You know? I'm feeling pretty lonely, bored and tired at the moment, I think I'll go. I need a drink and I assume there will be some there, besides I feel like trying something new anyway, let's hope it'll be a new experience. I roughly fold the paper into half,
Creative Writing - Gratuitous Vengeance
Gratuitous Vengeance "Son, hurry up, you're going to be late for school." "Yeh whatever dad, it's nothing new." "But it's your first day!" Yes - it was my first day at school and no - I wasn't nervous, I wasn't scared, and I wasn't worried, I was ready. What's the big deal anyway? Constantly, consistently moving house and schools, you kind of adapt to it, like an animal adapting to its conditions, you know? Here we were. Shattering, scratched, small windows; crumbling, decaying, aged bricks; inexpensive, inert sheds and lots of helpless, dim morons to use for my liking. Dominating this school will be as easy as A.B.C. It wasn't exactly the best looking school but no matter, I'd be gone within a week... Okay, by my second glance, this school had some pretty mischievous competition. My main worry was Derrick Hopkins; Derrick is the guy to go to when you want to know something or need permission for something else. He controls everything in this school. I guess that'll have to change... I went up to him. "Derrick, I'm Bradley Crewe, new here, I heard about a party going on this weekend, I was wondering if I can come along? We can get acquainted." "It's not that easy kid. So no, you can't just 'come along'. Get out of here you weasel faced low life." "Weasel faced? Low life? Who do you think you are?" "I'm Derrick, but nobody cares who you are." He walked up to me and
You have been stranded on a desert island. Describe your first 24 hours alone on the island.
Hannah Greenslade Y10 Coursework Assignment 2 5/11/01 Option 3 Task; You have been stranded on a desert island. Describe your first 24 hours alone on the island. The first thing that hit me was the smell. Even before I opened my eyes, I knew where I was. The tantalizing scent of washed-up waves and bananas all rolled into one. I felt the millions of grains of sand, hot against my fingers and the cool breeze against my face, - a relief from the sweltering sun. I heard the sea crawling onto the sand and, further away, the same monster dashing against the rocks. As I opened my mouth to take in a gulp of air, I tasted salt in my throat. Not the same taste as on Brighton Pier, when you look over into the sea, but a fresh, clean one, as if taking in pure oxygen. Only then, when my four other senses had taken in their share of my surroundings, did I allow myself to open my eyes. I was amazed at how easily fantasy and reality intertwined at that moment. It was like continuing a dream after waking up. As I lifted my eyelids, as the barrier between my imagination and actuality was removed, the accuracy of my prediction astounded me. As I sat up and looked around, I realized that I must have been asleep for a long time, as my sopping wet clothes were completely dry. I could just see the island on which I had been staying, a strip of land on the contrasting horizon. The rubber
Supermarket Description - Sleek, automatic, glass doors slid smoothly open, only to divulge a cacophony of noise.
Sleek, automatic, glass doors slid smoothly open, only to divulge a cacophony of noise. Children wailed. Tills beeped. Sound system boomed. Floor polishers whirred. In comparison, the rumbling cars and chattering birds of the outside world were nothing. Accompanying the noise flamboyant red signs stood tall and proud, enticing innocent shoppers towards them with sweet words and tempting promises. Aisles braced themselves against the pulsating throng of vibrant colours. Customers pushed and shoved as they tried to squeeze past one another trying to gain access to the many bargains. The sun's scorching golden rays outside would have been sorely tempting to many if not for the cool breeze of the air conditioner oozing through the gaps between each customer. CRASH! Each trolley collision resonated like a thousand crashing cymbals. Shelf stackers dissolved into the chaos. A boa constrictor's victim, trapped in the reptile's stomach, would have had more room to breathe than here; it truly was as busy as a hive full of bees rushing to make honeycombs for their queen. All the while, the bakery and rotisserie battled it out with each other to grab customers; they reached out in smoky tendrils of alluring aromas. Freshly baked bread, hot and crisp, mesmerised countless... but who could resist the delectable taste of honey roast chicken, tender and succulent? Elsewhere, employees
Coursework Assignment: Creative Writing
Fallen Reflection And there he was, a boy of five in the middle of the forest clearing. He ran daintily, in his grass-stained rags, barefoot and without a care. He was careful not to trample over any of the flowers, and smiled to himself as he passed and saw his reflection in the small, clear pool of water. In his dirtied hands, he held a twig which he threw up into the air every ten steps or so, his auburn hair ruffled by the silent breeze. He stopped abruptly next to the pool of water, and his smile slowly slipped away as the water clouded and ripples formed, although nothing had touched the surface. He kneeled down next to the pool of water, and his face became emotionless, as if he no longer knew what he was doing as he stared into the pool's depths. He saw her, and his hand swept through the air and closed on a flower. Its petals were delicate, white and radiant with light. It had not yet blossomed to full magnitude but was graceful and beautiful beyond comprehension. He pulled on the stem gently, easing it in one smooth action out of the dirt and into the air, breathing in its scent. * * * * * The young girl screamed. Screams that filled the silent night air, screams of anguish and relief. And then, she was no more. She lies inside a coffin made of wood, atop a hill. Her gravestone bears no words. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she holds a book, beneath
In the text "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time" the author Mark Haddon is able to gain our sympathy for and our understanding of Christopher because we learn to see things from his perspective. Discuss.
In the text "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time" the author Mark Haddon is able to gain our sympathy for and our understanding of Christopher because we learn to see things from his perspective. Discuss. Mark Haddon's touching novel, "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time," is a brilliant journey into a world that few people can even contemplate. What must it be like to have a literal mind that can process only certain types of arcane information but is powerless to handle the everyday social interactions that we all take for granted? By writing this book from Christopher's point of view, Haddon creates deep compassion for Christopher and enables the reader to feel this boy's confusion, anger, and heartbreak as his life begins to unravel. Haddon not only lifts the curtain on the world of a boy with Aspersers, but he also explores the strain that having such a child places on his parents. Christopher's mother left. Although there is no doubt Christopher's mother shows tenderness and devotion towards him, as is expressed in her desire to communicate with him though letters and her need to connect with him on a physical and an emotionally deeper level "Let me hold your hand" (p194) she still chose to leave Christopher. Christopher's mother chose to leave for several reasons, the most prominent of which was Christopher's condition. Christopher has
A slave's diary.
A slave's Diary Day 1 The worst possible has happened I have had my home stricken from me by a white skinned demon and am now delimited to a water bound hell. Each lapping wave from the tempestuous sea that carries us to our unknown destination takes a small part of my resolve in its wake. I am fettered to a long pole and my movements are restricted by a chain which runs through the various binds of my neighbours. Once the white men took one of our number out of this place, although I think that it is not out of any form of kindness as he came back pained the smell of burning flesh following close behind. I sit here next to members of the mugimbi tribe and as such there is not much for conversation; the chafing of my binds burns me just as many a question burns my mind. What is this place? Why are we here? Is this hell? Am I dead? I hope that the answers will come to me before long because I sense that I will not be leaving this place soon. Day 12 I am still locked in this place. It has become difficult to distinguish night from day, to distinguish the smell of decay emitting from the first of our number to pass away, mostly children, and the smell of our own excrement. But it is not the smell that bothers me it is the cacophony of children's screams and women's cries, this is inhuman! These white men must come from hell. It has become unbearable. If I do not leave this
(Descriptive Writing) Describe the sights and sounds of a market place
(Descriptive Writing) Describe the sights and sounds of a market place It was past 5:30pm and was almost getting dark. We had run down like hooligans which made us breath so heavily after we arrived. All the stalls were open now, lit with their lanterns, lamps and hanging bulbs that attracted a lot of mosquitoes and other flying insects. There were lots of pigeons on top of the opposite building and you could hear the constant cawing of the crows. We stood at the edge of the left hand side road as people passed by. The noises were very loud; people talking in all sorts of languages, the daily noise of traffic, constant horns of cars and buses. Both of us were a bit dazed with what we were actually sent down for and got back to work as it hit us. First we walked by a women in an old yellow sari who was sitting on her plain mat on which she had laid out all her vegetables. She shooed the flies every now and then which sat on her vegetables. We glared at the list in my hand that read "4 good tomatoes and potatoes". We hardly searched for the good ones the women was already set to it and asked us how many. Her hands were dark and wrinkly as you could see the faintly visible tattoo on her arm which kept reappearing as she picked out the best potatoes and tomatoes. She handed us the blue plastic bag in which she had just put the vegetables in. She smiled and you could see her
