“Man oh man,” I exhaled. It was half-past twelve, according to my cellular device. The bright LCD screen of the computer illuminated my eyes of little sleep from a full night of anime. Bowls upon bowls, derived of noodles, cover the entire surface area of my desk. The bowls only left the lingering sent of the various flavors of broth. The one that stood out the most was the kimchi flavored broth. Tasting the smell, it had the flavor of a pickle soaked in brine, with a hint of sweetness from the napa cabbage, and a small kick of heat from the various spices kimchi is fermented in. Feeling the strange urge to play some video games, I decided to load up my JRPG. Before while booting up however, I felt like someone or something was watching me. Uneasiness was slowly creeping upon my entire body, as if this feeling was being forced upon me. Cold, almost freezing was the only way I could describe it. My body was utterly motionless, as if the blood though out my entire body had just, froze. A single bead of sweat running down the nose kept my eyes fixated. Plop, the sound ringed though my ears like toll bells as the sweat landed on my Nintendo DS. For how slowly the uneasiness came, it dispersed spontaneously, like the sweat had triggered something. For when I looked down upon my game, there was an item that wasn’t there before. “Key to hell,” I read out loud.
Totally dumbfoundedness was the only thing that came to my mind; I had to know more. Putting the uneasiness behind me; I pressed on. The playable character was your typical ranger class from any fantasy series, think of Legolas from Lord of the Rings. His face was narrow and rectangular, with a jawline that could chisel granite. The eyes were deep and sunken in with spring-time pi...
... middle of paper ...
...rst on each branch. Eventually the demons stopped to camp. On closer inspection the demons were not, in fact, in the game. Their skin pigment the color of rose petals. They wore no armor revealing inhuman scarring. The scarring was not fully healed still raw and dark-scarlet in the center of the scar. Horns extended from the sides of their head like a bull. Their eyes had no pupils; they were completely black as the night sky. Before I could see anything else, one of them had spotted my chink in the armor.
When I finally came to my senses, I realized the man was speaking Japanese. With that in mind, I tried to get a much better look. To my utmost bewilderment, the man in front of my corneas was none other than Hayao Miyazaki. It was my first time seeing him in person. Even at old age, he had no signs of wrinkles of any sort. He had your typical grandfatherly face,
The main character of this book is the Ranger’s Apprentice Will. Will is a determined,
...t agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demonical corpse which I had so miserably given life.”
Perfection cannot be achieved. In Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World we experience what it is like to live in a utopia. In the beginning Huxley explains how people are made in a futuristic utopia and we meet the main character, Bernard Marx. Throughout the story we learn that Bernard does not fit in and is threatened to be exiled, but is saved when he brings a savage from Malpais, an unutopian city from the past. The people of London, where Bernard lives, are intrigued by how different the Savage is. The Savage is baffled by all the technology in the brave new world. The use of soma, the conditioning, and daily life in Brave New World’s utopian society are examples of a technological influence.
* * * * * * * * I woke up after a particularly bad session with the torturers. If I was lucky, I’d fall asleep from the pain. I vaguely remembered something to do with hot irons, scalpels, electric shocks, blades, pliers, and lots of blood. At that point, I was literally scared everywhere. Big, red, infected scars.
Medieval religious art was made primarily to send a message to the laypeople and therefor artists and patrons had a keen idea of the audience they were reaching with each piece. Interior art was meant to educate captive audiences who were already in a religious setting; primarily this exposure would only take place during the mass on Sundays. Exterior art is able to educate and send a message to anyone passing by the cathedral and no longer had a limited exposure time.
Imagine yourself camping in the Pine Barrens. You hear a noise and then see a strange creature lurking in the shadows. Could it be the Jersey Devil? The Legend of the Jersey Devil began in 1735, it was supposedly the thirteenth child of Mrs. Leeds. When she found out she was pregnant with her thirteenth child, she cursed it and said it better be a devil. When it was born, the midwife died of shock and the Devil ate its twelve sibilants, sparing its mother and flew out the chimney (Juliano 1). Another version of the story is that Mrs. Leeds cursed the child after giving birth to it, she then locked it in the attic for years. It then transformed into the beast it is today and escaped into the woods (Russell 1). The Jersey Devil is only a myth to some and a horrific reality to others. Thousands of people have seen the Devil and been harassed by it throughout the years. There are many similarities in these sightings. Many of the witnesses say it has a long neck, a tail, wings, and hooves. There has also been vicious attacks on animals. Several accounts have reported mutilated pets and livestock. The legend of the Jersey Devil may be true because of the sightings, descriptions, and attacks.
The child’s game had ended. After I nearly ran Kurtz over, we stood facing each other. He was unsteady on his feet, swaying like the trees that surrounded us. What stood before me was a ghost. Each layer of him had been carved away by the jungle, until nothing remained. Despite this, his strength still exceeded that of my own. With the tribal fires burning so close, one shout from him would unleash his natives on me. But in that same realization, I felt my own strength kindle inside me. I could just as easily muffle his command and overtake him. The scene flashed past my eyes as though I was remembering not imagining. The stick that lay two feet from me was beating down on the ghost, as my bloodied hand strangled his cries. My mind abruptly reeled backwards as I realized what unspeakable dark thoughts I had let in. Kurtz seemed to understand where my mind had wandered; it was as though the jungle’s wind has whispered my internal struggles to him. His face twisted into a smile. He seemed to gloat and enjoy standing by to watch my soul begin to destroy itself.
Left alone, I laid on the freezing cold metal table. I could not feel anything. I slowly got off the table. Through a puddle, I saw my hideous reflection. Black lips and yellow skin, I saw the monster I was. I ran my fingers down my jagged, rough skin. Horrified of my own self, Iran out of the shack, and all the townsfolk screamed. They threw rocks at me as I tried to get away. They screamed," Get the guns," and I was frightened.
Hands reached out to snatch an appealing, ripe orange out of the ceramic bowl on the counter. I watched, alarmed, as I unwillingly stared as my brethren were deftly peeled. It seemed the pain wouldn't be plausible until I myself felt it, experienced the unfamiliar, less-than-pleasant sensation, nor did the thing show any signs of putting an end to its assault. I heard the cries and screams of my kind, begging for mercy from the being as they were peeled and thrown into a dark crevice on the thing’s face. I had a sense of terrible trepidation as I was picked up. The nails of the strange creature dug into my skin, peeling off the layer and pulling me apart. The pain could only be described as excruciating. That was it. Excruciating. I attempted to cry out to no avail.
creature stood before me, gnarling teeth, sharp enough to slice cleanly through my flesh. Skin, a sickish green, mounted with boils and sores, rough and jagged all over. Claws, double the size of the contorted figure, curled by it's side. The creature hunched over, as it were waiting to pounce any second, or maybe as if I was waiting for it to pounce. Now, I was more curious then frightful. My feet glued to the floor, my heart pounding heavily. I was to be a victim, slaughtered and eaten as the main course yet I still stood. The compelling need, to look the creature in the eye had taken over, and my chin lifted. Our eyes met, and my breath caught in my throat. My stomach churned, not at the sight of the horns that stretched from it's forehead,
I saw her walk over to the dressing table. I watched her appear in the circular glass of the mirror looking at me now at the end of a back and forth of mathematical light. I watched her keep on looking at me with her great hot-coal eyes: looking at me while she opened the little box covered with pink mother of pearl. I saw her powder her nose. When she finished, she closed the box, stood up again, and walked over to the lamp once more, saying: "I'm afraid that someone is dreaming about this room and revealing my secrets." And over the flame she held the same long and tremulous hand that she had been warming before sitting down at the mirror. And she said: "You don't feel the cold." And I said to her: "Sometimes." And she said to me: "You must feel it now." And then I understood why I couldn't have been alone in the seat. It was the cold that had been giving me the certainty of my solitude. "Now I feel it," I said. "And it's strange because the night is quiet. Maybe the sheet fell off." She didn't answer. Again she began to move toward the mirror and I turned again in the chair, keeping my back to her.
Hayao Miyazaki has been revolutionary in Japanese animation. A mangaka (an artist/writer/creator of manga, Japanese comics), an animator, and storyteller, Miyazaki has not only been very successful in his work, well known and loved by many, but has changed the world of anime with his unique style of drawing. Through passion and hard work, Miyazaki has become one of the most successful animators in all of Japan.
...” Miyazaki certainly does so. All of the work put into the film without a doubt exalts the it to be a true work of art.
With both hands resting lightly on the table to each side of his white foam cup, Otis stared into its deep abyss of emptiness with his head bowed as if willing it to fill again, giving him a reason to enjoy the shelter that the indoors provided. I could almost touch the conflict going on inside of him, a battle of wills as if he was negotiating with an imaginary devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. I sensed a cramp of discomfort seizing his insides, compelling him to flee, then a silent resolve, as if a moment of clarity had graced his consciousness.
I awake to lukewarm water dripping down my forehead from a damp towel. I feel a thick liquid against my back. I scan the area, Unfamiliar. I find myself lying in a cot in a filthy room. The sight room itself was depressing, not that it was in extremely bad conditions but it was all…brown, the kind of brown that makes you feel depressed. It reeked of fish and motor oil, one of the queerest combinations of scents I have encountered. My ears start to pick up the deep monotones of a man speaking in other room. In my drowsy state I couldn’t make out exactly what he said but I did manage to g...