#someone shoot me like lennie from of mice and men

[maggotwclf]

this is my contribution to the charlie gooners via gartic phone masterpiece mode

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Analysis: Of Mice and Men (Characters)

GEORGE

George, a ranch hand, is Lennie's caretaker.

He is normally good-natured, but angers easily, especially if someone is threatening Lennie.

George seeks the American Dream in the form of land where he and Lennie can live without having to answer to anyone.

His life is unduly complicated by his role as Lennie’s protector, but he accepts his responsibility and appreciates Lennie’s companionship.

He emphasizes the rare nature of his and Lennie’s friendship, explaining that “[g]uys like us, that work on ranches, are the loneliest guys in the world…. With us it ain’t like that” (15).

Their relationship and their dream of a better future sets them apart from other ranch hands, but it also makes them vulnerable to violence and loss. 

LENNIE

Lennie is described as “a huge man…[with] wide sloping shoulders” (2).

The text implies that he is developmentally disabled.

Lennie relies on George for his care, and he describes their friendship in the following terms: “I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you” (15).

He repeatedly asks George to tell him the story of their dream farm and expresses his desire to raise rabbits.

Lennie’s love for soft animals demonstrates his gentle nature, but due to his enormous size and strength, he inadvertently harms animals and people.

Ultimately, Lennie is vulnerable in a society that refuses to understand or accept him. 

CANDY

One of the oldest workers on the ranch, Candy lost one of his hands in a work related accident.

His biggest fear is that he will outlive his usefulness, and he will be kicked off the ranch with no place to go.

He expresses regret at the death of his sole companion, saying that “I shouldn’t ought to have let no stranger shoot my dog” (67).

This possibly inspires George’s later decision to kill Lennie himself.

After hearing about the piece of land that George and Lennie plan to buy, Candy offers to give them all of the money in his savings if they will let him live with them.

This gives Candy something to hope for, though things do not go as planned. 

CANDY'S DOG

This former sheepdog is incredibly old, with no teeth and advanced rheumatism.

Carlson insists that keeping the dog alive is cruel, so Candy allows Carlson to shoot the dog in the back of the head.

The death of Candy's dog foreshadows other events that eventually transpire in the story; additionally, this moment functions as commentary on society’s treatment of elderly and disabled individuals.

CURLEY

Curley is one of the main antagonists in the novel.

As the Boss's son, Curley treats the ranch hands in a very condescending manner.

Since he is a short man, Curley is angered and provoked by those who happen to be bigger than him, implying that he has to prove his own strength and superiority.

Additionally, he brags about wearing a glove full of Vaseline to keep his hand soft for his new wife.

Nearly all of the workers dislike him and poke fun at him behind his back. Curley attacks Lennie because he is jealous of Lennie's enormous stature, but he ends up having his hand crushed after Lennie squeezes it too hard.

Curley is representative of land owners who hold power over those of a lower economic class. 

CURLEY'S WIFE

She is the only female character who physically appears in the story.

The unnamed wife of Curley is viewed with thinly-veiled disgust by the workers.

The workers claim that she already has a wandering eye for other men, despite only being married a few weeks.

It is implied that she constantly seeks out male attention to relieve her solitude. Like the male characters who are consumed by isolation, Curley's wife is both lonely and regretful.

She says that she could have been in movies or magazines if she had not married Curley.

It seems that she only married Curley to escape her domineering mother, who did not let her go to Hollywood.

Ultimately, she is trapped by her circumstances and by societal expectations of women. 

SLIM

A quiet, observant man, Slim is portrayed as the true authority figure on the ranch.

While the other workers listen to the boss and Curley because they have to, they listen to Slim because they respect him as a worker and as a person.

He gently convinces Candy that it is time to give up his dog, and may be partially responsible for George's action at the end of the story.

Slim is the only character on the ranch who understands the bond between Lennie and George.

CROOKS

Crooks is the only African-American on the ranch, and he has a crooked spine.

Due to prejudice that he faces for his race and physical disability, Crooks lives by himself in the barn.

He is described as proud and aloof, but readers learn that he acts this way due to aching loneliness.

Crooks is secretly happy when Candy and Lennie come to visit him, and even allows himself to momentarily believe that he too will live on their little piece of land.

However, after Curley’s wife threatens him, Crooks “reduce[s] himself to nothing....no personality, no ego” (89).

This scene demonstrates that Crooks withdraws into himself as a form of defense against racist attacks.

He realizes that even if George, Lennie, and Candy let him live with them, it would never really work out the way he wanted because of his extreme ostracism.

CARLSON

Carlson comes across as a bitter and self-centered man.

He is the ranch hand who proposes the idea of killing Candy’s dog.

He expresses society's view that the old and disabled are of no practical use and can easily be eliminated.

AUNT CLARA

While Aunt Clara is not a physical character in the story, she serves as a powerful memory for both George and Lennie.

She took Lennie in as a child, and on her deathbed asked George to look after Lennie for her.

THE BOSS

The boss plays a very minor part in the story, only appearing in the first part of the book to interrogate George and Lennie when they arrive for their first day of work.

He is curious about George always answering for Lennie and thinks that something suspicious is going on.

WHIT

A ranch hand who had a minor part in the story.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[oddlysatisfyingtales]

Regret

I am using the plot line of the first season of American Horror Story, but with my own ideology of how fucked up this would actually be. This is technically a fanfiction, I won’t deny this, however, I’d like to make this story my own. I have changed the names but some of the story is very similar, and these characters reflect what I want them to. I want to post this because I want to hear what people think, although, I am a sensitive bitch and am in no way comparable to some of the incredibly talented people on this platform. 

If I had known what my life was to become after I dug those blades into my wrists; after I allowed my life to seep out through the slits in my veins, my blood smearing the acrylic coating of the tub like a demonic sacrifice, I never would have done it.

I gave in too soon. If I had just...waited a little longer...things would have changed. The steady beat of my now dead heart a tease to my never ending time...and that’s all I want...for it to fucking end. 

Regret. It’s something we all feel at times, but it’s now the tagline of my existence. A taunting idea that in life encourages change, but in death sits like stagnant pond of perpetual torment. 

I’m now tethered to the very walls of the house that I wish I could burn down. I’m cuffed by the memories, the nightmares of each expansion of my lungs. I want to end it all so bad. My heart aches to stop, to rot away, to be eaten by time and magots and to rest within the comforting soil of the earth. Who knows where I’d go, where my soul would be sent. I don’t know if I believe in God, but I know I believe in the devil. I’ve seen him. I looked into his eyes and felt the heat of his breath against my cheek as he relished in how I squirmed and cried in death.

I’ll never leave this place. This is my sentence. I can only hope whoever or whatever put me here has deemed me accounted for in the grand scheme of things.

I have a lot of time, or whatever the fuck I’m in, to sit in my miserable teenage body and assess my choices, my mistakes, and to accept that I did this to myself.

I read a lot. At least, when I was alive, I collected a variety of books I never made the time to read.

I’ve read and reread Of Mice and Men. Random, I know. When George kills Lennie, I still cry, the scene alluringly underwhelming in the depiction of George’s act of mercy. 

How is it mercy? How is shooting someone’s brains out showing mercy? 

George told Lennie his favorite story, his favorite story being the dream in his head, bunnies brushing his ankles, as he dragged his large hand over their fragile spines...and he’d be with George.

“Me an’ you.”

“You...and me. Ever’body gonna be nice to you. Ain’t gonna be no more trouble. Nobody gonna hurt nobody nor steal from ‘em.”

Lennie said, “I thought you was mad at me, George.”

“No,” said George. “No, Lennie. I ain’t mad. I never been mad, an’ I ain’t now. That’s a thing I want ya to know.”

And he shot him...right in the back of his head. Why? To save him from the onslaught of consequence. Lennie was slow, but his strength was multiplied, and of all the animals he’d accidentally killed, his hands, their power unbeknownst to him, had finally taken the life of another person.

For some reason, when I allow myself to mourn for George, it feels like I’m mourning for myself, too. Maybe this house was an act of mercy. Maybe the consequences to come in life would have killed me anyway. Maybe my choice to die wasn’t really my choice at all, but the devine intervention of something trying to spare me and those close to me. 

Maybe.

The reality of the pages and ink slip my mind because I feel so close to those men. They went on a journey to escape their simple heartbeats for the vibrant pull of more. And they came so close to more. Just like me.

“Crying again? Over that fabrication?” I looked passed the book between my fingers, Synth meeting my wetted gaze. I sniffed, swiftly sliding my hand over my eyes. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s a good thing it doesn’t matter then, huh,” I spoke grimly, slamming the book closed before shoving it in my armpit to slide off the ledge of the patio railing.

“I don’t know why you’re such a bitch to me,” he remarked bitterly, and I avoided his face while passing him. In classic spirit fashion, I passed through the wooden craft of the grandiose front doors of the house. Walking through the ornate entryway, the floor’s eclectic design never ceased to impress me with its burgundy, white, navy blue and gold accents glowing from the sliver of sunlight coming through the symmetrically hung, faded orange curtains by the door. I trudged up the stairs, feeling Synth’s unrelenting presence behind me.

“Don’t take it personally,” I mumbled, stomping up the carpeted steps with a little more drama than necessary. 

Upon reaching the second floor I swung myself around to find Synth one step away. He halted in his spot, his eyes level with mine from where he stood. “I’d advise you not to follow me to my room...you know how he gets.” His face fell. In obvious faux amusement, his lips twitched upwards.

“I’m not trying to steal you from your boyfriend,” he muttered, his curly red tresses falling forward to hang at his shoulder. His dark eyes wavered though, betraying the confidence he was trying to exude. 

I huffed in bewilderment and left it at that before turning on my heels to proceed to my room. I noted that his footsteps no longer trailed behind me. “I’m not afraid of him,” he called, still standing on the staircase. All I could do was smile. He was so full of shit, just like everyone else in this God forsaken house.

“You should be,” I muttered under my breath, not caring if he heard.

While I was dead, I was still fresh to this limbo. My body still got hot and cold, and my stomach would still growl every now and then. I was told that these things would eventually go away as my essence dwindled away, my attachment to the world still lingering in my more recent departure. 

Upon entering my room, my skin pricked with goosebumps, the temperature annoyingly chilled from his presence. I sighed, and prepared myself for his unveiling as I padded towards my bed. 

“What did I say about hanging out in my room,” I asked in annoyance as I climbed into the comfort of my sheets, my book falling beside me and I lifted my legs to push myself back into the headboard.

“This was my room before it was yours, you know,” he spoke, his voice calm. I held back a scoff, my fingers fumbling with a loose string on my blouse. 

No matter how resolute I was in hating him, my nerves always betrayed me.

“I don’t care,” I scornfully uttered, “it was mine last, so get out.” 

He said nothing. I waited. The temperature in the room dropped more, alerting me to his approach. I welcomed the chill, my skin heated from anticipation. 

He mostly left me alone, only showing himself to me in moments when his own strength became tenuous.

“I wish you loved me,” he muttered, and I flicked my eyes toward the invasive sound of his voice, my irises scanning over the seemingly empty space, his physical form hidden within another layer of space.

“You think I don’t,” I questioned, and paused for a second, the muscles in my hands beginning to twitch. I clenched my fists, not caring if he saw. I continued, “Why do you suppose I demand you stay away from me?”

I was terrified of him. He is everything I regret in my life and now my death. His face enrages me with a love so demented, I want to gut myself without ever closing my eyes so I can stare at my ravaged body as a reminder of what he did to my dreams, my peace.

And yet, what’s worse is I am his everything. Without me, all he is left with are the things he’d done...all the horrible things he’d done. The way he dealt with his pain in life was a curse. With gaping lesions on his skin, he learned to bask in his agony, ripping his fingers into the holes to distract himself from the rotting carnage of his soul. He clutched onto the dirtiest parts of his existence in efforts to sustain his sanity, but he’d lost it long before, anyway. 

“You’re,” I paused, unsure if I should continue in the direction I was about to. But I wanted to. I wanted to just say it for how it was, “just so…pathetically sad…weak…scared.” He said nothing, but I could feel the particles in the air around me beginning to vibrate. “Which is okay,” I continued, “In fact, I'm starting to understand that that may just be the inherent state of all of humanity, yet,” I stopped, suddenly overwhelmed with how fucking hopeless someone has to be to do all the things he did, “you did what the majority of people have the strength to keep from. You know, too. How pitiful you are…”

“Yes!” He yelled, cutting me off, “I do know!” And he revealed his pretty face, blistered in anger and so beautifully adorned in regret. A regret too late adopted to now only suppurate the abscess that is his heart. ”I know,” he barked, stepping into the moonlight to reveal the tears streaming down his cheeks. “I know,” he repeated, so sadly that I felt it in my own dead, regretful heart.

“Please,” he suddenly begged, “please don’t do this anymore.” 

“You did this,” I retorted harshly, unfazed by his pain. “I’m convinced you did all of this!” I motioned to the house around us, damned by God himself. 

“No,” he cried, his messy blond hair falling into his eyes as he hung his head, hysterical shame pouring from his form like blood from a severed limb, “I didn’t want any of this!”

“It doesn’t matter what you want” I conceded softly, exhausted from the unending battle of living with demons. “This is what we deserve. And that is the only thing that gives me any form of peace, if I can even call it that.”

He lifted his head and strided toward my bed. 

“Don’t,” I warned, clenching my fists into my sheets. He stopped at the end of my bed, a strained look in his eyes. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he grievously reasoned, holding out his palms in surrender. 

“Everything that you could have done, you did,” I countered, my chest tightening at the reality that not only was I eternally trapped with my rapist, murderer, ex-boyfriend, but that I was still disturbingly in love with him. 

[sunsedge]

Few Short Stories I have adored (The Emperor's Soul, Letter from an unknown woman, Harrison Bergeron, In a Grove, and The House of Asterion)

📷

Whenever I do proceed to do that frustrating task of reading x numbers of book/year and fall short, I resort to short stories to beef up the numbers. No one cares, except me. Here are a few reads to get you out of the funk: 1) The Emperor's Soul: This is a fantasy novella on forging a person's soul by Brandon Sanderson. The protagonist Shia is observant and sharp, understands psyche and how to manipulate people, cares about getting her work right, and also a nice POV to read the novel from. Enjoyed it! 2) Letter from an Unknown woman: This short story's prose is beautiful, sublime. I did not no so few words can make me feel so much. Brilliant, exciting, mysterious, and compelling from start to end! I am under a spell. 3) The House of Asterion: I read Piranesi and someone suggested that one may as well look at one of the inspirations behind that book. And so I did. Unfortunately I don't have a strong foothold on greek mythology, however, when I read the background and explanation, this story really came out smelling like roses and stayed with me for its impact! 4) Harrison Bergeron: If this isn't nice, I don't know what is. 5) In a Grove: A short story that has defined many brilliant successful works and movies, about the subjectivity of human experiences. 6) A Whimsy of the World: Amor Towles has my complete attention since I read A Gentleman in Moscow. He refuses to let it go. I absolutely adored this quirky tale. If you want to feel whimsical, read this. 7) Of mice and men: Good short read on friendship and broken dreams. Enjoyed how we started with the narration of the tale, George's repetition of Lennie's fantasy, about the dreams of a land and a shack and fluffy rabbits and the slow way it influences Curley to dream too despite his past. And Candy too. This was enough foreshadowing right there: "I ought to of shot that dog myself, George. I shouldn't ought to of let no stranger shoot my dog." I knew my heart would get broken and still bravely trotted ahead. The backdrop description of the daylight, the nature, the scenery, the repetition of the dream of a shack and what all could be there, in the first scene all made sense by the end. Everything was beautiful and everything hurt! 8) 3 Blind Mice: The world is an interesting place for Agatha Christie having been here. I appreciated this book for the quick read that it was. The old guesthouse, the character motivations and false leads, and the grand finale with the fake detective. A lot of it was about men wearing scarfs and coats and just being undistinguishable from one another in harsh winters, that was a nice observation! 9) Sandkings: This is a novella by George R R Martin that I read because reading game of thrones seems so overwhelming. I didn't enjoy it that much but the world building and motivations were nice. *** Not a short story per say, but one book that I recommend to people who want to start reading again is The Importance of Being Earnest. This madcap farce is a breezy, quick, hilarious, and completely sensational read! I howled with laughter, and can safely say, I have ever read anything wittier in my life.

[rantsandaves]

Of Rosy-finches & Men

Even though the Colima Warblers were long gone, I still wanted to see Big Bend National Park on my way out of Texas. As I was driving up late into the night, a light flashed on the dash of my truck. "CHECK GAUGE"- a warning not to be taken lightly. I pulled over and checked my fluids. My oil was about a quart low, so I pulled into a Motel 6 in Del Rio, Texas. I was nearly up to the 4k mark since my last oil change, so I figured it was time.

In the morning I stopped at a Wal-mart to get much-needed groceries and for an oil change. I thought I'd be saving time by combining the two, but a routine service that normally takes twenty to thirty minutes took nearly two and a half hours. I wasn't the only customer upset, but I tried to cut them some slack. It was the day before Thanksgiving, after all. 

Big Bend was a heck of a drive and I had naively hoped to camp there, thinking that most people would be at home with their families instead of at an isolated National Park, but when I arrived there was no place for me to stay. Booked up! I was disappointed but explored the park anyway. 

When I was in New Orleans, my cousin Ashley recommended that I check out Marfa, Texas, a place known for its mysterious lights and artist community. I didn't think I'd actually ever go there, but since I couldn't stay at Big Bend, it was sort of on my way to the interstate and provided a free place to stay the night. I sat on the top of my truck and watched the sunset at the Mysterious Marfa Lights viewing area. The lights danced beneath the mountains in the distance like distant fireflies. A light glow crept upon the flat desert. The lights are likely results of atmospheric conditions bouncing light around, reflections of the setting sun, passing headlights and campfires on BLM land. Or at least that's what they'd like you to think. 

I started my truck on Thanksgiving morning just outside Marfa, Texas. It was cold in this part of the desert, so I turned the heat on for the first time in two weeks. As I drove through the town of Marfa, I came to a stop sign. All of a sudden, my oil pressure gauge started bouncing like crazy, bottoming out then hitting the top, making a sound like "tick, tack, tick, tack." I pull into a dirt lot and shut off the car. I open the hood and check the oil. The level is fine, but something seems off. The oil drips down like water. It's a national holiday. I'm in a very small town. Nothing is open, except the gas station next to the dirt lot. I walk in hoping for some oil or oil additive but they're conveniently all out of anything for a non-diesel engine. 

I get back in the truck and allow myself to be upset for exactly one second. I start the truck and turn off the heater. The oil pressure gauge sits perfectly in the middle. I pull forward onto Route 90. All's fine until I slow to the next stop and my RPM dips below 1500. Tick, tack, tick, tack! As soon as I pick up speed, the gauge straightens out again. I figure maybe the wonderful Del Rio Wal-mart put the wrong viscosity oil in my truck and it is messing with the pressure. Or maybe they left something loose. Or maybe it's the oil pump. Yikes.

 I pull over and start obsessively googling what all the possible problems could be, then where I can go get my oil changed again. I call a bunch of shops, but naturally the only place open and available to do an oil change in the vicinity on Thanksgiving day is nearly two hundred miles away at a Wal-mart in El Paso. I say a Hail Mary to whoever the patron saint of Ford Rangers may be and hit the road. As long as I keep the RPM up I'll be okay. 

I make it to the El Paso Wal-mart after driving like Sandra Bullock in Speed. As I wait for the second oil change, I'm pacing nervously. "No mental-breakdowns inside the Wal-mart," I keep repeating to myself. My truck is everything I have. I'm upset thinking about how maybe someone's carelessness messed it up, how much it'll cost to get the oil pump changed out, or how many days I'll have to stay in El Paso waiting for a decent shop to open up. 

They hand me the keys back. I sit in the parking lot, idling for about a minute. The oil pressure gauge sits unwaveringly. My next stop was Sandia Crest outside Albuquerque, New Mexico. Do I play it safe and try to make the eleven hour drive directly home to Los Angeles? Or should I wager that the problem has been fixed and drive four hours to get those Rosy-finches at Sandia? I'll give you a hint as to what I chose:

On my way to Albuquerque, outside Truth or Consequences I slow down as I come up to a border patrol checkpoint. As I'm waiting to be asked if I'm an American citizen, the gauge starts jumping up and down again, just not as bad as before. In my rearview, I see a small cloud of blue smoke coming out of the exhaust. As soon as I get past the border patrol, I pull off into a picnic area. I check the oil level and it seems to not have changed but it definitely smells like burning oil. I say another Hail Mary and make it to Albuquerque just as the sun is setting. It's Thanksgiving, so use my hotel points for a free night, splurge on some beer and a mini-pumpkin pie. I spend the evening thinking about all the experiences and people I'm grateful for (this includes you, dear reader!) and that even if the year ends now with my truck on the outs, it would still be one amazing year. 

As the sun rises, I check under the hood and under the car. No oil leaks as far as I can tell. I drive slowly around town, letting the RPM dip below 1500. The pressure gauge stays where it needs to be, but I take it to one of the only shops open on Black Friday just to be safe. I immediately get man-splained about how to check my oil. They then tell me that it'll cost me $90 to have it looked at ("diag'ed" the guy said), and it won't be looked at until Monday because none of their techs have an oil pressure tester. I roll the dice... up Sandia we go. I arrive at the top of the peak, at just over 10,000 feet above sea level. This is my second trip up Sandia Peak to find Rosy-finches. The first time there was still snow on the ground but no finches. Now there's no snow on the ground and hecka finches! I was thrilled. Black Rosy-finch, Gray-crowned Rosy-finch and Brown-capped Rosy-finch were all present.  I sat and watched as all three species flew around the feeder, up in the conifers and down on the ground. I didn't even get altitude sickness this time around. 

From Sandia, I drive to Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge. I had never been but had been told by many birders that it is a must-see. I also somehow managed to avoid seeing a Ross's goose all year and knew that a visit to Bosque meant I could finally check that bird off my list. I drove around the auto-tour loops in the late afternoon and watched as the Sandhill Cranes started coming in to roost. The Cranes must've numbered in the thousands, and there was no shortage of people visiting to take their picture. I got my Ross's Goose and even a surprise Western-screech Owl as the night set in. I magically had zero truck problems for the rest of the day. Maybe the Marfa lights did something to my engine. 

Headed slowly to California, I found my way back to Arizona and stayed on I-10. I visited the Holy Trinity Monastery/RV Park to see the Rufous-backed Robin and got lucky to see the Robin for all of three seconds out of three hours of searching. I then went to Las Cienegas National Conservation Area to look for Baird's sparrows, but being late in the day there was hardly any activity. I set up camp in Las Cienegas, which is BLM land at a beautiful spot between the Sonoran and Chihuahuan Deserts. I'd try for the Baird's again in the morning. 

As I was about to make dinner, Adam called. We hadn't talked since Thanksgiving day and I was so happy to hear from him. We talked about our days and he asked me to describe the area I was camping at. I happily described the yellow-white hay-like grass that came up to my knees, how the mountains rolled against the skyline and the mesquite trees were short and stubby. I told him how much I love the Arizonan deserts, how you can just park on BLM land and there's no one around besides the javelinas. I described the feeling of being surrounded by the stars at night. In retrospect, this reminds me of the end of Of Mice and Men, where Lennie is daydreaming about tending to the rabbits, completely oblivious to his demise. "Tell me about the rabbits, George." 

I ask him how he's doing. He says he's having a difficult time, and then... As I'm so close to being in the same state as he is after over a month, he tells me he needs space. As I'm staring at the odometer on my truck, thinking about the 45,000 miles I put on it while driving by myself across the country, he tells me he doesn't want to prevent me from going places. As I'm camped out in hopes of reaching the 630 mark on my year list he tells me he doesn't want to keep me from achieving my dreams.

I was presented for the first time this year with a situation I could not get myself out of. I could get myself unstuck from mud and snow. I could get un-lost from the middle of nowhere without cell reception. I could navigate my way out of strange interactions with unsavory folks. I could get out of floods, hailstorms and away from tornadoes on the horizon. But I couldn't get out of this. 

An unexpected new experience to check off of the list: being officially dumped. An added bonus: being dumped in the desert. I felt like the old couch I had just driven past on Route 82. I wondered if the couch's owner had told the couch it was not its fault too. It was just me and the javelinas as I watched the sun set. At night, it was warm enough to keep the windows open so I could feel surrounded by the stars, like millions of tiny holes poked in a giant navy blue blanket. Even without my glasses, I could see the shooting stars go by.

I hardly slept, but the few hours I managed included sunrise. I woke up late on the Sunday after Thanksgiving and drove around looking for Baird's Sparrows. I found a couple on Curly Horse Ranch Road, further south from Las Cienegas. I had a hard time focusing and so did my camera, but I knew from the ochre face and the short, neat stripes across their breast that it was my 630th bird species for the year. I wanted to celebrate, but I was having a difficult time cheering myself on. Last I was in Arizona, back in August, I didn't think I would get this far. And now I wasn't sure how I could continue. I called my parents and told them I was coming home. 

On my way back to LA, I tried for the Ruddy-ground Dove outside Phoenix with no luck, but to be honest I didn't try as hard as I should have. Further west, I stopped at the "Thrasher Spot" off the 10 and finally got the LeConte's Thrasher that had eluded me in March. I was happy for a minute, then I kept going. After hours in post-holiday traffic, I was glad to be back in the home I grew up in surrounded by the people that love me unconditionally. 

I don't think I'll leave California for the remainder of the year. Although California is my home state and there's emotional comfort in being here, there are plenty of birds worth staying for as well. There's a Garganey, a Nazca Booby, a Red-footed Booby, as well as some more common birds I need like the Island Scrub-jay and the Tricolored Blackbird. And despite this heartache, I know I've been able to persevere through worse. I've still got my truck. I have 631 reasons to smile and a whole lot of birds left to see. 

[melliesy]

Of Mice and Men Movie: A Straight or Loose Interpretation of the Novel?

Of Mice and Men is definitely one of the most remarkable works of John Ernst Steinbeck. And this novel was able to expand its reach to its readers and even non-readers because of its film adaptation. Titled as it is, the film was remarkable on its own too. It was directed and produced by Gary Sinise, which also played the character of George Milton in the film. Surprisingly, John Malkovich, whom I was already familiar with because of his excellent performance in the recent hit movie “Bird Box,” was also there and played the role of the intellectually disabled Lennie Small. Although films create ‘shortened versions’ of books, I believe that this film gave justice to the movie.

Unlike in the novel, which unfolded with Lennie and George stopping at the river to drink after a long walk, the film started with George in a dark place with eyes full of emotions. Then showed a woman in a red worn dress who was running as if seeking for help with a group of men in the field. The next picture showed Lennie and George running as if they were escaping from people chasing them. They hid behind the green sort of plants or grass in a body of water and was successful in preventing themselves to be captured by the men who were chasing them. Yes! The novel showed how Lennie and George escaped from Weed after the incident that happened between Lennie and the lady in red. In the novel, the reason why Lennie and George moved was just narrated, which I think made the movie more inviting to its audience.  I think the small taste of suspense at the beginning of this film was a good strategy in depicting the tough experience of the two before they were able to reach the ranch. Indeed, the movie created more flavor to the novel.

I must say, the movie was a straight interpretation of the novel. I expected the movie to be one of those film adaptations of my favorite books which removes a lot of scenes from the novel. But I was wrong. It even exceeded my expectations. Though I was a bit upset because I wish it had more scenes with Crooks-- the interior of his room, his talk with Lennie inside his room, and also Candy and Curley’s wife entering his room which was not in the film, I think it was tolerable given the limited time of a typical length of a movie, it should be focused more on the main characters. What I love about this film is that even if the movie was, of course, and should be shorter than the novel itself, it did not fail to show and introduce each characters in the novel. The characters were not just introduced but were understood as individuals as well.  For me, this movie created more ‘emotional depth’ than the novel.

To be honest, I cried a river when Candy’s dog was killed by Carlson. It broke my heart seeing the reaction of Candy’s character in the film and how the other men watched his reaction and felt sorry for him. It also made me understand more how hard was it for George to kill his good friend Lennie at the end. Though the novel was also good in showing it, “George took of his hat, he said shakily…” “George shook himself again..” “The hand shook violently, but his face set and his hand steadied..,” these were shown in between lines which I think made some people hard to understand why George killed Lennie and misinterpret the real motive of George. In the film, it was clearly shown how heartbreaking it was for George to kill his friend. The way George leaned on Lennie’s shoulder, looking down while he was preparing the luger he was going to use to shoot Lennie and narrating their plans in life, made me cry like a baby. But I think the shot was too abrupt than what I expected just like in the novel. Nevertheless, it did not fail to impress me especially that the film added in the last part before the credits-- George in a dark place with eyes full of emotions which made me understood that it was George having flashbacks of what happened to him and Lennie and a scene where George and Lennie were carrying a sack, smiling genuinely at each other, which did not make my eyes rest from all the crying.

Though I believe that it is still better to read the novel first because I really am more into books than movies, I can say that you can understand the movie alone. Looking at the perspective of someone who was not able to read the novel at all, I do believe he or she would really understand the plot, the characters-- ‘we see we hear, what we need to see and hear’ in this film. Most of the lines in the novel were exactly the dialogues of the characters in the film. Exactly. The reason why I think the style and touch of Steinbeck in the novel was able to maintain the original elements of his work. But despite all of these, one thing I noticed was the lack of loneliness present in the movie. Yes it sure showed Candy felt alone and lonely after his dog, his only companion was killed, how Curley’s wife was the only girl in the ranch seeking for attention, Crooks who was skeptical to other workers due to discrimination and Lennie who was just enjoying soft things. In the novel, the characters in the novel were the only people focused. But in the film, it was really refreshing showing all the men working in the field,, playing with the other workers and hanging out with them,  all noisy and loud at day, the movie was more colorful than what I read in the novel. That was why I think I felt the loneliness more when I was reading it. For me, the movie was lively and full of energy. But it was just the only thing I think the movie should have capture since it is one of the significant themes of Steinbeck’s work. Nevertheless, the movie was really a good adaptation.

As a person who strongly believes in the saying “Books are better than movies,” this film adaptation should not be a miss. It may not be better than the novel, but one can surely appreciate this film.

[daniellethamasa]

Hey all, Dani here.

Happy Halloween! When Katie over at Never Not Reading tagged me for this tag, I knew I had to do it, even if it meant moving around some of my other planned and/or scheduled posts. Hocus Pocus is one of my favorite movies, and was a big part of my childhood. So yes, I do own it on DVD, and yes, I do watch it somewhat regularly.

The rules of this tag are simple: there are no rules. Just, it would be nice if you could link back to Katie’s original post and then possibly even link back to the person who tagged you as well. Katie’s post used some GIFs from the movie, and you are welcome to use those in your post, and then Flavia made some graphics, and you can use those as well, if you’d like.

Anyway, let’s just get started.

For this one I just have to go with the Shades of Magic trilogy by V.E. Schwab.

I wanted to try and pick someone different from other people, but I just couldn’t really choose a female villain I despise more than Dolores Umbridge. Seriously, that woman is awful.

For this one I have to go with Percy Jackson, or really anything by Rick Riordan…and hey, to me his books are good for children of all ages. I mean, I’m almost 30 and I will still obsess and fangirl over any MG book by Riordan that is announced or released.

This book is just so ridiculously silly and such that I haven’t actually finished it yet. I can say that I’m more intrigued about the next Lady Janie book to come out, because it is apparently a Jane Eyre tale.

I rather liked the first book, but the second book was just so slow and it felt like wading through quicksand to get through it. I had hoped that the third book would redeem the sophomore slump, but I’ve reached the point now where I’m accepting that I’m just not going to finish the book. I feel like this series is trying to be like other series that have been successful and the parts are just not coming together like they should.

For this one I wanted to be able to answer with The Hate U Give or Dear Martin because of their focus on racial issues and issues of shootings and violence from the police, but I have not yet read either book. Then I thought about choosing All Rights Reserved because of the somewhat scary look at a potential future where every word and gesture is copyrighted and trademarked. And those are all valid answers for this prompt. Another valid answer is Pride and Prejudice. It is a classic novel that describes what life was like in those days (obviously from the observations/viewpoint of Jane Austen, but it still seems fairly accurate), and then let’s not forget both Lizzie and Darcy, who both just tell it like it is, even if it leads to errors in judgment and wrongful opinions on the character of the other.

I refuse to add photos for this series, but come on people, just let it die already. Of course I’m talking about E.L. James and the Fifty Shades of Grey books. Because now she’s coming out with Darker, which is a retelling of Fifty Shades Darker but from Christian Grey’s POV. So obviously that means that soon enough we can look forward to the announcement that she’s working on Freed and we’ll have all the books from both main character’s POVs. I only read the first book because I was trying to cheer a friend up so I agreed to buddy read it for her. These are not good books and I will not read any more of them.

I have to go with a classic here, Lenny from Of Mice and Men. But hey, dumb doesn’t have to mean a character lacking in personality, or a bad character.

I’ll mention Critical Role again here, and point you towards the monthly comic series. Issue #2 saw the adventures of Scanlan the bard and Grog the barbarian. Grog has a low intelligence, but I still think his character is amazing. You don’t have to be intelligent to be caring or compassionate or protective or anything else. I think characters like Lenny and Grog show us that.

I devoured this book when I was granted an early copy of it through NetGalley, and then I went out at midnight on release day and asked my local store (Wal-mart) to dig out a copy from the boxes in the back, because I had to have a copy of it. I also devoured and obsessed over the second book, especially considering how the world unfolded and what secrets were revealed. And then I never heard anything about the third book. Apparently Richelle Mead still plans to finish it and release it someday, but I guess sales weren’t what the publisher expected so they dropped the series.

I absolutely loved these books, but they only have a 3.2 star average on Goodreads. This series is also one I could have picked for The Black Flame Candle, because I’m sad I didn’t get a real conclusion. Okay, yes, book two has enough of an ending to be all right, but there is obviously more to say, and if I could afford to pay Catie Murphy to write the next one, I would. Sadly, I do not have that kind of money. If she ever decided to come back to the series and did a Kickstarter campaign, I would absolutely be one of the first backers.

I’ve seen it mentioned in numerous reviews for this one that it is somewhat lacking in plot. Well, I enjoy it for the atmosphere more than anything, though I can see the loose plot throughout. Anyway, this book was started as a NaNoWriMo project, and from my own experience, I know those stories can sometimes really take on a life of their own, much like how the circus takes on its own life and growth in this book.

When I first saw this tag on Katie’s blog and I reached this prompt, I instantly knew what book I would pick for this one. And as I saw more and more other people post, it seemed like quite a few people blanked on books that would qualify.

In Demon Hunts there is a lovely cameo for all fans of the TV show Supernatural. This book mentions a well-known Impala and two men: the tall one and the cute one…AKA Sam and Dean Winchester. So that is my pick for cameo in a book.

—

As it is Halloween, I don’t know if anyone would want to keep doing this tag after the holiday, but if you still want to celebrate books as well as the greatness that is Hocus Pocus, then by all means, you have now been TAGGED.

Hocus Pocus Book Tag Hey all, Dani here. Happy Halloween! When Katie over at Never Not Reading tagged me for this tag, I knew I had to do it, even if it meant moving around some of my other planned and/or scheduled posts.