"A Good Man is Hard to Find" Reaction

Wow! This story starts off  with a hectic family trip, which was interrupted by a detour to a plantation. It turns out the plantation was not where the grandmother had thought and they wrecked the car. I had a feeling the  misfit would show up somewhere in the story, because the author gives a brief forshadowing of the criminal on the loose. I was not however expecting all of the family members to die. I was hoping the grandmother would be able to talk them out of killing the family. But unfortunately the criminals shot and killed all of the family members. This was a depressing story, but had twists and turns which kept me interested!

London

“Move you bloody girl!!” a British man yelled while honking his cab horn. She brushed her hair behind her ear and kept walking at her natural pace crossing the streets of South Kensington once again, breathing in the frigid evening air.

The only sounds heard are her high heels clanging on the brick sidewalk and a few cars breezing past, hitting a puddle of water, every now and again. Her hands are frozen in the pockets of her poufy jacket, while little mists of raindrops lightly brush her pale face.

This is the life she had always wanted. Besides the overly mean taxi drivers, she loves the rush of London, the diverse array of people, the amazing history, even the insanity of trying to stuff herself on the overcrowded Tube at 6am. She had the world in her hands; an American, fresh out of college with an amazing job, but unhappiness subtly creeps its way back into her life, when she is alone.

Her memory kept repeating Patrick’s number in her head “281-772-5…., I am going to call Patrick tonight and apologize.”

She got off work at the normal time, but somehow scurried home 10 minutes earlier than usual. She needed to keep her mind occupied while she is in her secluded apartment. She slowly took off her hat and gradually unbuttoned her coat. Her heart pounded because thoughts of him were starting to return. Work made it easy to forget about him, but at night the unhappiness returns.

Her fingers undo her wavy blonde hair while her blue eyes stared at her silhouette in the hallway mirror, eyeing her bright green dress, draped over her fatigued body. This dress she wore in Paris, when they shared passionate kisses and a bottle of wine, by the Eiffel Tower, last New Year’s Day. Her face shines bright remembering him romantically saying, “This is how I want to live my life, you and me forever. Je t’aime.”

She feels the cold cell phone in her hand and started to dial the numbers.

Worst Teacher

She was known for her monotone laugh and her timeworn blue sweater, with holes which she wore every day. She had many strange obsessions. One of them being the fact she ate oranges every day, peel and all.

Her students hated to ask, “Mrs. Nixon, will you help me with this equation?” They only asked when they knew the problem was too complicated to successfully complete on their own. She would slowly waddle over to their individual desks and bend down to help them. Her wild green eyes peered over the student’s desk, while she kneeled down on top of her tiptoes, nearly falling over.

Her grotesque longer than necessary nails made it hard for them to concentrate, while she demonstrated the mathematical equation. Her distinct odor, which smelled of oranges mixed with cat urine, made her student’s insides squirm. Not long after the unenthusiastic question and answer session, her problems would start emerging.

“Jim did not call me last night” she would wail, with tears in her eyes. “Does he not love me? Am I not good enough?” Her classes felt more like a therapy session, than a high school math class. That is her students were the therapists and she was the patient.

Regrets

Here I am, walking down the streets of South Kensington, once again, breathing in the frigid, evening air.

The only sounds heard are my high heels clanging on the brick sidewalk and a few cars breezing past me, hitting a puddle of water, every now and again. My hands are frozen in the pockets of my poufy jacket, while little mists of raindrops lightly brush my pale face.

This is the life I had always wanted. I love the rush of London, the diverse array of people, the amazing history surrounding me, even the insanity of trying to stuff oneself on the overcrowded Tube at 6am. I had the world in my hands; an American, fresh out of college with an amazing job, but unhappiness subtly creeps its way back into my life, when I’m alone.

I got off work at the normal time, but somehow scurried home 10 minutes earlier than usual. I have to keep my mind occupied while I’m in my secluded apartment. I slowly take off my hat and gradually unbutton my coat. Why does my heart hurt so badly? Work made it easy to forget about him, but at night the unhappiness returns.

I undo my wavy blonde hair, which was pulled back into a conservative bun. He always liked my hair up this way. He actually liked my hair fixed any style. He loved me but, I broke his heart and unknowingly broke mine in the process.

 I stare at my silhouette in the hallway mirror, eyeing my bright green dress, draped over my fatigued body. This dress I wore in Paris, when we shared passionate kisses and a bottle of wine, by the Eiffel Tower, last New Year’s Day. I start to smile, because I remember wanting to impress him with my two years of college French, but in the end could not carry on a conversation in French to save my life! But he was impressed nonetheless.

But unfortunately I selfishly dictated how our relationship would end, because of my need to be independent and pursue my dreams alone. I thought he was holding me back, but in reality he was holding me together.

The next couple of months were more of the same.

My job became my obsession; I worked hard, mostly to keep my mind off of his bright blue eyes and his warm, devoted touch. I proved myself to be a hard worker, to the leaders of Goldman Sachs and was quickly promoted. Although, I was achieving my goals quicker than I had expected, I felt empty.

Trying to cure my loneliness, I went out with William, a British co-worker whose office was across from mine.  I thought this was just what I needed; a night out with a talkative, accomplished businessman. Needless to say he sure could carry on a conversation, but only about himself. His arrogant mannerisms made me recognize how much I missed my considerate, selfless, loving gentleman.

I needed him back in my life. I wanted to be with him, but my pride and embarrassment about how I ended our relationship, kept holding me back....

(I am not finished yet)

It's the Law

I enjoyed James Lee’s story, “It’s the Law”. His use of imagery sets the stage of the mood and atmosphere of the story, like an old western movie. The plot is simple, yet kept me on my toes, wondering what would happen next. The voice and “cowboy” accent language of the characters develops a specific identification with the characters. The voice the author uses helps the reader identify the socio-economic class, location, and status of the characters. All in all, I thought the story was interesting and quite comical, especially the end.

Hills Like White Elephants

Hills like White Elephants is a dark, dramatic, writing, which left me feeling sad for the girl, “Jig”. The American man obviously just wants to have fun without any strings attached and wants his lover to terminate her pregnancy. The girl is reluctant yet wants the man to love her with or without the baby. He tries convincing her that life will go back to normal but in the back of her head she wants to have the baby but she also wants acceptance by her lover. Ernest Hemingway’s stories are simply written but they leave me with many mixed emotions. First of all, the man is trying to convince her it is safe, yet he really has no idea, he just wants the “burden” to go away. Second, she is drinking while she is pregnant, so obviously she is not too concerned about her unborn child. I feel if she had the support of her lover, she would be taking care of herself and would genuinely want her baby. This story must have been extremely provocative for the 1950’s, but feel many real stories like this happen in the common day. I do not like how Hemingway leaves his readers guessing: I want to know the ending of the story; did she have the abortion and stay with her lover? Or did she decide to have the baby and give up her “exciting life” with her man?