Goblogna

I am the one hiding under your bed. I make the bumps in the night. When you’re sleeping, I wake you up when you hear a creek or a bang. I steal your homework, and I eat your socks. I make the shadows on your walls, which cause your hair to stand up and your heart to drop. I make you scream and cry for your mommy. I am Goblogna.

“Mommy! Mommy!,” Johnny screamed when he saw me standing in front of him. As he was sleeping there like a spent little baby, I growled at him. He was sucking his thumb and sleeping so soundly, I had to wake him. He didn’t hear my first growl. He didn’t hear my second growl, which was a little louder than the first. I stuck my teeth out, opened my mouth, and growled right in his face. Bits of chicken, from my last feast, along with spit flew into his face. It splattered across his nose and eyes. Damn, he woke up quick. The stupid kid stared at me, half asleep. When his eyes adjusted he was so scared, he froze. Suddenly, he screamed. He called for his mom. I smiled and ran back under his bed.

I could hear him talking and crying to his mom. “Mom, there was a monster in my room!” he told her. That pissed me off a little bit. I’m not a monster, I’m a Goblin. Kids always think you’re a monster. Then he continued insulting me between sobs, “He was tiny and dark green. He had big, pointy teeth. They were yellow and slimy!” First of all, I am not that tiny. I’m 4’3” and I’m the tallest damn Goblin in the clan. My teeth are kinda’ yellow, but what do you expect? I’m nearly 1,000 years old!

“He had big, huge eyes that sagged and warts all over his face. His ears were big and pointy! He was drooling all over the place!” he babbled.
“Honey, there’s nothing in your room. It was just a bad dream.” His mother told him, looking tired and growing impatient.
“No Mom, it was here. He had crunchy skin and long, dirty fingernails! He went under my bed!” he yelled at her.

His mother rolled her tired eyed and sleepily bent down to check under the bed. I saw her nimble hand start to reach for the checked blanket that was draped over the side of Johnny’s bed. I crept back into the darkness, and hid in a dark shadow. Johnny’s mother unfocusedly looked into the darkness, saw nothing, and stood back up. She told Johnny there was nothing there and wished him goodnight. She left the room and closed the door. I crept out of the darkness and onto the floor of Johnny’s bedroom. I inched up to the edge of his bed and began to breathe in his face. He slowly opened his eyes.

See No Evil

See no evil.

But the image is burned into my eyes.

It stings as it is remembered.

It dwells there, behind my pupils.

It dwells there, ruining my life.


At one time, I was a beautiful young woman. I had long layered chestnut hair that shined in the sun, and gorgeous green eyes which resembled a forest in the summer rain. My nails were long and stiff; my body was lean and muscular. My hands were soft, smooth and unbothered. They glided over objects as I caressed them. I walked the streets with confidence when I had no cares and I was happy. Nothing distressed me and I had no ghosts haunting me. But that was then.
I walked down the street, turning into an alley to take the shortcut home. The alley smelled of damp, rotten heaps of garbage. Trash lined the dirty, stinking ground. Broken glass reflected the faint lights emanating from the street behind me and each piece sparkled like crystal in the sun. It was the only light provided to me in that darkness.

I’m not sure what made me decide to take that shortcut. I had shuttered at the thought of travelling down the dangerous dark path many times before. Something was different that day. Something inside of me was different. I was too confident, and that confidence lead to my demise.

As I walked, about halfway through the alley where I could nearly feel the warmth of the dim street lights from Harrington Street, I heard footsteps. At first, I thought they were only drops of water falling from the tall, red brick buildings around me. Each step was quiet and calm, soft and almost friendly. They then became louder as they got closer and faster.
I should have ran. At that point, I should have ran fast and hard out of the alley. I could see the light of Harrington Street and it was becoming brighter. If I had ran, maybe I would have been able to escape. Maybe my life would be normal.

I still couldn’t turn around. My neck was frozen in fear. I couldn’t face the thing that was creating those horrible, threatening footsteps. I turned and faced that thing.
My mind goes blank at this point. It has been many years since then but each day I am reminded of what I saw in that dark alley between Crowley Street and Harrington Street. The image is burned into my eyes. It stays there behind my pupils; like a bird in its nest.

I snapped. On my 47th birthday the memory came back, stronger than ever. I was standing alone in my kitchen making myself dinner. I knelt down to Guinevere and stroked her sleek black fur and listened to her purr. The steady sound reminded me suddenly of the steady footsteps that crept up behind me. I screamed in pain as my eyes revealed to me the horrors of that night again. It was too much to handle. The terror came back day after day without warning. I would be standing in that terrible alley looking at that man again and I would watch as he tore the clothes off that young girl. I watched as he cut her and I watched as she screamed. I watched the death of that beautiful young girl and I watched the birth of the new, haggard me. Everyday this happened. I wouldn’t be able to take it anymore. I grabbed the knife in a fit of agony. I knew what I needed to do, I needed to get rid of the images. The images of that night were dwelling behind my eye and I needed to get rid of them. I needed to rip out those images and discard them. If I did this, I knew, I would be that young, beautiful girl again. I knew those were the only things holding me back. I took to knife to my face and stabbed it into the thin flesh surrounding my eye. I needed to get the entire eye out, and I did not have the time to take off my glasses. This needed to be done quickly. I screamed in pain as I ripped through my eye lid with my long, yellowed nails. I grabbed my right eye and began to cut it, but it was stuck. The memories of that night were holding onto it because they wanted to be seen everyday. I could not allow them to win. I ripped the eye out and discarded it on the floor and the blood splattered against the wall. It oozed onto my flesh feeling warm and cold at the same time. I felt satisfied at that point, but suddenly I realized the memories were still there. They were hiding behind my left eye; they did not want me to forget them. I needed to discard all of the memories. I knew what I needed to do and I began to rip at the flesh around my left eye.

Community Project

For my community project, I am considering having a "scary movie night" for the Norton Animal Shelter. Mr. Barth approached me about starting an Animal Rights Club and I thought this could easily tie into my project. Since my concept is horror, I want to "help fight the horrors abused animals face." I am hoping to have the movie night at NHS and have a $1 entrance fee. We could watch Disturbia because it is PG-13 and it is a really popular movie. The money from the movie night would be donated to the Norton animal shelter.

Paradox Poem

My name is Samantha but my name is Sam
I am really lazy but I work really hard
I hate crowded places but I feel most comfortable in them
I hate silence but I hate noise
I like clean things but I hate to clean
I hate getting help but I like the feeling of people helping me
I hate doing math but I work hard in math class
I am always energetic but sometimes I’m tired
I like to be outside but I like my couch
I like the winter but I hate the cold.

Betrayal

He is still. He is silent. He is stiff. The casket is open revealing his colorless face and best clothes. Ryan lies in front of me, arms by his side, eyes closed. Mr. Belowl hangs his head, miserable with the death of his son. Ryan’s mother stands sobbing, her face tilted over the dead corpse of her son. His older brother stands with his mother; speechless with the hollow, aching feeling as he attempts to hold back his tears. As I watch the family grieve, I am nearly ashamed by my lack of sorrow.

The worst feeling of all is the lack of feeling. When a human knows they do not feel what they should they feel a numbing pain. This void of emotion is consuming me now. I stand alone; divided from the sea of depressed faces that fill the funeral hall. My lack of empathy almost brings me to tears, but I will hold back.

I've decided that not one tear will roll down my face for Ryan Belowl. He lied to me, day after day. "I'm going out for a bit; I'll be back soon. It's Boy's night out," he would say with a charming smile and a kiss on the cheek. I began to listen to his calls and check his E-mail. I checked the phone company for recent calls that he had made. They were all made to Laducia, Ryan's colleague and friend from Saudi Arabia. From what Ryan had told me, Laducia was a great business man with an admiration for architecture and mystery novels. I had never met Laducia, and I had no eminent desire to until I saw these calls. It was strange. All of the calls were minutes long; the longest at about five. Business associates need to talk about stocks and trades. They need to talk about investments and their employee’s productivity. They need to talk about sales growth and income percentages. I began to ask myself can this all be accomplished in a short, minute-long conversation?

I noticed that he left the house more often and for longer periods of time. It began with an hour or two when he went bowling and out for beers. It turned into three hours, sometimes four. He said he was "watching the game with the guys," but I knew better. I began to follow him. I followed his car to the bars and the clubs. I watched the blonde woman climb in and out of the car. I watched her kiss his lips and bring him to her apartment. I watched him walk in and I watched him walk out an hour or so later, disheveled and smiling. When he returned home, I was waiting for him. He seemed distant and removed while I attempted to act as if everything was normal. The blonde woman was Claudia. She had an admiration for architecture and mystery novels. She was not a business man from Saudi Arabia. Claudia was Laducia.

On a cold, fall night Ryan returned home and drank some coffee. I had brewed it myself. The coffee tasted a little funny. I told him it was a new vanilla bean flavor imported from France; he got a kick out of that. A few hours later, his body realized that his coffee was not comprised of French coffee beans in exotic vanilla flavors, but of a mixture of antifreeze and bleach. Like I said, I will never shed another tear for Ryan Belowl.

Francisco Goya "Saturn Devouring His Son"

Fransisco Goya’s painting entitled “Saturn Devouring His Son” is part of a series called the “Black Paintings”, painted on the walls of his dining room in his house on the banks of Manzananos. The image portrays the god Saturn eating one of his children, and is modeled after Ruben’s 1630 image which was much more refined. The painting portrays the Roman myth of the god Saturn devouring his sons out of fear that they would someday kill him, and take on his role as a god. Following Goya’s death in 1836, the “Black Paintings” were transferred onto canvas.

The painting exhibits a crazed man eating a corpse. The image is comprised primarily of earth tones, with hues of crimson, russet, and brown. The figurative Saturn is devouring the left arm of the corpse, and the head and right arm are gone. The focal point of the piece is the blood dripping from the corpse’s fresh wounds and also Saturn’s insane expression. His eyes are protruding, and he is kneeling on the ground in a very animal like way. There is a special emphasis on the blood on the corpse and in Saturn’s hands. There is an evident chiaroscuro, and the overhead light is primarily on the shoulders, face, and legs of Saturn as well as on the corpse. The field is black to emphasize the violent scene, and Saturn’s body is a subtle gray.

The image is modeled after Ruben’s work in 1630, yet the emotions being provoked are entirely different, as Ruben’s pieces were more refined and Saturn was portrayed much more elegantly. In Goya’s piece, Saturn is primitive looking and has a distraught expression on his face. Also, Goya’s work is much more horrific than Ruben’s, as the blood is more noticeable and the corpse is badly deformed. The image is based on the ancient myth of a man in fear of his children. It represents the betrayal of a child attempting to kill their father, and a father’s greed which leads to the murdering and consumption of all his children. This image and all of the “Black Pieces” are very well known because of their horrifying images.

Francis Bacon Critique One

Francis Bacon's oil on canvas expressionist painting entitled "Figure with Meat" portrays Pope Innocent X. Pope Innocent X was born Giovanni Battista Pamphilj and his papacy began in 1644 and ended in 1655. During that time, he was featured in many portraits by Spanish painter Diego Velázquez de Silva. Bacon’s painting originated in England in 1953 and he modeled his image after Valazquez's pieces.

The painting exhibits the Pope sitting in a chair while the carcass of a dead cow is bisected and hanging from the ceiling behind him. The focus and light on both juxtapositioned pieces are balanced. Though the Pope is in the foreground of the image, the carcass in the background is the focal point. At first glance, the meat seems to tower over the Pope in the chair and conveys a feeling of superiority, as if the Pope is somehow less than the meat itself. Also, the pained expression on the Pope's face seems as if he is crying out in agony, and his hands are clenched into fists. His skin does not have the pink pigment or bright hue of a living person, as he appears to have the cold, gray skin of some ghostly apparition. There is an emphasis placed on the ribs of the animal, as if it had been entirely hollowed out. The red tones are complimentary to the dark blue hues on the Pope's robe.

The image is modeled after Valazquez's work, yet the emotions being provoked upon sight are entirely different. Valazquez's pieces were simple portraits of the Pope, whereas Bacon's piece is somewhat horrifying and creates many questions. Is the image supplying a commentary on religion in some way, perhaps suggesting that Pope Innocent is not innocent at all; a butcher who hollows out his followers? Could the agonized look, pale skin, and hanging carcass show a fear of death and the unknown, that even those who believe in life after death have reason to fear? This piece is exhibited around the world because of its haunting matter and the questions it creates.