Thursday, March 26, 2009
Ian Fleming vs. J. K.Rowling
Now, I get that people have been drawing parallels between Harry Potter and several other books (namely the Lord of the Rings trilogy), but recently I descovered another one. J. K. Rowling appears to have borrowed her description and characterization of her character Dolores Umbridge from Ian Fleming's novel From Russia With Love. The character I am referring to is well known to other Bond fans; Comrade Colonol Rosa Klebb. The similarities are actually quite apparent when you read Rowling's The Order of the Pheonix and The Deathly Hallows. Umbridge is portrayed as a sickly toad-looking stump of a woman, falsely sweet and shaped like a pear. This description is practically taken word for word from Fleming's description of Klebb. Again, the parallels can be drawn by their love of torture, feeding off the abused sensations of their victim's. This leads to my personal question, of whether or not Rowling stole most of her characters from other, more talented writers; Wormtail - Wormtongue, Dark Lord Voldemort - Dark Lord Sauron. Harry Potter, Ron Weasly, Hermione Granger - Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Princess Leia. Albus Dumbledore - Obi-wan Kenobi. Dolores Umbridge - Rosa Klebb. WTF. I'd really like to hear some thoughts on this, 'cause it's seeming as though Rowling really is stealing her characters from other authors.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Trauma
This is a short story that I wrote for my English class this February. It scored a 95% and I haven't taken the time to review it. Even for posting it here I just cut and pasted. Enjoy.
Blood exploded up the wall in a sick frenzy as the three blades hacked through my finger almost simultaneously. The glove I had been wearing was now a tattered rag as it flew behind my stunned form. The only thing keeping me from screaming was the vast amounts of adrenaline coursing through my veins like a wildfire through a tinder-dry forest. All sensations were disoriented, not functional. I took a step toward the half-closed partition separating the shop from the store. Everything was fuzzy, a hazy half-life, as though I were watching these events through a television. Every step was an anxious battle to stay conscious and keep my balance as I struggled toward help. My left hand was clenched over my right in a desperate but ultimately futile attempt to staunch the bleeding. When I reached the open doorway, I looked up to see Mark, one of my co-workers at the time. He looked at me and a strange little half smile crossed his pale face as he looked at me. I said, as calmly as I could muster;
“Mark, I cut my finger off.”
He flinched and his immediate response through that very odd grimace-like-smile was;
“Go talk to Brad.”
I whirled around to see if I could see Brad from my current position, and the confusion on my face was apparent as Mark prompted “He’s in his office.”
Finally knowing where to go find my employer, I set off as quickly as I could in the waking-dream state to Brad’s office. Thankfully there were no stairs. When I stood in front of his desk, my gloved left hand clutching my right, blood obviously pouring from where I could not staunch the flow. He looked up from his phone conversation, but there was no visible reaction that I could consciously determine on his visage. I repeated what I had told Mark.
“I cut my finger off.”
He held up a finger as though to show me to wait, and so I did. When he hung up, I was pacing frantically, attempting to purge my system of the nervous/adrenal energy build-up. Brad turned to me and said;
“Alright Sam, come with me. You need to calm down and we need to cover that so we can get to the hospital . . . . THAT’S NOT FREAKING CALM!!” he finished as my pacing had not yet ceased. I tried to stop, but at that moment he turned and strode to the first aid kit in the back. At the first aid kit, he immediately pulled out a long roll of gauze, and he took me into the bathroom and turned on the water. I thrust my hand under the running water, and the pain was somewhat soothed as the cool temperature allowed for some reprieve. We soaked the gauze, and as Brad went to phone my mom, I made the mistake of looking at my injury. Where there should have been a fingertip, there was now a shortened red stub, a crater with some white of the bone poking through the never ceasing flow of blood. I immediately looked away. When Brad returned we wrapped my finger in the entire roll of gauze, and proceeded to his car so we could go to the hospital.
When we arrived, I walked into the room and proceeded to stand in line for the triage nurse. By this time, I was having a hard time standing. Thankfully, my mom was the next person to walk through the door. When she saw me she rushed over and proceeded to lead me to the nearest seat, and she then took my place in line. I was sitting there with my middle finger up, and blood soaking through the gauze. As I was waiting, another woman came up to my mom and asked if she could cut in front of her. Mom’s red, tear streaked ace turned to her. Mom pointed at me and told that woman that she was standing in line for me, and that she would not give up her place in line. As my turn to see the triage nurse came up, I walked up to see them, and they rushed me straight into a room. Even at the time I was conscious enough to register that this was the fastest I’d ever gotten a room at any hospital. When we arrived at the room that was to be mine for the eight hours, the nurse helped me into the bed, and proceeded to take the wrappings off my finger. I looked away, but pain lanced through my arm as the nerve endings were exposed to the air. I grimaced in pain, and my dad, who had just arrived, was there to comfort me. They doctor on they had in to look at me then decided, and I agreed, to inject a numbing agent into the area around my finger to lessen the pain.
A couple hours later, they gave me more shots and proceeded to take me to X-ray, so they could determine whether or not the machine had shattered the bone. The nurses, kind as they were, could not alleviate the pain caused by contorting my hand. After the X-rays, it was back to my room that I had been sharing with three or four other people. At one point during the wait for the plastic surgeon, I heard one of the doctors mutter “Jointers one, tablesaws three.”
When the plastic surgeon finally arrived, he was kind and helpful. He proceeded to numb my hand and give some really, really powerful medication. I turned my head away as he started to use a little tool to gnaw down the bone so that the skin could be sewn back over top of the finger. I could feel that tool as it chewed the bone down, and the resulting fingertip had ten stitches in it. The doctors sent me home with a prescription of Tylenol 3 and percocets. Needless to say, I was pretty tipsy that evening.
Blood exploded up the wall in a sick frenzy as the three blades hacked through my finger almost simultaneously. The glove I had been wearing was now a tattered rag as it flew behind my stunned form. The only thing keeping me from screaming was the vast amounts of adrenaline coursing through my veins like a wildfire through a tinder-dry forest. All sensations were disoriented, not functional. I took a step toward the half-closed partition separating the shop from the store. Everything was fuzzy, a hazy half-life, as though I were watching these events through a television. Every step was an anxious battle to stay conscious and keep my balance as I struggled toward help. My left hand was clenched over my right in a desperate but ultimately futile attempt to staunch the bleeding. When I reached the open doorway, I looked up to see Mark, one of my co-workers at the time. He looked at me and a strange little half smile crossed his pale face as he looked at me. I said, as calmly as I could muster;
“Mark, I cut my finger off.”
He flinched and his immediate response through that very odd grimace-like-smile was;
“Go talk to Brad.”
I whirled around to see if I could see Brad from my current position, and the confusion on my face was apparent as Mark prompted “He’s in his office.”
Finally knowing where to go find my employer, I set off as quickly as I could in the waking-dream state to Brad’s office. Thankfully there were no stairs. When I stood in front of his desk, my gloved left hand clutching my right, blood obviously pouring from where I could not staunch the flow. He looked up from his phone conversation, but there was no visible reaction that I could consciously determine on his visage. I repeated what I had told Mark.
“I cut my finger off.”
He held up a finger as though to show me to wait, and so I did. When he hung up, I was pacing frantically, attempting to purge my system of the nervous/adrenal energy build-up. Brad turned to me and said;
“Alright Sam, come with me. You need to calm down and we need to cover that so we can get to the hospital . . . . THAT’S NOT FREAKING CALM!!” he finished as my pacing had not yet ceased. I tried to stop, but at that moment he turned and strode to the first aid kit in the back. At the first aid kit, he immediately pulled out a long roll of gauze, and he took me into the bathroom and turned on the water. I thrust my hand under the running water, and the pain was somewhat soothed as the cool temperature allowed for some reprieve. We soaked the gauze, and as Brad went to phone my mom, I made the mistake of looking at my injury. Where there should have been a fingertip, there was now a shortened red stub, a crater with some white of the bone poking through the never ceasing flow of blood. I immediately looked away. When Brad returned we wrapped my finger in the entire roll of gauze, and proceeded to his car so we could go to the hospital.
When we arrived, I walked into the room and proceeded to stand in line for the triage nurse. By this time, I was having a hard time standing. Thankfully, my mom was the next person to walk through the door. When she saw me she rushed over and proceeded to lead me to the nearest seat, and she then took my place in line. I was sitting there with my middle finger up, and blood soaking through the gauze. As I was waiting, another woman came up to my mom and asked if she could cut in front of her. Mom’s red, tear streaked ace turned to her. Mom pointed at me and told that woman that she was standing in line for me, and that she would not give up her place in line. As my turn to see the triage nurse came up, I walked up to see them, and they rushed me straight into a room. Even at the time I was conscious enough to register that this was the fastest I’d ever gotten a room at any hospital. When we arrived at the room that was to be mine for the eight hours, the nurse helped me into the bed, and proceeded to take the wrappings off my finger. I looked away, but pain lanced through my arm as the nerve endings were exposed to the air. I grimaced in pain, and my dad, who had just arrived, was there to comfort me. They doctor on they had in to look at me then decided, and I agreed, to inject a numbing agent into the area around my finger to lessen the pain.
A couple hours later, they gave me more shots and proceeded to take me to X-ray, so they could determine whether or not the machine had shattered the bone. The nurses, kind as they were, could not alleviate the pain caused by contorting my hand. After the X-rays, it was back to my room that I had been sharing with three or four other people. At one point during the wait for the plastic surgeon, I heard one of the doctors mutter “Jointers one, tablesaws three.”
When the plastic surgeon finally arrived, he was kind and helpful. He proceeded to numb my hand and give some really, really powerful medication. I turned my head away as he started to use a little tool to gnaw down the bone so that the skin could be sewn back over top of the finger. I could feel that tool as it chewed the bone down, and the resulting fingertip had ten stitches in it. The doctors sent me home with a prescription of Tylenol 3 and percocets. Needless to say, I was pretty tipsy that evening.
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