Cliches

George was alone in the stable when Curley's wife appeared in the doorway. Their eyes locked...

It was the calm before the storm. George knew the law of the land demanded he take the high road, but he was simply stuck between a rock and a hard place. If he tried anything he would be kicked to the curb, yet he had for yearned for some one to care for him. He smiled up at her. Her eyes gleamed with hope as she stared into his soul. It was no use, "You had me at hello" whispered George. Curley's wife laughed, "You don't even know my name". She shifted her body slightly, this girl was turning out to be more stubborn than a mule. George sighed, then walked slowly towards one of the horses.  Both of them were extremely lonely. George had tirelessly been caring for his friend Lennie.  Poor Lennie, his pilot light aint lit and he couldn't think his way out of a paper bag. It went without saying that caring for Lennie meant George was in for the long haul. Then there was Curley's wife, the poor soul had married a tart for a husband. If she had it her way she'd have left the guy at the alter. She grinned at George, "why if I could leave Curley it'd be the best day of my life". George chuckled to himself as Curley's wife continued to speak. " I'd marry Curley again when the cow actually jumps over the moon. Or, when its summer time in Texas and they're playing in the snow!" Curley's wife laughed merrily as she continued her rant " When a donkey wins the derby, and politicians stop lying and only state the facts! That's when, I'd take him back." By now Curley's wife was dancing to an imaginary song in her head,  which sounded suspiciously like a futuristic Brad Paisley song. George walked away from the horses, took her hand and spun her around. They were dancing on the clouds.  Suddenly a noise like death echoed through the bunk house and George sprang out of his bed. His head was pounding as he located the source of the noise; Curley was yelling at one of the men again. George sighed with relief and slight disappointment, for it had all been a dream.

Assignment #2

Broghan
6890

Harvery St.
Kelowna, B.C.
V2A 4G8

April, 13, 2011

Jim Smith
Mayor
Smalltown, British Columbia

Dear Sir,

Thank you for confiding in me with this dreadful matter, I am aware of the effect it must have on you. However, as Marquis de Sade once said, “All universal moral principles are idle fancies”. I regret to say that despite the misgivings one cannot inform the community of Mr. Grass’s illicit and sinister past.

Such information would rip the community to pieces; and leave it’s’ people in a violent state of shock. They had trusted Mr. Grass as their mayor, to hear such news would be devastating. Mistrust would spread among your community like wild fire, harming the prosperity of its inhabitants. Those of whom had received aid from Mr. Grass would presumably think of it as blood money and would refuse to use it; therefore refusing themselves access to their basic needs. It’s possible that workers at Mr. Grass’s prosperous plant would feel ethically wrong working for such a man. If they were to hear of his treachery it’s possible that they would feel the need to quiet. Mr. Grass’s secret could harm the town’s economy.

I understand that this evidence is absolute. That being said, WWII was a time where one was given the choice to follow orders or die. It is possible that Mr. Grass was threatened on a daily basis and if he were killed another would simply take his position. Perhaps Mr. Grass had done all that was possible to save the prisoners, suppose he had been secretly trying to save one life per 100. I would suggest one to talk to Mr. Grass; the deaths of men are undeniable and inexcusable, yet it is always beneficial to be aware of all sides in a statistical number. What if you were in such a situation, would you be a coward and chose death because it was the easier thing? Or would you try to stay alive and save the few from a worse commander and fate.

One must also consider the survivors of the hells of Hitler’s regime. For each who wishes to know the face beyond Grass’s rank, there are perhaps three who prefer to not raise ghosts of the past. Imagine if you had lived through such an ordeal and had managed to find yourself again, 50 years later could you deal with such a reminder? I am concerned for those who had been determined live again. Strength is hard to gain and quickly lost.

Whilst I commend your determination for justice, I implore you to think of your community. Mr. Grass’s past must stay hidden.

Sincerely,

Broghan

Assignment #1

The Yellow Bus Blues

Broghan Erland

There is a seemingly never-ending list of what Grad’s hate; the frustration of riding the bus is the epitome of this list for me.  I moan and groan each time I have to trudge mindlessly and obediently up the steps so akin to the grey of a penitentiary building. I’ve been enduring the insanity of the school bus for six years. Back in the day, the bus was split into 3 sections: The Youngin’s, The Seniors and The Unfortunates’. The Unfortunates’ who had been late arriving to the bus and were left to bear being squashed like sardines between the two. For years, The Youngin’s sat in the front; shyly giggling, jumping seats and passing notes. That was me six years ago. I was scared into silence by the Grads in the back; there were always five seniors that had to have been imported football players. Thusly we kept to the front, and they ruled the back of the bus. Six years later, as I enter my grad year I again find myself sitting quietly in my seat. I no longer giggle but since I don’t resemble a running back, I resort to glaring at The Youngin’s surrounding me. I have the misfortune of being the only Grad who takes my bus. I’m uncertain as to how this tragedy befell me. I loathingly wonder if that little yellow bus some how coerced my fellow students in my residential area to move, or if I was simply doomed by fate. Personally, I blame the bus. My daily routine imposes one hour of this torture, elastic bands fire through the air and backpacks are swung like war hammers as the Youngin’s move down the aisle. I fidget with my phone counting the minutes until the ride is over. There aren’t many billboards in Penticton but I’ve easily read them all. One could suppose I merely drive myself to school. Today’s Grads take borrowing a car from their parents for granted; rarely do I get that privilege. I long for those mornings that I fly past my foes waiting at the side of the street as I make my way to school by car. Graduating year means one thing in terms of my transportation; it’s my last year of having the yellow bus blues!