November 23-24: All libraries will be closed for the Thanksgiving holiday.
Be warned: This film is rated R.
Sicario is a tense film to say the least. At all times, it is both an intriguing mystery and an action filled thriller. No one knows what really is happening for the majority of the movie, elevating the tension further. Denis Villeneuve (director of the Hugh Jackman gem that is Prisoners) created a fantastic, incredibly exciting movie about the drug trade in Mexico.
Emily Blunt stars as Kate, a young ambitious member of the Arizona Kidnap Response Team. After raiding an explosive rigged house, she is chosen for an interdepartmental operation aimed at screwing up the operations of the Mexican Cartel, specifically bringing down the boss. Soon however, she starts to find out what really is going on. Emily, her boss Matt (Josh Brolin) and the mysterious teammate Alejandro (Benicio Del Toro) depart to Mexico, not exactly knowing what will happen.
Villeneuve is a master of building tension. He excels at using the frame of the shot to capture this, limiting what the viewer sees and knows. This creates the uneasy feeling that anything, or anyone, could be around the corner. Using a screenplay that is complicated to say the least, Villeneuve captures the essence of every character and every scene.
The bleak landscape perfectly captures the tone of the film. The cinematographer Roger Deakins had worked previously with Villeneuve, delivering the bleak world of Prisoners. This time around, he captures the beauty and desolate landscape around the characters, showing how small they truly are compared to the world.
Even though there is fantastic directing, brilliant cinematography, and a great script, the film really shines with the acting. Blunt is shown to be physically weaker than her counterparts, but morally stronger. She carries the viewer through all of the disturbing parts of the film, creating a relatable, believable protagonist. It’s an incredibly hard thing to do, and she does it masterfully. Benicio Del Toro is at his most awesome since The Usual Suspects, portraying Alejandro as a mysterious, incredibly dangerous man with nothing to lose. Josh Brolin delivers needed comic relief at the best times as Matt. All three of the actors give Oscar worthy performances.
The film begins explaining the name Sicario. It is spanish for hitman, originating in ancient Jerusalem for hunters of Romans. And really, it could describe almost any of the characters in the film, the notions of good and bad mixed up. The film masterfully delivers a morally ambiguous tale wrought with tension, and is highly recommended. 9/10
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Image Credit:Roey Ahram on Flickr.
Be warned: This film is rated R.
The Green Inferno is gruesome but not great.
Eli Roth has developed somewhat of a cult following. With his films like Hostel and Cabin Fever, horror fans were excited to see a new, interesting, and incredibly graphic voice in Hollywood. 8 years after the disappointment that was Hostel: Part 2, Roth returns to director's chair for his new offering of gory violence in the form of The Green Inferno.
Clearly inspired by older films like Cannibal Holocaust, The Green Inferno’s story is familiar to say the least. It focuses on the young college student Justine (Lorenza Izzo) as she joins a group called ACT, devoted to social justice. The group, led by the charismatic Alejandro (Ariel Levy), travels to Peru to stop the demolition of the rainforest. While trying to stop the construction workers, the group’s plane crashes in the middle of the forest and the survivors captured by a primitive tribe of cannibals.
This film, although wrought with great ideas and great things, comes together to form an incredibly underwhelming movie. The first act, focused on New York and Justine’s college is by far the weakest. The production value looked exceedingly low, like a cheap television show. None of it was pleasant to watch. Justine’s roommate Kaycee (Sky Ferreria) was notably an unpleasant presence. The overall acting of the entire film was subpar. No one actor was outstanding or even particularly believable.
The writing didn’t do them any favors however. The characters are extremely flat, offering no humanity among the horror. The villain is extremely evil. The hero is extremely innocent and noble. The list goes on from there, and these characters create other problems. They don’t allow the audience to really connect with any characters. The only reason to not want someone to die is so one doesn’t have to endure another bloodbath. That is unless of course you enjoy excessive gore, in which case you just want all the characters to die as soon as possible.
The gore was excessive, creating an overall cartoonish tone rather than tension. Strange bits of bad humor are peppered throughout the film too, creating an extremely inconsistent tone. For example, one of the characters gets sick and excretes fecal matter all over the corner of the cage the tribespeople are keeping them in. What was probably meant to be a joke just makes the audience uncomfortable, pulling them out of the experience.
The film does have a lot of really good attributes. The tribe was extremely creepy and scary, both in behavior and physically. The two head tribe members extremely memorable. The concept of ACT not sharing moral similarities with the tribe heightens the tension, allowing no middle ground between the two groups.
The directing is also excellent. This being Roth’s fourth movie, he has gotten tension building down. (When the script allows it) Roth genuinely makes things tense when people aren’t getting eaten or mutilated. Using a red and green color palate, the entire setting comes alive.
The Green Inferno also has some interesting story ideas. The evil and good forces repeatedly get muddled throughout the movie, keeping with a theme that there is no absolute bad or good.
In the end, The Green Inferno is just sort of mediocre. The violence is excessive, the acting is subpar, the writing is less than good. Despite the interesting story and cool tribe, I can’t recommend this film to anyone unless they are a die hard Eli Roth fan or are looking for an exceedingly gorey distraction. 5/10
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Image credit: Erin from Flickr
*This review may contain spoilers*
Okay, now before I begin, I would like to get one thing straight. The movie is nothing like the book. Now I know a lot of people get bent out of shape about this, but at the cost of turning a successful book into a movie, in had to be made so people who didn’t read the book can understand and enjoy it. This particular series in question has a lot of mysterious elements and plot points, which can be tedious for people who haven’t read the book. So in the movie, they removed these parts and added explanations that were not book canon. Now that that is out of the way, here’s my opinion: It was a bad movie.
I saw The Scorch Trials the day before it was released, as I do for every successful movie, and I was not impressed. The movie started out fine. Not a spitting image of the book, but I can get past that. However, there was a huge plot reveal really soon that was not only poorly timed, but poorly handled. None of the previous characterizations from the books or the first movie were present in this chain of events. It also had no sense of urgency; none of the main cast were affected by it, nor were any secondary characters.
After this plot reveal, the main cast was in a tedious state of constant peril. They were never stable, even for five minutes. WCKD would find them, or the Cranks would. It was supposed to show the danger of their situation, but honestly it was like they had no actual plot to fill the 2 hour run time so they filled it with running and firefights.
Then the fight scenes. There were wayyyyy too many. Again, I believe that these were just to fill time. But they became extraneous and tiring. I had a headache at the end, no joke. I have a feeling the purpose of these scenes was to show that they were “No longer in the maaazzzeeee” (cue dramatic music), but the transition was rocky, and it felt like the Maze never happened, as it was rarely mentioned and the characters immediately adjusted to the Scorch.
Last, over the course of the movie, I felt like there was little of the original characterizations that were prevalent in The Maze Runner series and movie. Thomas was impulsive as always, but not at the right times. He fought the wrong fight, to put it simply. Like, why the heck did he care so much about x subject, even though it had no effect on him? Minho had very few lines as far as I can remember, and as for being the “Leader”, he did very little leading. He also lost all of his snarkiness, which was important part of his character. Newt went out the window. Honestly they were like two different people. I didn’t really like Teresa, even in the first one, so I didn’t pay all that much attention to her. However, even just recalling this stuff (all of the prior and future comments are/were thoughts made during movie), her motives were unclear, even in the times she was literally EXPLAINING her motives. And Frypan didn’t even cook (that’s all I remember about his character). Winston dies, who was inexplicably my favorite character in the book/movie, but his death was meant to be way more of a shock than it really was.
Overall, I thought it was a poorly written movie, and although the actors were good in it, I feel like this movie was very bad, and so different than the predecessor that if you liked The Maze Runner movie (like myself), I recommend skipping this one and just reading what happened on the Wikipedia page later. However, if you hated the first movie, I don't know, maybe give this one a try. You’ll probably hate this one too, but maybe not. And if you’re one of those people who bookmark every inaccuracy made in the movie into the book, don’t see it. However, if you want to see a movie that doesn’t require much concentration, or like Dylan O’Brien, definitely see this movie.
He found he could not breathe.
“The window.” He murmured, and fumbled with the latch. He threw it open, and frosty air slipped into his lungs. He convulsed momentarily, grasping the corners of the window frame to keep from falling, before collapsing against a wooden chair and throwing his head back into his hands.
He sighed, staring at the half-finished painting in front of him. Acrylics lay scattered around the splintery easel, and dabs of paint littered the corner of what appeared to be a half-finished portrait.
Lingering only a second, his eyes darting across the painting, he grasped a brush. With a fluid motion, he dabbed it across the black pigments spilling from a paint tube.
The portrait's single completed eye stared at him, wanting. He could scavenge it. The eye was fine, only, he needed to correct the hair--no, it wouldn't do.
It wasn't her.
With a violent striking motion, he splattered the paint across the paper in a careless X. Something like exhaustion settled in his veins at the first shiver of the paper's texture running through his skin, and he leaned back into his chair once more.
"I can't do it." He murmured. The window was still unlatched, and it was beginning to get chilly. He pulled it closed rather absentmindedly, leaving it cracked the slightest bit open. Somewhere beyond, he could hear music. A concert in town?
“I need a break.“ He thought to himself, before retaliating against himself. “I have work to do.”
Something struggled inside him. He glanced around his studio, at the paints that had once seemed vibrant, at the spools of paper dotting scattered shelves. It felt dead, somehow, lifeless with repetition. Blankets covered a pile of junk in the corner--even more failed projects.
The sun glimmered through the tiny crack in the window, illuminating the black X on his painting.
He stepped outside. The music was still playing, although it felt even more distant. He shivered; he'd forgotten to take a jacket with him, and found the snow seeping through his shoddy boots.
"What lovely weather." He murmured to himself, staring at the grays of the sky and the snow. The city stretched out before him, covered in muted colors and faint sunshine.
It stretched before him, enormous, a canvas waited to be used.
"Stop that." He could hear screeching. “I don't care,” he thought. “I should care, and I don't, and I'm sorry that I don't, but I don't. I don't care so much at all.”
Red paint ran down his arms, staining his apron. The streets of the city ran red, and blue, and yellow with paint, which lit the inky road a mirage of explosive colors.
"This is green." He murmured, splashing it onto the sidewalk. "Here is blue." He tried to dab it onto the cracks--someone was grasping his shoulders, speaking into his ear. He pushed them back, stumbled. The paint can fell, splattering across the snow and rolling downhill the empty road.
He could hear yelling. It sounded muted, as though he were underwater. His heart was trembling, and he couldn't' have cared less.
It wouldn't have mattered. He had spent years alone, hunched over an easel, and his muscles were limp from lack of use. He found himself fighting, but his arms wouldn't move the way he told them to. He felt sluggish, frustrated. His legs couldn't run, and he spat at them. “You're my legs, aren't you? Get up!”
It was cold in the hospital.
He watched the clock tick closer and closer to midnight, playing with the edge of his sheets. It had been a week already. He was annoyed, annoyed that they wouldn't let him back into the streets to finish his work, annoyed that they wouldn't even let him back to his studio at the top of the little hill.
He had stopped caring an hour earlier, when a chill had settled inside the clean rooms. It smelled strongly of antiseptic. Each time a nurse opened the door to check on him, he thought he could smell the cold. Smell it.
Perhaps someone has died, he thought, vaguely.
It felt like he was in a morgue. Silence, the occasional patter of footsteps, and now the frigid air.
He sat up. The sheets rustled, and he was careful to quiet them.
The walls were white, the walls were white, the walls were white. There were no boundaries. He felt surrounded, surrounded by a blank parchment paper--only this time, without boundaries. He spun around in a circle, arms flinging out. Is this what heaven looks like, he wondered, bright all around but for my own breathing and the beating of my heart? What a cruel, cruel place.
He needed paint.
Color, any color. He glanced at the bed-stand and found grape juice.
He splattered it against the walls, watched as it dripped down and formed puddles against the bed. He dipped his fingers in it and ran them along the wall, drawing swirling lines and intricate doodles, of which he scribble over and over and over again. Violently crossing them out, a red sheen beginning to show against his forehead.
"Not right," He muttered, feverish, "not right." He traced another eye and found that, at the very least, he could remember and illustrate one mere part of her. He tried to add to it--but it wasn't the same, it wasn't the same person at all. His hand smeared it out, and he glanced down and the feeble cup in his hands.
He was running out of juice.
He wondered where he was.
A hand stroked his face, played with the stubble that had grown across his chin. He tried to tilt his neck, to see who it might be, but the dream fell away just as they let out a giggle.
Evelina, he thought, and his heart let out a pang.
They were watching him, he knew. He was somewhere else now, somewhere far away. It smelled like lavender half the time, and the other half of the time it smelled like nothing at all. The walls were beige, the floor was patterned wood, and his bed had sheets the color of roses.
“They were careful this time, weren't they?” He thought of this to himself mildly, tracing the scars along his arm with his finger. The scratches he had made a month since, to color the walls and bring them to life.
He could draw her nose now, he found.
It satisfied him, and he was content to lay back in the plush bed and let the nurses bring food and drink to him. He could look out the window from here, and what he saw was magnificent. A beautiful lake and river system, coated in whitewater and violent boulders. “How lovely, how lovely,” he thought to himself, and tears flooded his eyes at the beauty of it.
He asked for paper.
A pencil, as well, but this they only gave to him on the condition that an assistant stood by at all times.
It snowed again.
By now, his notebook was filled to the brim with sketches and doodles. He had flipped back through it, trying to find space, filling every last bit of lined brightness the papers had to offer.
His hand ached. He stared down at the drawing. Her eyes and nose were exactly like he remembered them. But her lips, no, they were flawed. Angrily, he grasped the notebook and tried to rip it. He found he lacked the strength to do so, and satisfied himself with tossing it across the room.
“I'll never get it right,” he though desperately.
He wasn't content anymore. Just knowing that he was close--so close--it pained him, clawed at him, the tantalizing outcome only so far away. Sinking into the wall of pillows on his bed, he stared vacantly out the window. It was snowing in flurries, a brilliant blizzard that obscured the lake beyond. He stood and crept near the window.
He tested it. Locked, as it had been the last time he felt desperate enough to check. The glass panes grew foggy from his breath, and he inhaled. Exhaled.
He touched it, quietly, listening to the beating of his heart.
They had...they had held storms. A stroke of his finger, and an eye emerged.
Prominent, she strove to hide it behind a fleeting smile. He drew her nose, curved and crooked along the tip.
Soft. He hesitated, his hand touching the glass lightly, carefully, shyly, as though it were her skin. Lovely.
Here. Her lips, and he laughed in delight when he found, he could draw her, he could draw her, he could draw her.
If only he could show her.
The snow settles on an age-old graveyard, covered with cracks and falling snow. A bucket of paint lies besides it, toppled, empty, and rusted, bolted to the ground in chains. A paintbrush is screwed to it, coated in frost.
I fell in love with myself,
and with a lovely painter,
before Death fell in love
A man sits on the ground and cries. Behind him stand two nurses, averting their eyes.
"Lina," He murmurs, shivering in the cold. His bones are frail, frailer than they should be. "I did it, Lina. I wish you could have been there to see. Oh, I wish you could have been there to see!"
He touches the paintbrush, faded and gray, clutches the handle of the paint can with his scarred hand. Evelina touched this bucket, he thinks, Evelina touched this paintbrush.
In the storm, an old man's shoulders are racked with sobs. He craves the past, he craves it, because he knows it is time to let go.
Something is missing, and it will always be this way.
He has realized this by now. It does not stop him anymore, does not pull at him as it did years prior. He no longer obsesses over the same drawing, repeating it over and over again from morning until night. His studio is no longer claustrophobic, but a place of exploration.
He sits at the window, as she had done once, long ago. He stares down the street and paints the lamps lighting the cobblestone at night, or the children who clamber over the garden wall on dares, or the old couples who sit on benches, side by side and huddling together. He paints what he sees, and lets memories go.
Only now and then does he let himself slip. He sits in his blankets for hours and watches the clock tick, before curling open a sketchbook with one hand. An eye, another, a nose, lips. Evelina. He stops and stares at it, something like sorrow in his expression before he quietly shuts the book.
He turns. The light clicks off, and he goes to sleep.
I have moved on. He wanders in his dreams, a mindless wander, instead of desperate. No longer does he try to push back the walls of time. The words drift in his consciousness, soft edges against a field of dreams. No longer.
I have moved on.
Image Credit Samantha Ward-Carnegie Melon on Flickr.
As a child, the sky is the limit. You can say you want to be a ballerina one day and the President of the United States the next, and no one will object. They will smile and tell you to pursue whatever you want to do. As you grow older, everything becomes convoluted. No longer is the route to life a clear cut line, black and white, right and wrong. No longer can you choose to do something on a whim; instead, you have responsibilities to fill—homework, jobs, and family to list a few. Somewhere along life’s journey, we lose our way, and we may become full of doubt on whether or not we are walking in the right direction.
As an aspiring artist and photographer, I question my abilities. Will I ever become good enough to do what I love as a job? Should I pursue this career or should I strive for a more financially stable career? All these questions plague me on a day to day basis. At the end of the day though, very few to none of these questions are answerable at the present moment, so why should I fret over them?
I created the painting “A Dance with the Clouds” on a whim. I thought back to the mindset of my 5 year old self and just let myself do what I love—I painted. I didn’t know what I wanted to paint, but I knew I wanted to create something. I opened up Photoshop and I chose a brush and just began to lay in some color until shapes were formed. Perhaps I started the piece with uncertainty, but by the end of it, I knew what I wanted it to look like.
In my life, I’m still on the step of layering color hoping something takes shape. I don’t know where I’m going to college, I don’t know what career I will ultimately choose to pursue, and I don’t know what the future holds, but I will continue to live my life until something takes shape. Nothing will take shape though if I don’t take the initiative to at least try.
Outlived them all -
After one passes,
Pick yourself up,
After a phase
Scrounge up the courage
To get another -
Each gives me a piece of their heart
As I give them all of mine.
But are they really each so different?
All the same
In heart and dedication -
Those floppy ears
That perk at each sound;
That ever-wagging tail
Always happy to greet me.
Another takes its place,
A never-ending cycle.
Maybe they are not multiple
But one and the same:
Always my best friend.
Image Credit Spookfisheye on Flickr.
The time has come to vote for your top 10 favorite titles of 2015! Voting for the 2015 Teens' Top Ten is now open through Teen Read Week (Oct. 18-24). There are 24 titles to choose from or you can nominate your favorite book that didn't make the list. Not sure about some of these titles? Take a look at the book trailers to see for yourself.
It is said that there are very few heroines. This is true, for strength is a trait commonly reserved for men. Women on the other hand, are given traits like knowledge and beauty. But on one day, on the island of Crete, a baby girl was born. She was perfect in every sense of the word; exemplary, flawless, faultless. This was to be expected though; she was the daughter of two gods, Athena and Apollo.
Her name was Andreia. Athena and Apollo were inquisitive and questioned what their wonderful daughter would come to be known for.
Would it be strength like Hercules?
Bravery like Perseus?
Or would she take after her mother? For years they watched Andreia grow, fiercely training in combat and excelling in everything she did.
At the age of sixteen, Andreia was given her first set of armor which included the best crafted sword and shield made by Hephaestus himself. Apollo had already given her his gift years before: a beautiful lyre crafted with the love and pride of his heart. Andreia possessed her father's love and talent for music and was unquestionably beautiful like her mother. She had hypnotizing jade eyes and cascading hair the color of fire embers drifting through the empty night sky. She also showed tremendous strength and bravery like Hercules.
A few weeks later, Andreia came home from a long day of brutal training only to find her home engulfed in deep red-blue flames. Her house was engulfed in the hungry flames and her childhood memories flashed before her eyes. Full of rage, she assumed Hades was the culprit of the destruction. Her thoughts were confirmed.The sound of air snapping in on itself pierced the air as Hades returned to his realm.
Quickly, she was informed by Apollo that Hades had taken his precious golden lyre in a fit of jealousy, for he wished to be wanted and welcomed instead of being banished to the underworld. Doing this, Hades left both worlds - leaving gods and humans without music forever unless the lyre was returned.
In the middle of preparing for the journey to the Underworld Andreia confronted Apollo to ask if she could go in his place. He refused and told her she was too young and dainty for such a dangerous and tedious task. But Athena was lurking in the shadows listening in. She thought it wasn’t fair to keep Andreia from her first quest. And a great quest at that, as it was a once in a lifetime trip to the Underworld. She knew she had trained her daughter for a momentous occasion such as this, and felt that denying her this wasted the past sixteen years of training for the moment when she would depart on her first journey. Andreia was brave, strong and more than capable of protecting herself from danger to be able to come home safely.
For weeks, Apollo and Athena argued about whether or not she should go. Apollo was discouraging, telling Andreia that she would never be able to complete such a task, fearing he would lose his beloved daughter forever to Hades. Finally, Athena came to her senses and decided one night she would help Andreia on her first journey to retrieve the lyre without her father's permission
At dawn the next day she would set off equipped with her armor and the cloak of swiftness and silence to sneak past the gates of the Underworld.
At the gates to the Underworld she slipped on her cloak to slyly get past Cerberus: Hades’ three-headed, dragon-tailed beast of a dog. That was the easiest part and didn't require any work. Next she had to reach the center of the Underworld where she would find Hades. The only way to get to the core was to walk along Hades’ rivers. The first was the Cocytus River. It was also known as the River of Wailing, because the tormented souls that inhabited the Underworld lived in this river, constantly moaning in sorrow and pain. With two more rivers to go Andreia was already regretting the journey. She was mentally exhausted after spending hours listening to the souls. But determined to prove her father wrong she treaded on.
The next river was very common among the gods, known as the River of Hate or River of Styx. The Shades of the Underworld traveled by this river. Andreia was taught at a young age about the Shades. They are smoky versions of their former selves. They keep the negative emotions they died with, such as hate and anger. As Andreia passed the very last Shade, she heard a noise and smoothly and quickly unsheathed her sword, preparing for battle. When she turned around she saw Hades’ very own monsters. They were so dangerous he only needed two in order to protect the entire underworld. With fangs as deadly as a freshly sharpened sword and a flesh eating acid in place of saliva the monsters could kill almost anything in its path. The monsters towered over her, slime dripping from their blood red bodies. She tilted her head back to fully see them, it was then she remembered her lyre. Andreia pulled it from the chain around her neck and in the same motion and began to play a rhythm so fast and high pitched it caused even the great beats to collapse on the floor in fear.
Hades heard the ruckus and instantly appeared in front of her. He ordered his monsters to seize Andreia. They marched behind Hades to his dungeons. The monsters threw Andreia violently to the floor like rag doll. Hades knew what she wanted and like Athena forewarned her he offered her a deal. He told her she could leave without the lyre and she would leave on the same risky path she came. Or, she could be locked away in Tartus with the Titans for ten years and, if she survived she would be free to take the lyre back home to her father and he would personally escort her. She decided it was too late to turn back and took Hades’ offer of spending ten years with Titans.
Hades was thrilled she chose his devious option. He confiscated all of her weapons, armor and lyre and took her down to the depths of the underworld, to Tartus, and bound her in the same bitter chains the Titans were eternally bound in. Once Hades was sure Andreia was secured, he traveled to find Athena and Apollo and silently gave them the gifts they had given their daughter only months before. He left with an arrogant smirk before any questions could be asked. Apollo was enraged; his stormy words tore through the sky as he blamed Athena for the death of their daughter.
For the next ten years Andreia was tortured but to her it was worth it as long as she got to bring the lyre back to her father and make the gods proud. The entire time Andreia was in Tartus her parents believed her dead and did not speak a single word each other because Apollo was still angry and resentful because towards Athena for her seemingly naive decision.
At last, after ten years of suffering for all involved, apart from the one behind it all, Andreia was released. With the skin around her wrists and ankles burned, cut and bruised from the chains Hades took her home to Crete. He had since been exiled from the island and could not return so instead of taking her directly to her house, he left her at the edge of the island with only a sword and the lyre she worked so hard for. Once again he left with an all knowing smirk.
She was left to trudge home, the blackness of the night concealing everything around her. Carefully she felt before taking each step, halfway home she sat down to rest her tired legs. The sun was beginning to rise, covering the earth with a pale pink blanket. Taking in her surroundings, she saw a serpent like head slowly rise up, then two, then three. They rose up and up and up. Recognizing it has the Lernaean Hydra, she realized why Hades was wearing his signature smirk; he had summoned the hydra here. Knowing the only way to kill it was to plunge the sword deep into its throat without touching or inhaling its poisonous breath, she contemplated how to go about slaying it.
Andreia charged at it with sword in hand and leaped up to put the sword down its throat but instead sliced off one of the heads. In its place grew two more. The creature reeled all four heads back and swept them in her direction, knocking her off of her feet and throwing her into a tree cutting up the side of her face. Blood dripping down her face and neck and anger boiling her blood, she charged at the monster once again determined to hit her target this time. She was not about to let a glorified snake get in her way after coming this far. As she felt the sword slip down the throat of the first head, she jumped back and watched the body fall with a thud that shook the ground. Proudly she stomped away from the body and sprinted the rest of the way home.
Around noon she arrived home beaten, bloody and bruised. Her father was facing away from her when she first saw him. Quietly she snuck up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned around she presented him with the lyre at last. He pulled her into a hug, relieved she was not dead and proud of her for completing her first quest. She had successfully returned music to the worlds.
If you're interested in learning more about Greek Mythology check out the library's Gods, Goddesses and Mythology database.
Image Credit Giorgos~ on Flickr.
In a broken world
Grey and void of hope
Tears hit the dust
For they are no more
Many are hopeless
They can’t see the light
But as for me
I see differently
For I see rainbows in the road
Made from the dust of dreams
Dropped from the minds and thoughts of those
Who left them all behind.
I see memories
All but forgotten
Just a small taste
Of what it once was
Hopes long abandoned
Dropped into the dirt
And as for me?
I see differently
For I see hope that will not die
No matter where it lies
Given back to all the people
This is where it will thrive
Image Credit: Laura D. Whitehead on Flickr