Reaction Paper to Healing the Wounds of Sexual Addiction Essay

Abstract Dr. Laaser (2004) provides a detailed look into sexual addiction from a Christian viewpoint in Healing Wounds of Sexual Addiction. The focus of this assignment will be to gain knowledge of what sexual addiction is, how family dynamics are affected, treatment of sexual addiction, and lastly addressing sexual addiction in the church. Exploring the different areas of how sexual addiction and how it can affect the life of the addicted individual will be assessed. Sexual addiction is a sin that Dr. Laaser (2004) discusses in his work. Healing Wounds of Sexual Addiction examines the many areas of the addicted person’s life that can be affected but it also provides hope and encouragement. Experts speculate that up to 10 percent of the total Christian population in the United States is sexually addicted (Laaser, 2004). There are so many individuals that are struggling with a sexual addiction and are too ashamed to seek help thus leaving a great number of unreported cases. Several reasons may apply to the sexually addicted person for not seeking help; Laaser (2004) discusses some of those reasons as being shame, guilt, fear of losing a job and their family. Dr. Laaser’s work is clearly articulated and provides great information on healing sexual addiction and the road to recovery. It is through his work that a Christian worldview is established towards the healing process. Synopsis Dr. Laaser’s understanding of sexual addiction is described as sinful behavior that the addict has no control over. The sexual behaviors that become addictive are sinful (Laaser, 2004). Sexual addictions can take many forms which include cybersex, pornography, and fantasies. Dr. Laaser explains that these addictions if left unmanaged can also lead to destruction (p.24). Sexual addiction is classified as a disease and like all  diseases must be treated properly. Both sexual addiction and disease have observable symptoms and a natural progression that, if left untreated, get worse and eventually lead to death (Laaser, 2004). From a biblical standpoint Dr. Laaser makes a clear correlation between sexual addiction as a disease and a sin. Sexual addiction is also seen as a moral sin (Laaser, 2004). Moral sexual sin describes how the addict does not view their behaviors as wrong because they are only having sex with their spouse. However, they have detached from the spiritual and emotional aspect of their relationship. The addict uses sex as a way to escape reality. Dr. Laaser mentions that, â€Å"the question is whether or not sex is an expression of intimacy or an escape from it† (p. 26). There are similar views that I share with Dr. Laaser in regards to sexual addiction. I absolutely agree that sexual addiction is a disease that can be deadly to the addict. As mentioned earlier, diseases that are left untreated can lead to death. The diseased mind of the sexual addict may lead to high risk behaviors as well. My personal understanding of sexual addiction is in line with Dr. Laaser’s in viewing the addiction as a sexual sin for it is. Family Dynamics Dr. Laaser takes a deep look into how family dynamics can contribute the behavior of the sexual addict by explaining four categories of family dynamics; boundaries, rules, roles, and addictions. Addicts that grow up in families in which unhealthy dynamics are present are more apt to believe that their negative behaviors are justified. Dr. Laaser describes in his work how boundaries are broken in families that sexual abuse exists. Boundaries define the ways a person’s invisible space can and can’t be crossed (Laaser, 2004). When these boundaries are broken, it can leave the child feeling confused. The confusion comes into play when a loved one inappropriately touches them or engages in sexual acts. Dr. Laaser mentions that there are different types of boundaries such as loose and rigid. Loose boundaries are when something happens in the family that should not such as fondling, touching inappropriately, and sexual contact. Rigid boundaries are stricter, loving and caring interactions do not take place. Underline issues pertaining to family dynamics can deeply impact the life of the individual that suffers from sexual addictions. Those issues carry into adulthood and can impact the relationships that the addict has. It becomes difficult for the addict to recover when underline issues are not addressed. The cycle will continue if not addressed and the addict may do what was done to them, to their children or others. It is important for sex addicts to recognize that their sexual activity is an attempt to medicate old wounds and to find love (Laaser, 2004). Examining my own family dynamics I recognize that in our household we did not talk about sex, it was almost taboo. My mother was strict and therefore was somewhat rigid in raising me. I was taught very early in age to never let any one touch my private parts and that included other family members. If those boundaries were violated I was to tell my mother or grandmother immediately and not be afraid to tell them. When the time came to discuss the birds and the bees, I almost felt embarrassed because I did not want to have that conversation with my mother. My personal values that were taught to me by mother and grandmother shaped my beliefs about sex. I believe that it may be some challenges in treating an individual with a sexual addiction because I would have to be careful not to be judgmental. Treatment of Sexual Addiction The treatment of sexual addiction is a long one that can take a lifetime. The process of healing from sexual addiction includes answering important questions, creating accountability, and understanding how people change (Laaser, 2004). Dr. Laaser mentions that before treatment with new people he asks three spiritual questions: 1. Do you want to get well? 2. What are you thirst for? 3. Are you willing to die to yourself? (p. 122). Dr. Laaser’s approach to treatment provides a spiritual standpoint that makes the sexual addict dig deeper into themselves and explore their relationship with God. The ten steps of accountability allow an individual to look at the rebuilding process in their road to recovery. One of the biggest challenges that the sex addict will face is changing their behaviors. The healing journey is a process of changing old addictive and destructive behaviors into new and healthy ones (Laaser, 2004). The Sexual Addiction Screening Test and Sexual Addiction Inventory is the most used screening test for sexual addiction as noted by Dr. Laaser. It is important that an effective treatment plan includes five components which are; stopping sexual behaviors, stopping rituals, stopping fantasy, healing despair, and healing shame (Laaser, 2004). Dr. Laaser also recommends that the individual experiencing a sexual addiction work through healing abuse in six stages; 1. Understand the abuse and accept that it has happened. 2. Accept the abuse and express anger. 3. Go through the process of grieving. 4. Confront the abuser. 5. Learn to forgive. 6. Find meaning in the pain. (p.161). At this point in my career, I am continuing to learn about different disorders and what counseling approaches work. I feel that in order for me to effectively counsel an individual with a sexual addiction, I will need to continue to learn and become competent in the area of sexual addiction. It is with my belief that with the appropriate coursework and trainings, I will be able to counsel those that suffer from sexual addiction. As I continue through my graduate program it is imperative that competence is attained because I would not want to cause more hurt to the client. Dr. Laaser’s work has provided a clear cut understanding of what it takes to work with individuals with sexual addictions from a Christian perspective. Sexual Addiction and the Church A Leadership Journal survey revealed that 23 percent of 300 pastors had done something sexually inappropriate with someone other than their spouse (Laaser, 2004). It is becoming more prevalent to hear about sexual misconduct in the church. This misconduct has made people skeptical about the leaders of the church in whom they are suppose to trust. Dr. Laaser outlines characteristics of the sexually addicted pastor or priest in his work. Dr. Laaser’s recommendations regarding addressing sexual addiction in the church, not only looks at healing the pastor or priest but also the congregation and victims. I agree with Dr. Laaser in addressing sexual addiction in the church. His  approaches look at the church as a whole and how everyone in the church as affected. Indeed the pastor or priest that has inflicted sexual abuse onto their members must get the needed help and take accountability for their actions; however, it is also important that those that have been abused be treated and has the opportunity to process what has happened. With instances of sexual indiscretions becoming more frequent, it is imperative that parishioners feel that they have a safe place to worship and a leader that they can confide in and trust. Conclusion Healing from sexual addiction takes time and is a process. The road to recovery is long and ongoing in the sexual addict’s life. The person living with the addiction has to come to a point in which they want to change. Shame and guilt can hinder the sex addict from seeking help. It is important that the individual living with a sexual disorder feel supported and not judged. Dr. Laaser’s work illustrates how there is hope and that through Gods love and forgiveness recovery is possible. Sexual addiction affects not only the addict but their loved ones also. As Dr. Laaser stated, â€Å"ultimately, if all things are possible with God, we can accept that there are sex addicts who may be cured† (p. 223). Reference Laaser, M.R. (2004). Healing the wounds of sexual addiction. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan Pub. House.

Political Party and Internet Essay

HARATAL In modern strife torn state hartal has become a common affair. It is observed at the call of a political party or parties to press their demand to protest against the corruption, misuse of power and the evil deeds of the ruling party. Sometimes students and people of a locality call hartal to express their demands. On a hartal day normal course of life is stopped. All means of transport and vehicles do not move on the roads. People are to take a lot of troubles to attend their offices. They go on foot as vehicles are not available. As a result the attendance is very negligible in the offices, factories, industries and shops. The economy of the country suffers a heavy loss. Mills, factories, industries and shops stop their work. All the business centers, markets and shop remain closed. The supporters in favor of hartal bring their procession. Often clashes occur between the police and the picketers. Sometimes clashes take place between the supporters of the opposition and the ruling p olitical parties which result in some deaths. On a hartal day the sufferings of the people know no bound LOAD SHEDDING Load-shedding is the suspension of electricity supply on certain lines when demand is greater than the generation. It occurs when the generation of power is less than the demand. Besides, unplanned distribution and illegal connection of electricity are also responsible for it. It creates various serious problems. The students are affected by it if it occurs at night. They sit idly in the dark closing their books. They suffer terribly owing to load-shedding on the night before their examination. Mills, factories, industries, all academic and socio-economic institution seriously suffer due to it. It seems that everything comes to a standstill and so life becomes rally painful. In a country like ours it is very difficult to solve the problem of load-shedding. Yet we can go a long way by establishing new power plants, ensuring planned distribution, reducing system loss and checking illegal connections. If these are ensured, we may expect to get rid of the curse of load-shedding. Governme nt should also take effective steps in this regard. Computer The computer is one of the most brilliant gifts of science. This device was originally developed by Charles Babbage. Most countries have developed fast due to computerization. Writing a program is essential for a computer. Speed, accuracy, reliability, and integrity are the main characteristics of a computer. Many of the routine activities today at home and in business are done by computers. The computer has proved a friend and servant of science, technology and industry. Most offices, shops, factories and industries use computers. The Internet is a storehouse of information. The computer is boon to all. Telecommunication and satellite imageries are computer based. Computer has made the world a global village today. The Internet The information system of the world has become globalized with the magical touch of internet. Like a spider-web the Internet has spread its interconnected link with tens, hundreds or even thousands of computers. And it has enabled them to share information and communication with one another widely, effectively and inexpensively.The Internet has made it possible for people all over the world to bring the information and communication system within their palm. The Internet has brought new opportunities to government, education and business. Governments use the Internet for internal communication, distribution of information and automated tax processing. Bangladesh as a developing country does not have access to the Internet in all spheres. Still internet here has some access to the business world and the banking system. Educational institutions also use the Internet to some extent. Internet here also allows a great variety in digital entertainment. People can enjoy music, movie, gaming, chatting with friends, sharing views and ideas about world affairs just by pressing few keys. We hope that we will get full-fledged access to the Internet, an international computer network, to make our Bangladesh a developed and prosperous country. TRAFFIC JAM Traffic jam is one of the most irritating problems in bangladesh. It has taken a very serious shape in city areas.This problem is the result of rapid growth of population and the increasing number of vehicle. In proportion to our population, roads have not increased. Moreover, cities are full of rickshaw and rickshaw pulles do not follow the traffic rules never maintain a queue while waiting to proceed. Untimely loading, unloading of goods of trucks, unauthorised markets by the road side, unwise parking to vehicles, public meeting, processions etc. Generally cause traffic jam. Narrow roads in another cause of traffic jam. Most often traffic jam occurs at office time and also at the time when the officer break. Sometimes traffic jam is so heavy that it blocks half a kilometre. It kills our valuable time and cause great suffering to the dying patients being carried in the ambulance. However, this problem can be solved by adopting some measures. Well planned spacious road should be constructed. one way movement of vehicles should be introduced.Traffic rules should be imposed strictly so that the drivers are bound to obey them. The number of traffic police should be increased.

Bag of Bones CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I was walking north along The Street. Japanese lanterns lined it, but they were all dark because it was daylight bright daylight. The muggy, smutchy look of mid-July was gone; the sky was that deep sapphire shade which is the sole property of October. The lake was deepest indigo beneath it, sparkling with sunpoints. The trees were just past the peak of their autumn colors, burning like torches. A wind out of the south blew the fallen leaves past me and between my legs in rattly, fragrant gusts. The Japanese lanterns nodded as if in approval of the season. Up ahead, faintly, I could hear music. Sara and the Red-Tops. Sara was belting it out, laughing her way through the lyric as she always had . . . only, how could laughter sound so much like a snarl? ‘White boy, I'd never kill a child of mine. That you'd even think it!' I whirled, expecting to see her right behind me, but there was no one there. Well . . . The Green Lady was there, only she had changed her dress of leaves for autumn and become the Yellow Lady. The bare pine-branch behind her still pointed the way: go north, young man, go north. Not much farther down the path was another birch, the one I'd held onto when that terrible drowning sensation had come over me again. I waited for it to come again now for my mouth and throat to fill up with the iron taste of the lake but it didn't happen. I looked back at the Yellow Lady, then beyond her to Sara Laughs. The house was there, but much reduced: no north wing, no south wing, no second story. No sign of Jo's studio off to the side, either. None of those things had been built yet. The ladybirch had travelled back with me from 1998; so had the one hanging over the lake. Otherwise ‘Where am I?' I asked the Yellow Lady and the nodding Japanese lanterns. Then a better question occurred to me. ‘When am I?' No answer. ‘It's a dream, isn't it? I'm in bed and dreaming.' Somewhere out in the brilliant, gold-sparkling net of the lake, a loon called. Twice. Hoot once for yes, twice for no, I thought. Not a dream, Michael. I don't know exactly what it is spiritual time-travel, maybe but it's not a dream. ‘Is this really happening?' I asked the day, and from somewhere back in the trees, where a track which would eventually come to be known as Lane Forty-two ran toward a dirt road which would eventually come to be known as Route 68, a crow cawed. Just once. I went to the birch hanging over the lake, slipped an arm around it (doing it lit a trace memory of slipping my hands around Mattie's waist, feeling her dress slide over her skin), and peered into the water, half-wanting to see the drowned boy, half-fearing to see him. There was no boy there, but something lay on the bottom where he had been, among the rocks and roots and waterweed. I squinted and just then the wind died a little, stilling the glints on the water. It was a cane, one with a gold head. A Boston Post cane. Wrapped around it in a rising spiral, their ends waving lazily, were what appeared to be a pair of ribbons white ones with bright red edges. Seeing Royce's cane wrapped that way made me think of high-school graduations, and the baton the class marshal waves as he or she leads the gowned seniors to their seats. Now I understood why the old crock hadn't answered the phone. Royce Merrill's phone-answering days were all done. I knew that; I also knew I had come to a time before Royce had even been born. Sara Tidwell was here, I could hear her singing, and when Royce had been born in 1903, Sara had already been gone for two years, she and her whole Red-Top family. ‘Go down, Moses,' I told the ribbon-wrapped cane in the water. ‘You bound for the Promised Land.' I walked on toward the sound of the music, invigorated by the cool air and rushing wind. Now I could hear voices as well, lots of them, talking and shouting and laughing. Rising above them and pumping like a piston was the hoarse cry of a sideshow barker: ‘Come on in, folks, hurr-ay, hurr-ay, hurr-ay! It's all on the inside but you've got to hurr-ay, next show starts in ten minutes! See Angelina the Snake-Woman, she shimmies, she shakes, she'll bewitch your eye and steal your heart, but don't get too close for her bite is poy-son! See Hando the Dog-Faced Boy, terror of the South Seas! See the Human Skeleton! See the Human Gila Monster, relic of a time God forgot! See the Bearded Lady and all the Killer Martians! It's on the inside, yessirree, so hurr-ay, hurr-ay, hurr-ay!' I could hear the steam-driven calliope of a merry-go-round and the bang of the bell at the top of the post as some lumberjack won a stuffed toy for his sweetie. You could tell from the delighted feminine screams that he'd hit it almost hard enough to pop it off the post. There was the snap of. 22s from the shooting gallery, the snoring moo of someone's prize cow . . . and now I began to smell the aromas I have associated with county fairs since I was a boy: sweet fried dough, grilled onions and peppers, cotton candy, manure, hay. I began to walk faster as the strum of guitars and thud of double basses grew louder. My heart kicked into a higher gear. I was going to see them perform, actually see Sara Laughs and the Red-Tops live and on stage. This was no crazy three-part fever-dream, either. This was happening right now, so hurr-ay, hurr-ay, hurr-ay. The Washburn place (the one that would always be the Bricker place to Mrs. M.) was gone. Beyond where it would eventually be, rising up the steep slope on the eastern side of The Street, was a flight of broad wooden stairs. They reminded me of the ones which lead down from the amusement park to the beach at Old Orchard. Here the Japanese lanterns were lit in spite of the brightness of the day, and the music was louder than ever. Sara was singing ‘Jimmy Crack Corn.' I climbed the stairs toward the laughter and shouts, the sounds of the Red-Tops and the calliope, the smells of fried food and farm animals. Above the stairhead was a wooden arch with WELCOME TO FRYEBURG FAIR WELCOME TO THE 20TH CENTURY printed on it. As I watched, a little boy in short pants and a woman wearing a shirtwaist and an ankle-length linen skirt walked under the arch and toward me. They shimmered, grew gauzy. For a moment I could see their skeletons and the bone grins which lurked beneath their laughing faces. A moment later and they were gone. Two farmers one wearing a straw hat, the other gesturing expansively with a corncob pipe appeared on the Fair side of the arch in exactly the same fashion. In this way I understood that there was a barrier between The Street and the Fair. Yet I did not think it was a barrier which would affect me. I was an exception. ‘Is that right?' I asked. ‘Can I go in?' The bell at the top of the Test Your Strength pole banged loud and clear. Bong once for yes, twice for no. I continued on up the stairs. Now I could see the Ferris wheel turning against the brilliant sky, the wheel that had been in the background of the band photo in Osteen's Dark Score Days. The framework was metal, but the brightly painted gondolas were made of wood. Leading up to it like an aisle leading up to an altar was a broad, sawdust-strewn midway. The sawdust was there for a purpose; almost every man I saw was chewing tobacco. I paused for a few seconds at the top of the stairs, still on the lake side of the arch. I was afraid of what might happen to me if I passed under. Afraid of dying or disappearing, yes, but mostly of never being able to return the way I had come, of being condemned to spend eternity as a visitor to the turn-of-the-century Fryeburg Fair. That was also like a Ray Bradbury story, now that I thought of it. In the end what drew me into that other world was Sara Tidwell. I had to see her with my own eyes. I had to watch her sing. Had to. I felt a tingling as I stepped beneath the arch, and there was a sighing in my ears, as of a million voices, very far away. Sighing in relief? Dismay? I couldn't tell. All I knew for sure was that being on the other side was different the difference between looking at a thing through a window and actually being there; the difference between observing and participating. Colors jumped out like ambushers at the moment of attack. The smells which had been sweet and evocative and nostalgic on the lake side of the arch were now rough and sexy, prose instead of poetry. I could smell dense sausages and frying beef and the vast shadowy aroma of boiling chocolate. Two kids walked past me sharing a paper cone of cotton candy. Both of them were clutching knotted hankies with their little bits of change in them. ‘Hey kids!' a barker in a dark blue shirt called to them. He was wearing sleeve-garters and his smile revealed one splendid gold tooth. ‘Knock over the milk-bottles and win a prize! I en't had a loser all day!' Up ahead, the Red-Tops swung into ‘Fishin Blues.' I'd thought the kid on the common in Castle Rock was pretty good, but this version made the kid's sound old and slow and clueless. It wasn't cute, like an antique picture of ladies with their skirts held up to their knees, dancing a decorous version of the black bottom with the edges of their bloomers showing. It wasn't something Alan Lomax had collected with his other folk songs, just one more dusty American butterfly in a glass case full of them; this was smut with just enough shine on it to keep the whole struttin bunch of them out of jail. Sara Tidwell was singing about the dirty boogie, and I guessed that every overalled, straw-hatted, plug-chewing, callus-handed, clod-hopper-wearing farmer standing in front of the stage was dreaming about doing it with her, getting right down to where the sweat forms in the crease and the heat gets hot and the pink comes glimmering through. I started walking in that direction, aware of cows mooing and sheep blatting from the exhibition barns the Fair's version of my childhood Hi-Ho Dairy-O. I walked past the shooting gallery and the ringtoss and the penny-pitch; I walked past a stage where The Handmaidens of Angelina were weaving in a slow, snakelike dance with their hands pressed together as a guy with a turban on his head and shoepolish on his face tooted a flute. The picture painted on stretched canvas suggested that Angelina on view inside for just one tenth of a dollar, neighbor would make these two look like old boots. I walked past the entrance to Freak Alley, the corn-roasting pit, the Ghost House, where more stretched canvas depicted spooks coming out of broken windows and crumbling chimneys. Everything in there is death, I thought . . . but from inside I could hear children who were very much alive laughing and squealing as they bumped into things in the dark. The older among them were likely stealing kisse s. I passed the Test Your Strength pole, where the gradations leading to the brass bell at the top were marked BABY NEEDS HIS BOTTLE, SISSY, TRY AGAIN, BIG BOY, HE-MAN, and, just below the bell itself, in red: HERCULES! Standing at the center of a little crowd a young man with red hair was removing his shirt, revealing a heavily muscled upper torso. A cigar-smoking carny held a hammer out to him. I passed the quilting booth, a tent where people were sitting on benches and playing Bingo, the baseball pitch. I passed them all and hardly noticed. I was in the zone, tranced out. ‘You'll have to call him back,' Jo had sometimes told Harold when he phoned, ‘Michael is currently in the Land of Big Make-Believe.' Only now nothing felt like pretend and the only thing that interested me was the stage at the base of the Ferris wheel. There were eight black folks up there on it, maybe ten. Standing at the front, wearing a guitar and whaling on it as she sang, was Sara Tidwell. She w as alive. She was in her prime. She threw back her head and laughed at the October sky. What brought me out of this daze was a cry from behind me: ‘Wait up, Mike! Wait up!' I turned and saw Kyra running toward me, dodging around the strollers and gamesters and midway gawkers with her pudgy knees pumping. She was wearing a little white sailor dress with red piping and a straw hat with a navy-blue ribbon on it. In one hand she clutched Strickland, and when she got to me she threw herself confidently forward, knowing I would catch her and swing her up. I did, and when her hat started to fall offi caught it and jammed it back on her head. ‘I taggled my own quartermack,' she said, and laughed. ‘Again.' ‘That's right,' I said. ‘You're a regular Mean Joe Green.' I was wearing overalls (the tail of a wash-faded blue bandanna stuck out of the bib pocket) and manure-stained workboots. I looked at Kyra's white socks and saw they were homemade. I would find no discreet little label reading Made in Mexico or Made in China if I took off her straw hat and looked inside, either. This hat had been most likely Made in Motton, by some farmer's wife with red hands and achy joints. ‘Ki, where's Mattie?' ‘Home, I guess. She couldn't come.' ‘How did you get here?' ‘Up the stairs. It was a lot of stairs. You should have waited for me. You could have carrot me, like before. I want to hear the music.' ‘Me too. Do you know who that is, Kyra?' ‘Yes,' she said, ‘Kito's mom. Hurry up, slowpoke!' I walked toward the stage, thinking we'd have to stand at the back of the crowd, but they parted for us as we came forward, me carrying Kyra in my arms the lovely sweet weight of her, a little Gibson Girl in her sailor dress and ribbon-accented straw hat. Her arm was curled around my neck and they parted for us like the Red Sea had parted for Moses. They didn't turn to look at us, either. They were clapping and stomping and bellowing along with the music, totally involved. They stepped aside unconsciously, as if some kind of magnetism were at work here ours positive, theirs negative. The few women in the crowd were blushing but clearly enjoying themselves, one of them laughing so hard tears were streaming down her face. She looked no more than twenty-two or -three. Kyra pointed to her and said matter-of-factly: ‘You know Mattie's boss at the liberry? That's her nana.' Lindy Briggs's grandmother, and fresh as a daisy, I thought. Good Christ. The Red-Tops were spread across the stage and under swags of red, white, and blue bunting like some time-travelling rock band. I recognized all of them from the picture in Edward Osteen's book. The men wore white shirts, arm-garters, dark vests, dark pants. Son Tidwell, at the far end of the stage, was wearing the derby he'd had on in the photo. Sara, though . . . ‘Why is the lady wearing Mattie's dress?' Kyra asked me, and she began to tremble. ‘I don't know, honey. I can't say.' Nor could I argue it was the white sleeveless dress Mattie had been wearing on the common, all right. On stage, the band was smoking through an instrumental break. Reginald ‘Son' Tidwell strolled over to Sara, feet ambling, hands a brown blur on the strings and frets of his guitar, and she turned to face him. They put their foreheads together, she laughing and he solemn; they looked into each other's eyes and tried to play each other down, the crowd cheering and clapping, the rest of the Red-Tops laughing as they played. Seeing them together like that, I realized that I had been right: they were brother and sister. The resemblance was too strong to be missed or mistaken. But mostly what I looked at was the way her hips and butt switched in that white dress. Kyra and I might be dressed in turn-of-the-century country clothes, but Sara was thoroughly modern Millie. No bloomers for her, no petticoats, no cotton stockings. No one seemed to notice that she was wearing a dress that stopped above her knees that she was all but naked by the standards of this time. And under Mattie's dr ess she'd be wearing garments the like of which these people had never seen: a Lycra bra and hip-hugger nylon panties. If I put my hands on her waist, the dress would slip not against an unwet-coming corset but against soft bare skin. Brown skin, not white. What do you want, sugar? Sara backed away from Son, shaking her ungirdled, unbustled fanny and laughing. He strolled back to his spot and she turned to the crowd as the band played the turnaround. She sang the next verse looking directly at me. ‘Before you start in fishin you better check your line. Said before you start in fishin, honey, you better check on your line. I'll pull on yours, darling, and you best tug on mine.' The crowd roared happily. In my arms, Kyra was shaking harder than ever. ‘I'm scared, Mike,' she said. ‘I don't like that lady. She's a scary lady. She stole Mattie's dress. I want to go home.' It was as if Sara heard her, even over the rip and ram of the music. Her head cocked back on her neck, her lips peeled open, and she laughed at the sky. Her teeth were big and yellow. They looked like the teeth of a hungry animal, and I decided I agreed with Kyra: she was a scary lady. ‘Okay, hon,' I murmured in Ki's ear. ‘We're out of here.' But before I could move, the sense of the woman I don't know how else to say it fell upon me and held me. Now I understood what had shot past me in the kitchen to knock away the CARLADEAN letters; the chill was the same. It was almost like identifying a person by the sound of their walk. She led the band to the turnaround once more, then into another verse. Not one you'd find in any written version of the song, though: ‘I ain't gonna hurt her, honey, not for all the treasure in the world'. Said I wouldn't hurt your baby, not for diamonds or for pearls Only one black-hearted bastard dare to touch that little girl.' The crowd roared as if it were the funniest thing they'd ever heard, but Kyra began to cry. Sara saw this and stuck out her breasts much bigger breasts than Mattie's and shook them at her, laughing her trademark laugh as she did. There was a parodic coldness about this gesture . . . and an emptiness, too. A sadness. Yet I could feel no compassion for her. It was as if the heart had been burned out of her and the sadness which remained was just another ghost, the memory of love haunting the bones of hate. And how her laughing teeth leered. Sara raised her arms over her head and this time shook it all the way down, as if reading my thoughts and mocking them. Just like jelly on a plate, as some other old song of the time has it. Her shadow wavered on the canvas backdrop, which was a painting of Fryeburg, and as I looked at it I realized I had found the Shape from my Manderley dreams. It was Sara. Sara was the Shape and always had been. No, Mike. That's close, but it's not right. Right or wrong, I'd had enough. I turned, putting my hand on the back of Ki's head and urging her face down against my chest. Both her arms were around my neck now, clutching with panicky tightness. I thought I'd have to bull my way back through the crowd they had let me in easily enough, but they might be a lot less amenable to letting me back out. Don't fuck with me, boys, I thought. You don't want to do that. And they didn't. On stage Son Tidwell had taken the band from E to G, someone began to bang a tambourine, and Sara went from ‘Fishin Blues' to ‘Dog My Cats' without a single pause. Out here, in front of the stage and below it, the crowd once more drew back from me and my little girl without looking at us or missing a beat as they clapped their work-swollen hands together. One young man with a port-wine stain swimming across the side of his face opened his mouth at twenty he was already missing half his teeth and hollered ‘Yee-HAW!' around a melting glob of tobacco. It was Buddy Jellison from the Village Cafe, I realized . . . Buddy Jellison magically rolled back in age from sixty-eight to eighteen. Then I realized the hair was the wrong shade light brown instead of black (although he was pushing seventy and looking it in every other way, Bud hadn't a single white hair in his head). This was Buddy's grandfather, maybe even his great-grandfather. I didn't give a sh it either way. I only wanted to get out of here. ‘Excuse me,' I said, brushing by him. ‘There's no town drunk here, you meddling son of a bitch,' he said, never looking at me and never missing a beat as he clapped. ‘We all just take turns.' It's a dream after all, I thought. It's a dream and that proves it. But the smell of tobacco on his breath wasn't a dream, the smell of the crowd wasn't a dream, and the weight of the frightened child in my arms wasn't a dream, either. My shirt was hot and wet where her face was pressed. She was crying. ‘Hey, Irish!' Sara called from the stage, and her voice was so like Jo's that I could have screamed. She wanted me to turn back I could feel her will working on the sides of my face like fingers but I wouldn't do it. I dodged around three farmers who were passing a ceramic bottle from hand to hand and then I was free of the crowd. The midway lay ahead, wide as Fifth Avenue, and at the end of it was the arch, the steps, The Street, the lake. Home. If I could get to The Street we'd be safe. I was sure of it. ‘Almost done, Irish!' Sara shrieked after me. She sounded angry, but not too angry to laugh. ‘You gonna get what you want, sugar, all the comfort you need, but you want to let me finish my bi'ness. Do you hear me, boy? Just stand clear! Mind me, now!' I began to hurry back the way I had come, stroking Ki's head, still holding her face against my shirt. Her straw hat fell off and when I grabbed for it, I got nothing but the ribbon, which pulled free of the brim. No matter. We had to get out of here. On our left was the baseball pitch and some little boy shouting ‘Willy hit it over the fence, Ma! Willy hit it over the fence!' with monotonous, brain-croggling regularity. We passed the Bingo, where some woman howled that she had won the turkey, by glory, every number was covered with a button and she had won the turkey. Overhead, the sun dove behind a cloud and the day went dull. Our shadows disappeared. The arch at the end of the midway drew closer with maddening slowness. ‘Are we home yet?' Ki almost moaned. ‘I want to go home, Mike, please take me home to my mommy.' ‘I will,' I said. ‘Everything's going to be all right.' We were passing the Test Your Strength pole, where the young man with the red hair was putting his shirt back on. He looked at me with stolid dislike the instinctive mistrust of a native for an interloper, per-haps and I realized I knew him, too. He'd have a grandson named Dickie who would, toward the end of the century to which this fair had been dedicated, own the All-Purpose Garage on Route 68. A woman coming out of the quilting booth stopped and pointed at me. At the same moment her upper lip lifted in a dog's snarl. I knew that face, too. From where? Somewhere around town. It didn't matter, and I didn't want to know even if it did. ‘We never should have come here,' Ki moaned. ‘I know how you feel,' I said. ‘But I don't think we had any choice, hon. We ‘ They came out of Freak Alley, perhaps twenty yards ahead. I saw them and stopped. There were seven in all, long-striding men dressed in cutters' clothes, but four didn't matter those four looked faded and white and ghostly. They were sick fellows, maybe dead fellows, and no more dangerous than daguerreotypes. The other three, though, were real. As real as the rest of this place, anyway. The leader was an old man wearing a faded blue Union Army cap. He looked at me with eyes I knew. Eyes I had seen measuring me over the top of an oxygen mask. ‘Mike? Why we stoppin?' ‘It's all right, Ki. Just keep your head down. This is all a dream. You'll wake up tomorrow morning in your own bed.' †Kay.' The jacks spread across the midway hand to hand and boot to boot, blocking our way back to the arch and The Street. Old Blue-Cap was in the middle. The ones on either side of him were much younger, some by maybe as much as half a century. Two of the pale ones, the almost-not-there ones, were standing side-by-side to the old man's right, and I wondered if I could burst through that part of their line. I thought they were no more flesh than the thing which had thumped the insulation of the cellar wall . . . but what if I was wrong? ‘Give her over, son,' the old man said. His voice was reedy and implacable. He held out his hands. It was Max Devore, he had come back, even in death he was seeking custody. Yet it wasn't him. I knew it wasn't. The planes of this man's face were subtly different, the cheeks gaunter, the eyes a brighter blue. ‘Where am I?' I called to him, accenting the last word heavily, and in front of Angelina's booth, the man in the turban (a Hindu who perhaps hailed from Sandusky, Ohio) put down his flute and simply watched. The snake-girls stopped dancing and watched, too, slipping their arms around each other and drawing together for comfort. ‘Where am I, Devore? If our great-grandfathers shit in the same pit, then where am I?' ‘Ain't here to answer your questions. Give her over.' ‘I'll take her, Jared,' one of the younger men-one of those who were really there said. He looked at Devore with a kind of fawning eagerness that sickened me, mostly because I knew who he was: Bill Dean's father. A man who had grown up to be one of the most respected elders in Castle County was all but licking Devore's boots. Don't think too badly of him, Jo whispered. Don't think too badly of any of them. They were very young. ‘You don't need to do nothing,' Devore said. His reedy voice was irritated; Fred Dean looked abashed. ‘He's going to hand her over on his own. And if he don't, we'll take her together.' I looked at the man on the far left, the third of those that seemed totally real, totally there. Was this me? It didn't look like me. There was something in the face that seemed familiar but ‘Hand her over, Irish,' Devore said. ‘Last chance.' ‘No.' Devore nodded as if this was exactly what he had expected. ‘Then we'll take her. This has got to end. Come on, boys.' They started toward me and as they did I realized who the one on the end the one in the caulked treewalker boots and flannel loggers' pants reminded me of: Kenny Auster, whose wolfhound would eat cake 'til it busted. Kenny Auster, whose baby brother had been drowned under the pump by Kenny's father. I looked behind me. The Red-Tops were still playing, Sara was still laughing, shaking her hips with her hands in the sky, and the crowd was still plugging the east end of the midway. That way was no good, anyway. if I went that way, I'd end up raising a little girl in the early years of the twentieth century, trying to make a living by writing penny dreadfuls and dime novels. That might not be so bad . . . but there was a lonely young woman miles and years from here who would miss her. Who might even miss us both. I turned back and saw the jackboys were almost on me. Some of them more here than others, more vital, but all of them dead. All of them damned. I looked at the towhead whose descendants would include Kenny Auster and asked him, ‘What did you do? What in Christ's name did you men do?' He held out his hands. ‘Give her over, Irish. That's all you have to do. You and the woman can have more. All the more you want. She's young, she'll pop em out like watermelon seeds.' I was hypnotized, and they would have taken us if not for Kyra. ‘What's happening?' she screamed against my shirt. ‘Something smells! Something smells so bad! Oh Mike, make it stop!' And I realized I could smell it, too. Spoiled meat and swampgas. Burst tissue and simmering guts. Devore was the most alive of all of them, generating the same crude but powerful magnetism I had felt around his great-grandson, but he was as dead as the rest of them, too: as he neared I could see the tiny bugs which were feeding in his nostrils and the pink corners of his eyes. Everything down here is death, I thought. Didn't my own wife tell me so? They reached out their tenebrous hands, first to touch Ki and then to take her. I backed up a step, looked to my right, and saw more ghosts some coming out of busted windows, some slipping from redbrick chimneys. Holding Kyra in my arms, I ran for the Ghost House. ‘Get him!' Jared Devore yelled, startled. ‘Get him, boys! Get that punk! Goddamnit!' I sprinted up the wooden steps, vaguely aware of something soft rubbing against my cheek Ki's little stuffed dog, still clutched in one of her hands. I wanted to look back and see how close they were getting, but I didn't dare. If I stumbled ‘Hey!' the woman in the ticket booth cawed. She had clouds of gingery hair, makeup that appeared to have been applied with a garden-trowel, and mercifully resembled no one I knew. She was just a carny, just passing through this benighted place. Lucky her. ‘Hey, mister, you gotta buy a ticket!' No time, lady, no time. ‘Stop him!' Devore shouted. ‘He's a goddam punk thief! That ain't his young ‘un he's got! Stop him!' But no one did and I rushed into the darkness of the Ghost House with Ki in my arms. Beyond the entry was a passage so narrow I had to turn sideways to get down it. Phosphorescent eyes glared at us in the gloom. Up ahead was a growing wooden rumble, a loose sound with a clacking chain beneath it. Behind us came the clumsy thunder of caulk-equipped loggers' boots rushing up the stairs outside. The ginger-haired carny was hollering at them now, she was telling them that if they broke anything inside they'd have to give up the goods. ‘You mind me, you damned rubes!' she shouted. ‘That place is for kids, not the likes of you!' The rumble was directly ahead of us. Something was turning. At first I couldn't make out what it was. ‘Put me down, Mike!' Kyra sounded excited. ‘I want to go through by myself!' I set her on her feet, then looked nervously back over my shoulder. The bright light at the entryway was blocked out as they tried to cram in. ‘You asses!' Devore yelled. ‘Not all at the same time! Sweet weeping Jesus!' There was a smack and someone cried out. I faced front just in time to see Kyra dart through the rolling barrel, holding her hands out for balance. Incredibly, she was laughing. I followed, got halfway across, then went down with a thump. ‘Ooops!' Kyra called from the far side, then giggled as I tried to get up, fell again, and was tumbled all the way over. The bandanna fell out of my bib pocket. A bag of horehound candy dropped from another pocket. I tried to look back, to see if they had got themselves sorted out and were coming. When I did, the barrel hurled me through another inadvertent somersault. Now I knew how clothes felt in a dryer. I crawled to the end of the barrel, got up, took Ki's hand, and let her lead us deeper into the Ghost House. We got perhaps ten paces before white bloomed around her like a lily and she screamed. Some animal something that sounded like a huge cat hissed heavily. Adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream and I was about to jerk her backward into my arms again when the hiss came once more. I felt hot air on my ankles, and Ki's dress made that bell-shape around her legs again. This time she laughed instead of screaming. ‘Go, Ki!' I whispered. ‘Fast.' We went on, leaving the steam-vent behind. There was a mirrored corridor where we were reflected first as squat dwarves and then as scrawny ectomorphs with long white vampire features. I had to urge Kyra on again; she wanted to make faces at herself. Behind us, I heard cursing lumberjacks trying to negotiate the barrel. I could hear Devore cursing, too, but he no longer seemed so . . . well, so eminent. There was a sliding-pole that landed us on a big canvas pillow. This made a loud farting noise when we hit it, and Ki laughed until fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, rolling around and kicking her feet in glee. I got my hands under her arms and yanked her up. ‘Don't taggle yer own quartermack,' she said, then laughed again. Her fear seemed to have entirely departed. We went down another narrow corridor. It smelled of the fragrant pine from which it had been constructed. Behind one of these walls, two ‘ghosts' were clanking chains as mechanically as men working on a shoe-factory assembly line, talking about where they were going to take their girls tonight and who was going to bring some ‘red-eye engine,' whatever that was. I could no longer hear anyone behind us. Kyra led the way confidently, one of her little hands holding one of my big ones, pulling me along. When we came to a door painted with glowing flames and marked THIS WAY TO HADES, she pushed through it with no hesitation at all. Here red isinglass topped the passage like a tinted skylight, imparting a rosy glow I thought far too pleasant for Hades. We went on for what felt like a very long time, and I realized I could no longer hear the calliope, the hearty bong! of the Test Your Strength bell, or Sara and the Red-Tops. Nor was that exactly surprising. We must have walked a quarter of a mile. How could any county fair Ghost House be so big? We came to three doors then, one on the left, one on the right, and one set into the end of the corridor. On one a little red tricycle was painted. On the door facing it was my green IBM typewriter. The picture on the door at the end looked older, somehow faded and dowdy. It showed a child's sled. That's Scooter Larribee's, I thought. That's the one Devore stole. A rash of gooseflesh broke out on my arms and back. ‘Well,' Kyra said brightly, ‘here are our toys.' She lifted Strickland, presumably so he could see the red trike. ‘Yeah,' I said. ‘I guess so.' ‘Thank you for taking me away,' she said. ‘Those were scary men but the spookyhouse was fun. Nighty-night. Stricken says nighty-night, too.' It still came out sounding exotic tiu like the Vietnamese word for sublime happiness. Before I could say another word, she had pushed open the door with the trike on it and stepped through. It snapped shut behind her, and as it did I saw the ribbon from her hat. It was hanging out of the bib pocket of the overalls I was wearing. I looked at it a moment, then tried the knob of the door she had just gone through. It wouldn't turn, and when I slapped my hand against the wood it was like slapping some hard and fabulously dense metal. I stepped back, then cocked my head in the direction from which we'd come. There was nothing. Total silence. This is the between-time, I thought. When people talk about ‘slipping through the cracks,' this is what they really mean. This is the place where they really go. You better get going yourself, Jo told me. If you don't want to find yourself trapped here, maybe forever, you better get going yourself. I tried the knob of the door with the typewriter painted on it. It turned easily. Behind it was another narrow corridor more wooden walls and the sweet smell of pine. I didn't want to go in there, something about it made me think of a long coffin, but there was nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. I went, and the door slammed shut behind me. Christ, I thought. I'm in the dark, in a closed-in place . . . it's time for one of Michael Noonan' s world-famous panic attacks. But no bands clamped themselves over my chest, and although my heart-rate was high and my muscles were still jacked on adrenaline, I was under control. Also, I realized, it wasn't entirely dark. I could only see a little, but enough to make out the walls and the plank floor. I wrapped the dark blue ribbon from Ki's hat around my wrist, tucking one end underneath so it wouldn't come loose. Then I began to move forward. I went on for a long time, the corridor turning this way and that, seemingly at random. I felt like a microbe slipping through an intestine. At last I came to a pair of wooden arched doorways. I stood before them, wondering which was the correct choice, and realized I could hear Bunter's bell faintly through the one to my left. I went that way and as I walked, the bell grew steadily louder. At some point the sound of the bell was joined by the mutter of thunder. The autumn cool had left the air and it was hot again stifling. I looked down and saw that the biballs and clodhopper shoes were gone. I was wearing thermal underwear and itchy socks. Twice more I came to choices, and each time I picked the opening through which I could hear Bunter's bell. As I stood before the second pair of doorways, I heard a voice somewhere in the dark say quite clearly: ‘No, the President's wife wasn't hit. That's his blood on her stockings.' I walked on, then stopped when I realized my feet and ankles no longer itched, that my thighs were no longer sweating into the longjohns. I was wearing the Jockey shorts I usually slept in. I looked up and saw I was in my own living room, threading my way carefully around the furniture as you do in the dark, trying like hell not to stub your stupid toe. I could see a little better; faint milky light was coming in through the windows. I reached the counter which separates the living room from the kitchen and looked over it at the waggy-cat clock. It was five past five. I went to the sink and turned on the water. When I reached for a glass I saw I was still wearing the ribbon from Ki's straw hat on my wrist. I unwound it and put it on the counter between the coffee-maker and the kitchen TV. Then I drew myself some cold water, drank it down, and made my way cautiously along the north-wing corridor by the pallid yellow glow of the bathroom nightlight. I peed (you-rinated, I could hear Ki saying), then went into the bedroom. The sheets were rumpled, but the bed didn't have the orgiastic look of the morning after my dream of Sara, Mattie, and Jo. Why would it? I'd gotten out of it and had myself a little sleepwalk. An extraordinarily vivid dream of the Fryeburg Fair. Except that was bullshit, and not just because I had the blue silk ribbon from Ki's hat. None of it had the quality of dreams on waking, where what seemed plausible becomes immediately ridiculous and all the colors both those bright and those ominous fade at once. I raised my hands to my face, cupped them over my nose, and breathed deeply. Pine. When I looked, I even saw a little smear of sap on one pinky finger. I sat on the bed, thought about dictating what I'd just experienced into the Memo-Scriber, then flopped back on the pillows instead. I was too tired. Thunder rumbled. I closed my eyes, began to drift away, and then a scream ripped through the house. It was as sharp as the neck of a broken bottle. I sat up with a yell, clutching at my chest. It was Jo. I had never heard her scream like that in our life together, but I knew who it was, just the same. ‘Stop hurting her!' I shouted into the darkness. ‘Whoever you are, stop hurting her!' She screamed again, as if something with a knife, clamp, or hot poker took a malicious delight in disobeying me. It seemed to come from a distance this time, and her third scream, while just as agonized as the first two, was farther away still. They were diminishing as the little boy's sobbing had diminished. A fourth scream floated out of the dark, then Sara was silent. Breathless, the house breathed around me. Alive in the heat, aware in the faint sound of dawn thunder.

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The Necklace and Story of an Hour are both short stories set in about the same time period, the late 1800’s, in private residences. The Necklace is a story about a woman, Madame Loisel that is unhappy with her simple life as a clerk’s wife. She is always daydreaming about the finer things in life and the riches that she feels that she is missing out on. â€Å"She suffered intensely, feeling herself born for every delicacy and every luxury. She suffered from the poverty of her dwelling, from the worn walls, the abraded chairs, the ugliness of the stuffs. † (de Maupassant, 1884). Madame Loisel’s husband, in an effort to try and bring her happiness, receives an invitation to a party with the elite townspeople. Still not happy because she did not have an appropriate dress to wear, Madame Loisel’s husband gives her the money he was saving for himself so she could go out and purchase a dress. Even then she is still not happy because she has no jewelry to wear with it. She asks her friend Madame Forrester to borrow her something appropriate and ends up borrowing a â€Å"diamond† necklace from her. Ultimately, the necklace is lost the night of the grand party. Madame Loisel and her husband end up working themselves to death for the next ten years to pay off the debt they incurred in replacing the necklace, which ended up being a fake in the end. Their life as they once knew it was over. Story of an Hour is a short story featuring Louise Mallard, an unhappy housewife with a heart condition. In the story she learns of her husband’s death and within minutes goes from weeping uncontrollably to happy and joyful. â€Å"She said it over and over under her breath: free, free, free! The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. † (Chopin, 1884). Mrs. Mallard felt oppressed in her marriage, that her husband did not love her and found a sense of freedom from his passing. â€Å"She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. † (Chopin, 1884). Ultimately, Mr. Mallard did not pass in the accident and when he came through the door and she saw him, Louise passed right then. Each story features an unhappy woman as the main character. Madame Loisel in The Necklace is unhappy with her financial situation, always fantasizing about the finer things in life. Louise Mallard in Story of an Hour is an unhappy housewife with a heart condition, feeling oppressed in her marriage. In the end, both women pay a price for their wants: Madame Loisel to be wealthy or seen as wealthy pays by having to sacrifice her life to work twice as hard to repay a debt. Louise Mallard wanting her freedom finally receives it when she hears her husband has been killed in an accident, only to lose it with her death as he actually walks in the door. Foreshadowing is used in both these stories as well. Foreshadowing is described in our textbook as:†A technique a writer uses to hint or suggest what the outcome of an important conflict or situation in a narrative will be† (Clugston, 2010). Foreshadowing gives us some clues as to some of the events that will may possibly unfold in the stories. In The Necklace, the line It was not I, madam, who sold this necklace. I only supplied the case. (de Maupassant, 1884) provides a small hint that the necklace may not in fact have been genuine diamonds. In Story of an Hour, the simple fact that the opening line stated Louise Mallard had a heart condition I feel, provided a clue right away as to the fact she would die in the story. The line â€Å"someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. † (Chopin, 1894), also gives a clue that she could be surprised enough to have her heart fail. â€Å"There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, and the color that filled the air. † (Chopin, 1894). This line, I feel, shows that Loise may even have felt her impending death. Possibly the reference in the line â€Å"But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air. † (Chopin, 1894), could be a reference as to Jesus coming to take her to heaven. Irony takes place in both of these stories as well. Irony is defined in out textbook as: â€Å"A discrepancy or contradiction occurs between what is expected to happen and what actually happens in a situation (situation irony) or in an expressed statement (verbal irony). † (Clugston, 2010). Irony is shown in The Necklace when Madame Loisel runs into Madame Forrester on the street. Her friend did not recognize her because she had aged so much from all the extra work she had to do to pay her debt. They have a conversation about the necklace and how she had lost it and replaced it, I brought you back another just like it. And now for ten years we have been paying for it. You will understand that it was not easy for us, who had nothing. At last, it is done, and I am mighty glad. (de Maupassant, 1884) and Madame Forrester replies Oh, my poor Mathilde. But mine were false. At most they were worth five hundred francs! (de Maupassant, 1884). Madame Loisel had the exact opposite of the life she had fantasized about. Irony is shown in Story of an Hour by the fact that Louise was so elated at the thought of her new found freedom that he started visualizing her future alone and thought â€Å"It was only yesterday she had though with a shudder that life might be long. † Little did she know her life would end up shorter than she could imagine. Both of these stories represent death in the way that Madame Loisel and her husband’s life as they knew it died the night the necklace was lost. Louise Mallard simply died, I feel, from seeing her freedom being taken away by her husband still being alive: her heart simply could not take it. She not only lost the freedom she so longed for when her husband walked through the door, death made it impossible for her to ever have that freedom. These stories hold differences as well. The Necklace is set in Paris and spans years while the Story of an Hour does not give an exact place but is most likely set near where the author lived in St. Louis, Missouri and only denotes one hour of time. In The Necklace, Madame Loisel’s husband is always trying to make her happy, first by bringing her an invitation: But, my dear, I thought you would be pleased. You never go out, and heres a chance, a fine one. I had the hardest work to get it. Everybody is after them; they are greatly sought for and not many are given to the clerks. You will see there all the official world. (de Maupassant, 1884) and giving her money to buy a dress. Even though Madame Loisel is unhappy with her financial situation, it is never implied that she is unhappy with her husband. In Story of an Hour however, it is implied that Louise Mallard is unhappy in her marriage and she did not feel loved by her husband, â€Å"the face that had never looked save with love upon her†. (Chopin, 1894) nor did she love him, â€Å"And yet she had loved him—sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! † (Chopin, 1894). I feel that the only time Louise Mallard is truly happy is when she thinks she finally has the freedom to do whatever she wants. Each of these stories has women represented in different ways, most likely because they were written by different gendered authors. Story of an Hour was written from a female point of view and The Necklace was written from a male point of view. The time frame in which these stories were written is a significant factor in the style they were written. The late 1800’s was the beginning of the Women’s Movement. Many women longed for freedom, and men still viewed them as property. Kate Chopin was called a Liberationist during this time. Lewis Leary speaks of her writings in that â€Å"she wrote also of people (mostly women) caged by convention or lured toward freedom which brings at one time happiness, at another disaster or rebuff. † (Leary, 1970). He also discusses her personal views during this era. †Ms. Chopin was in revolt against tradition and authority. She saw sex as something which could or could not be conjoined with love or marriage, and she daringly – how daringly for her time and place! – undertook to give the unsparing truth about woman’s submerged life. † (Leary, 1970). In Story of an Hour, Louise Mallard is a woman who feels oppressed in her marriage and longs for freedom. In The Necklace, written from male point of view, portrays Madame Loisel as a greedy, materialistic woman worried about status and not happy with what she has. â€Å"Since early times, women have been uniquely viewed as a creative source of human life. Historically, however, they have been considered not only intellectually inferior to men but also a major source of temptation and evil. In Greek mythology, for example, it was a woman, Pandora, who opened the forbidden box and brought plagues and unhappiness to mankind. Early Roman law described women as children, forever inferior to men. † (WIC, 1994). Most men during this period felt women were inferior and their place was as a homemaker. They were considered the weaker sex and had few rights and Maupassant was no exception. According to Karen Bernado â€Å"He enjoyed visiting brothels, and his easy familiarity with prostitutes is reflected in stories such as Boule de Suif Ball of Fat, a quasi-endearing nickname for a voluptuous whore. He recognized how people can be brought down by vanity, a situation depicted in his famous story The Necklace. And he was fascinated with humanitys darker side, as we learn from his masterful character study of an effeminate military officer in Mademoiselle Fifi. His lifestyle, however, was to prove de Maupassants undoing; he died insane and far too young from complications brought on by syphilis. †(Bernardo, nd). He viewed women as nothing more than objects. Maupassant was â€Å"a classicist by his nearly exclusive study of the subject of man, concentrating on the rational man. † (Moore, 1918). Some of the qualities credited to him are realism and impersonality. â€Å"Maupassant is a realist so long as, from the point of view of a detached observer. † (Moore, 1918). I feel that a womans’ role in the 1890’s affected the way Maupassant wrote this story. The relationship between content, form and style in these two stories are similar in many ways. Our textbook says: †Stories also reflect culture. The term culture refers to common characteristics of a group or a region. Culture is never static; it is a changing phenomenon, constantly reconfigured by human behavior, language, laws, events, patterns, products, beliefs, and ideals. To put it simply, culture refers to a way of life, an ethos. Writers often reflect a particular culture through the setting of a story or the spirit of the characters lives—providing insight, for example, into Southern culture, post–World War I culture, or global culture. In this way stories preserve culture: they freeze moments in time and create cultural awareness. †(Clugston, 2010). I believe both of these stories reflect the culture of the late 1800’s, from very different viewpoints, male and female, but provide a similar morality lesson. Both are short stories and contain a set up, build up and payoff. Short stories have a plot with conflict–driven, tied–together actions and events, a setting, clear time frame, characters, point of view, a theme and features that include tone, irony, and symbolism. Knowing or not knowing the terms presented in this paper does not help or hinder a personal connection someone may have with a particular piece. I know for myself, the personal message I received from these stories, was a reflection on my life and personal experiences. I see people ungrateful for what they have daily. I was one of those people once, a long time ago. When we long for things we do not have, it keeps us from seeing and appreciating what we do have. You get caught up in things, and become willing to lie, cheat, steal, to do whatever it takes to get what you want. Imagine if Madame Loisel had just been content with being invited to the party and not worried about a dress and jewelry? Or what if she had just told the truth about losing the necklace? She would probably have not had to work the next ten years and been able to enjoy life. Socrates once said â€Å"He who is not contented with what he has, would not be contented with what he would like to have. † The bible contains many parables about it as well and Proverbs 15:27 states â€Å"A greedy man brings trouble to his family, but he who hates bribes will live. † As you can see, there are many similarities and differences between the short stories The Necklace and Story of an Hour. I feel one important message contained in these to be happy with what you have, because greed will get you in the end, and both characters paid a price for their greed. If Madame Loisel had been happy with her life as it was, her husband would have never felt the need to acquire the invitation to the party, which ended up costing them years of their lives as well as money. For the next ten years Madame Loisel had a life less than what she started with, a big contrast to the life she fantasized about. Louise Mallard was unhappy in her marriage. Thinking she finally had her freedom when she thought her husband had been killed, she was overjoyed; only to have her heart give out when she found out her husband was still alive. We all should be careful what we wish for because we might just get it. References Chen PhD, E. (2009). The Reader-Centered Approach to Literature. Retrieved from http:/www. litguide. press. jhu. eduwww2. nkfust. edu. tw/~emchen/CLit/teach_reader- centered. htm Clugston, R. (2010). Journey into Literature. Bridgepoint Education, San Diego. Groden, M. Kreiswirth, M. and Szeman, I. 2005-2012. The John Hopkins Guide to Literary Theory and Criticism. Retrieved from http:// www. litguide. press. jhu. edu Leary, L. Kate Chopin, Liberationist? The Southern Literary Journal, Vol. 3, No. 1 (Fall, 1970), pp. 138-144. Retrieved from JSTOR online Ashford University. Moore, O. The Romanticism of Guy Maupassant. PMLA, Vol. 33, No. 1 (1918), pp. 96-134. WIC, 1994. Womens’ History in America. Retrieved from http://wic. org Retrieved from JSTOR online Ashford University.

Three Factors That Form Individual Ethics Philosophy Essay

Three Factors That Form Individual Ethics Philosophy Essay Ethics is the division of study commerce with suitable course of an achievement for man. It is the study of correct and wrong in individual endeavours. At a more primary level, it is the process where we categorize our values and practise them. Ethics in the field of philosophy means that the revise and assessment of human behaviour in the glow of moral theories. Moral theories might be observed additionally as the model of behaviour that human beings have built for themselves or as the remains of responsibilities and functions that a demanding society needs of its associates. Ethics can also be generally be defined as the principles of morally acceptable conduct of individuals. Ethics also means an individuals personal beliefs about right and wrong behaviours. Ethics is a must for human life. It is our indications of making our mind up a course of action. Without it, our battles would be haphazard and pointless. There can be no technique to work in the direction of an objective as there would be no method to choose between a never ending numbers of objectives. Yet with an ethical model, we might be not capable to practise our goals with the prospect of success. To the quantity which a realistic ethical model is taken, we are proficient to perfectly classify our goals and battles to accomplish our most imperative values. Any mistake in our ethics will ease our ability to be successful in our endeavours. A suitable base of ethics needs a standard of significance to which all objectives and battles can be balanced to. This model is our own lives, and the pleasure which makes them liveable. This is our vital model of importance, where the goal in which an ethical man must aim at all times. It is turn up at by an assessment of mans nature, and identify his strange needs. A structure of ethics must additionally consist of not only emergency circumstances, but the usual choices we make continuously. It must consist of our relations to others, and identify their importance not only to our physical endurance, but to our interests and happiness. Furthermore, ethics is also known as private set of values used by a person to direct their actions, and to be aware with any responsibility.   Ethics are not intention, but are slanted to the individual.   Ethics are a constantly developing policy of behaviour charge upon situations and the life practices of the individual. According to Mary, 1956, ethics are the relative to our observation of authenticity, and are also based in the lead of a detailed viewpoint. We  as human beings, the moral command are classified by the individuals.   It has been started when the children are being skilled with suitable behaviours based on common norms and parental significances.   These norms and values are being used to grant a structure for the progression of the individual values. Therefore, there has no perceptions can seek to define ethics.   It is not viable for any one of the persons to claim total common awareness and subjectivity.   In addition, human beings are not all-powerful and dependable.   Some of them may go all-out for the excellence, but our very humanness will certify that accomplishment is not attained. Meanwhile, it is agreed that ethics are the persons set of values, whereby they must not be used to create broad assertions of true or false without tolerate for disagreement and the argument.   Ethics have to be used to help each of the human beings to identify our own life so that we live as stated to the top forms that we, as individuals, advised to.   Ethics and loyalty to our standards are the guiding principle which we use to review our battles.   It is an appearance of self-measurement of development or of obligation to the perfects which we struggle towards. The factors in our usual life may give good reason for some action, or take the edge off its harshness; we are still dependable for our choices.   Choices need to be investigated before an enlightened choice is being made. Ethics need to be understood usually at times of predicament or an internalized modification.   This happens because a belief is been shown to be incorrect or when the certainty fails to take into reflection a very specific set of situations.   At those times, the entity should realistically view on their certainty, and make an internal inquiry as to the knowledge which had been produced by them.   Considerations are needed to verify if theres a new set of values is required, or if active values need only been modified to reflect those situation. Ethics must not be used to ditch one set of narrow faiths adjacent to another.   The split created by such traditions becomes one of severe obedience to a set of precise values, and teaches prejudice for variations in another set of significances. Ethics must not be followed sightless nor should share morals which can be spoken out the ethical norms for all those individuals. In example, where this has been happened, the loads have roller blindly followed like sheep, following the firm point of views of a selected numbers.   Ethics must not interrupt in the lead of the private lives of any other individuals who is not hurting anyone. Norms First factor that forms individual ethics is norms. Norms are a useful guideline for the social behaviour. It has to be made active before they can point the behaviour when the persons are in a situation of deindividuation. They only see themselves in the name of group individuality, and their behaviours are probable to be guided by group norms alone. Norm of social reciprocity expresses us to return to other services, good qualities and kindness they offer us. The door in the face technique is used in norms as thats not all technique, and in advertising the peak of the line. Norm of social commitments also expresses us to maintain with our promises as this norm is being used in the low-ball technique. In addition, norm of obedience directs us in the direction of submission to the abilities. Milgram explain this agreement in his studies where contributors had to deliver frights to suffering victims. It is also has the possibility to resist being influenced by norms. People who display their reactance by fighting against the fear to their liberty of action when they find norms were out of place. The attitudes and norms normally work simultaneously to manipulate behaviour either directly or indirectly. As stated in the theory of planned behaviour, purposes are the function of three factors which is manners about behaviour, common norms applicable to the behaviour and awareness of organized over the behaviour. Therefore, when the thoughts and norms disagree, their pressure on behaviour will depend on their relative convenience. There are 3 personal experience examples of norms as stated below: Thank you is an example of norms. This is expected when we as human being express appreciation for helpful, supportive and kind manners. We express sympathy by saying sorry to hear this when we hear about another individuals difficulty in any situation. Failing to express sympathy, might result in the view that the person is thoughtless. In our daily life, we should help the people who had helped us. You wish to take annual leave to attend relatives wedding and you suppose to work on the day. You asked your colleague to cover for you. And you may be expected to agree similar request from your colleague in future. Belief Belief is defined as the mental mind-set that some intentions are true. In most of the given intention, most of the individual either has or be short of the mental attitude that it is true. Therefore, there is none of any central point ground between the occurrences of nonappearance of a belief. For an example, in the case of gods, most of the individuals either have the belief that at least one god in a number of sorts is real or they lack any such belief. In addition, belief is different from judgment, which is a mental act that involves arriving at an ending about an intention and consequently creating a belief among the individuals. Whereby, belief is the mental thoughts that some intention is correct rather than wrong. Decision after believing in something is the evaluation of an intention as realistic, fair, confusing and etc. It is because one type of character is not necessary for a belief to be continuously and intentionally parented. A belief that thought a god exists often depends on a few other beliefs which some individuals have not intentionally considered. There are a few examples below based on my personal experience: There were a few situations where I pray to God for something good to happen and it eventually happened and I gained success through that. I started doing this after seeing my parents doing so. It has become a belief for me as I see what ever my parents pray for, will somehow come to reality one day. The same thing started happening to me. Since that my belief on God has become stronger. This clearly shows that a belief is a mental thought for some intentions to be correct. The other example which I can give for belief is in the method of rising up children. I grew up with the care and guidance of my parents. When I was young, I have already started believing that I would be a successful man in future just like my parents because I believed that they would put me in correct path of life for me to gain success. I followed the exact path and I gained success just like how I thought and believed that it would happen one day. I believed my life path showed by my parents and here where I am today with good job and education. My belief has lead to a realistic in my life. Values Values can be defined as the foundation of beliefs of the persons which guide and encourage their attitudes and also actions. A few of the most essential ethical values are truthfulness, commitment, integrity and equality. Bear in mind that not all are ethical or moral values. Therefore, a number of non-ethical values which are considered to be the ethical impartial since they are neither principled nor not principled whereby it inspires behaviour are wealth, status, happiness, attractiveness, taste, comfort and success. These are ethic impartial because there is nothing right with these principles in and of themselves, but how one attains these and what one carries out with these can be right or wrong. Principle values are believed to always take priority over non-ethical morals. Individual moral values are significant in determining principled behaviour, but it is not concentrate on important theoretical ethics predominantly when there is a variation between our individual moral po int and our responsibilities to the patient. As for me, many beliefs have changed to values. For instance being caring towards others has become a value because I believed that if I care for a person, I will be cared in return. This statement was brought by my parents where they will keep reminding me to be caring to people around us. This principle or quality that we hold guide the way we live our lives and also decisions we make. It is really worthy to make this belief a value in our life as we build good behaviour in ourselves by being caring and helpful towards people. This actually is inherited and for sure we will bring this value down to the next upcoming generations. In another situation, the change of the belief to a value can be explained through another experience of mine. Since I was a teenager, I have the belief that it is important to spend quality time with our family. We believed that when we spend time together, a lot of problems can be solved. For instance, if any of us have headache, or stressful due to a work or studies, we will mingle and have a close conversation or do some other activities with our family members and that eventually reduces the headache and stress. In other word, it can be said that we help each other to ease our difficulties. Therefore, I believed very much that spending time together with our family can make us cheerful and free from stress. This belief has changed to value where we hold to it tightly. We made sure to follow this value of sharing ears and shoulders, and helping one another in every situation. This also has led me and other family members to take this value up and control or change how we live our lives. Our life which is based on a personal code of values brings meaning, purpose, and direction to living. How the rule of law can be used as guide to moral choice Rules and regulations can be found in many places but when it comes to official rules and regulations they are referred as law. Law is generated in a society to control the behavior of people that constitute the society. Law is generally found in organizations, legislation and legal opinions. It is also known as a formal mechanism to control socialism. Law is very important and useful to establish and maintain social order. (Glanville Williams) Rules of law can be considered as the base for setting up a society and it helps in making positive changes to the ways of bringing up the society. When a person has the knowledge of law, they can understand public affairs better which is really important for establishment of a society. When law is studied, it will promote some understanding of social values. Thus, it makes the person to choose rules of law for a society by comparing the good effects and bad effects they may have on the society. This choice of rules will create good ethics for the society. All the members must follow the rules accordingly and that will eventually create a good social order. For an example, when the organization set a rule for its members on not to be harsh on the customers, the members should always keep that in mind and obey it all the time. If at all they disobey the rule, they may need to be out of the society or be sacked. Therefore, this rule can be a guide for people to be ethical in that society. They will make sure that they do not be harsh on others in order to maintain a good social order. Social order is considered as an organization or mechanism that exists with the enforcement of rules of laws. A person must learn to obey the rules that are set up for the organization or society and accept them in order to fit him or herself in that society. For most cases, social order is always pre-developed which means it is usually inherited by the older people of that society. They integrated cultures and personalities as a guide to develop the ideas and beliefs for the society which has changed into moral values. In addition to that, moral values shape a persons behaviour and it also manage the group activity within that society. If the established law or values are not followed by the members of a society, conflict may arise. Therefore an organization should always make sure that their members always follow the values practised in that organization in order to maintain smooth relationships and healthy environment. Summary Ethics is the formal study of moral standards and conduct. For this reason ethics is also known as moral philosophy. The study and evaluation of human conduct in the light of moral principles that humans have constructed for themselves or as the life guidelines and cultures that a particular society requires for its own members. We had discussed ethics in 3 subtopics which is norms, values and beliefs. In conclusion, first of all, norms are useful tool for the social behaviour of a person towards his daily activity and possess acceptable behaviours that are the unintended, unexpected result of individuals communications. For example, a system of norms specified what is satisfactory and what is not satisfactory in a society or group. Belief is defined as the mind-set of a person that intentions are true, and confidence in the fact or way of life of something. It is proof of a mental attitude of acceptance toward a proposition without the full intellectual evidence required to guarantee its truth. Beliefs have been well-known according to their level of certainty which is mistrust, an opinion, or a confidence. Belief becomes awareness only when the truth of a intention becomes obvious to the believer himself. Values can be concluded as the foundation of beliefs of the persons which guide and encourage their attitudes and belief. There are three main theories of values which humans can have favoured values, instrumental values and fundamental values. Each of it plays an important and unique role in our life in the development of moral standards and moral norm. Values are about belief and ideas of culture that are acceptable or not by a society. Besides that, rules of law that are chosen for an organization or society can be used as a guide to moral choice. When rules are to be followed by the members of the organization, a healthy environment and a good social order can be maintained. Rules that are formed in a society will ensure that all the members follow them that eventually become moral values in that organization. When the entire members act according to the moral values formed through the rules, an ethical organization can be formed.