The Forgotten Zodiac

The glass doors slide open, and you enter the store, Moreno Ink- home of the world’s greatest writing utensils- and look around. Your whole life has been building up to this moment, when you have finally risen to academic heights that don’t limit you to pencils or those crappy erasable pens, but- suddenly- you realize you have no idea what you’re looking for. All around you are fountain pens, calligraphy pens, ballpoint pens, markers, permanent and non permanent, highlighters- but none of them fit the dream you have been building throughout your existence. You turn casually down an aisle, expecting nothing, and there, on a stand in the middle of the hallway, is the first pen to come even close. MAGNAPEN reads the logo, but the box says nothing else about it. The stand next to it has one out of its box. You pick it up, somewhat skeptical, and scribble on the paper provided. The grip is excellent, the perfect balance of firmness and cushioning. The flow of the ink is also exceptional, like an extension of your thoughts- of your soul. Yet, it is not too fast, the resistance on the paper allows you time to process your thoughts and decide whether or not to share them with the world. The pen’s appearance is subtly elegant, just smooth grey steel leading to the rubber grip, which fits the pen’s look and doesn’t jar the viewer the way some pens do. You know this pen is the one for you, yet some part of your mind is still holding back, analyzing the pros and the cons, searching for downsides that don’t exist because no pen could ever be this fantastic. No. You make up your mind and move toward the register to pay for the pen. You know the MAGNAPEN 9000 will always be the pen for you.

The dungeon of Crimea may have been dark and cold, but not more so than the soul of the man who was chained within it, Kieran mused.

He stood with his superior in the cell with the man. When they’d first entered, the assassin had strained against the iron holding his arms in place above his head and keeping him on his feet, but the two knights merely watched as his struggles warranted no avail.

"Come to cut me up and bury me, have you? Or will you drown me in the river? Snap the neck and leave it to dangle? Chop my head off, whack, whack, whack?" The assassin stopped, an eerie smile frozen on his face. "Noooo, not precious Elincia. She's a good girl, a nice Queen. She won't do that, she doesn't have the guts. She can't do anything much, can she? Do you feed her her meals? Even when Death came for her, she just stood there and waited, crying like a little child. Like an infant." He directed his leer to Kieran, thinking the red knight the most likely to lose his temper. "Is that why you're here? To do the job for the little child? She's afraid to face me, so her knights in shining armor come? You'll never manage it, either of you. You're far too weak."

It took a full minute for the man to stop jerking around and blaspheming the Queen’s name, but when he finally settled, the pair got straight to business.

After all, though the assassin himself had been captured, his contractor was still at large. The Royal Knights were still on edge, and rightfully so – if the culprit had hired one killer, what was stopping another from being hired in this one’s place?

Though they had their suspicions of who, exactly, had sent this feral-minded man after their Queen, they did not say, lest they clue in their prisoner. Instead, as Geoffrey raised his voice to address the man, they tried to lead him into doing all the talking, into providing the information they needed freely.

“Quite the hole you’ve dug yourself into, isn’t it, Faris?”

The man jerked in response to his given name.

“You… you dare…”

“I would not have thought that an assassin had need to carry identification papers on him. All in all, considering your profession, it seems quite stupid to do something like that,” Kieran cut across the prisoner’s attempt at a reply. “But, I suppose, being caught without them may have serviced an arrest for much… less than what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Faris, of Nevassa… how did a man from Daein find himself in Melior’s prison?” the Commander asked rhetorically. “Were you that desperate for a job, or did you just get lost?”

The prisoner fell back with a hiss, as opposed to the explosive response that the knights may have been expecting. It seemed that hearing his name and other personal information had restored to him some of his mortal coherency, and with it, the mortal realization that –

“I’m sure your execution will be something to behold,” Geoffrey spoke again, carefully folding the papers that they had found tucked inside one of the man’s pockets. The Knight Commander carefully tucked the parchment into his own pocket, continuing with his evaluation of the assassin’s predicament. “Publicity is assured – in fact, it does not seem out of the question that we should merely turn you over to the public – and their stones and fists.”

A ghost haunted Faris’ eyes for a moment, but the next, it was gone, and his expression froze over. “I am Death! You cannot subdue me!”

Kieran snorted. “Your track record is surprisingly disappointing, for you to claim such a title.”

Again, the assassin took pause. “So… the mage lives yet?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. Kieran could not be sure if it was fear, surprise, amusement, or a mixture of the three that he read in the man’s tone.

“He does,” Geoffrey affirmed after giving the reply some thought. “You did not take him.”

A dark cackle passed the man’s lips. “I should have known. I should have finished him myself.”

A look of confusion passed between the two knights, but they gave the comment no more attention, and returned to digging for the information they truly sought.

“Execution it will be,” Geoffrey said, continuing on his previous tangent. “No matter the method, you will be dead before the new moon.”

“I wish to see him drawn and quartered, or else strangled by a noose!” Kieran snarled, recalling the effort he was supposed to be putting into this interrogation. Though he hardly had to put on as he gazed upon the man who had downed him not once, but twice, nearly killed his partner stationed at the Queen’s door and had attempted to steal not only the Queen, but the rising King from Crimea. His fists clenched around real anger as he spoke. “Bloody him up and stab him through the heart – if he has one.”

Faris seemed to be evaluating the red knight as though mulling over words, but when none came, the Commander thought it time to impart their offer.

“All these approaches seem well and good to me,” he said, giving his subordinate a nod. “However…” and he let his eyes rove back over to the assassin, “we still have a loose end to tie.”

The smallest amount of interest sparked on the assassin’s stony face.

“If you provide us the name of your employer, execution will be taken off the table.”

It wasn’t entirely acting as Kieran crossed his arms and hissed.

But the red knight really had nothing to fear; the chilling laugh that tore from Faris’ mouth gave them clear enough answer, but he spoke nonetheless.

“You lock me down here, then expect me to aid you? I hate you!”

The knights were not really expecting him to give in, but Elincia had insisted upon the chance.

Bless her for this, Kieran thought, She is too good a person; the world does not deserve her.

In the same minute, his mind whispered We get to kill him now.

And though it had nothing to do with the mirth that the assassin was currently demonstrating, Kieran felt the smallest of vindictive smiles pull at his face.

“I told you,” he reported to Geoffrey. The blue-clad knight merely deepened his frown.

“That doesn’t change what we have to deal with,” he responded tiredly.

“Geoffrey?”

The two knights wheeled about at the sound of the familiar, female voice.

“Nephenee,” the Commander said, his tone softening considerably. “You shouldn’t be down here, Kieran and I are—”

“I know what y’all are doing. I have a message,” the girl reported softly. Though her tone was meager, she seemed anything but as she stood ramrod straight, decked out in her militia armor as she was comfortable, shoulders squared as she was determined not to show the prisoner that had hunted them all as animals any weakness.

But he merely snickered. “What, did all the seamstresses close shop at the sight of such a pitiful specimen?” he jeered, evaluating the girl’s dented armor with disdain. To think that she was marrying a lord… the thought still gave his mouth the unpleasant sensation that it was being filled with bile. Even though his back was turned, Faris could see how the blue knight had stiffened at the jibe, but he couldn’t bite back his next words. “If she is the flower of Ohma, I’d hate to see the weeds.”

The punch was faster than he expected. The taste in his mouth soon become of blood as the Commander drew back his fist. Anger smoldered in his gaze, and from the way her jerked, it appeared to be his intent to sock the assassin again for insulting his fiancée, but he reined himself in upon hearing Nephenee’s startled gasp.

Instead, he settled for a seething “(darn it I need a good line)” and turned for the door. Even though they were leaving for now, this fact seemed to have little bearing on the attitudes of Kieran and Geoffrey as they exited – both men had excellent posture as they left the room, the red knight’s fists clenching and unclenching, and the blue knight slamming the cell door behind them.

They got a ways down the hall, Nephenee trailing behind, before Geoffrey remembered why she had come down here.

“…you said there was a message?”

She nodded, the redness of embarrassment only starting to drain from her cheeks. “There’s a visitor. He wants to speak with you and Ike,” she said. She seemed to pause a moment, before continuing. “I glimpsed him as another knight escorted him to a council room. It… I recognized him. I cannot place his name, though,” she said.

Geoffrey nodded. “I’ll go. The walk there will do me good – I need to wind down after that,” he said, the last part mostly muttered. He glanced over at Kieran.

“Go check on my sister, won’t you? You know where to find her.”

The red knight met his superior’s gaze, and he nodded faintly. “Yes, Commander.”

When they reached to top of the stairs, Geoffrey and Nephenee turned back towards the main halls and the council rooms. Kieran stood a moment, watching them go, before continuing straight on, to the guestrooms.

It had been almost full day since they’d found the mage, and his condition had done nothing close to stabilizing. Not even at a point where he seemed virtually near death – the poison was, indeed, lethal, and they had every man that could be spared in the library, but Soren swung so violently between life and death that it caused perplexity. Whereas he should have been steadily growing worse, the mage would sometimes wake, fully wake, his fever lowered and sanity clear in his eyes. But for each of those times, the mage spent twice as long in the throes of agony, confusion clouding his mind and bringing him despair.

And as time passed, they had less and less hope to hold out to the sane Soren, and less and less comfort to give the desperate one.

They had called in a healer as soon as they’d discovered he was still alive, but his magic did nothing against the poison. The only thing he had to offer the mage was support and a cold compress to the forehead, and it was there that Lucia stepped in. She seemed, on the whole, taking it rather well, keeping her emotions in check and allowing the more reasoned side of her nature to kick in. (Ike, on the other hand, had seemed to grow more and more frantic with every passing minute he spent digging around in the library. Were Soren aware, he might have commented on the Commander’s sudden interest in reading.) Lucia had kept quiet vigil at Soren’s side, trying to make him as comfortable as possible. However, Kieran could tell that it was more than just a sense of duty that kept her at the mage’s side – guilt accompanied the stab of jealousy that he still felt.

She had not left; Kieran knew that she would not, and he was quick to find her, in Soren’s room, holding the mage’s hand as he slept.

“Geoffrey sent me to check on you,” Kieran announced from the doorway, his voice lacking its usual volume. She nonetheless jumped, startled, and faced him.

“I’m fine,” she was quick to reply. “Thank you.”

The words were an obvious dismissal, but Kieran did not take the cue. “Have you been here all night?”

“It was by choice,” Lucia answered.

“Someone could have taken over for you,” he replied.

“I didn’t want anyone to.”

He half-smiled. “Blasted chivalry of yours,” he said quietly. She cleared her throat sharply, but he thought he detected a faint smile on her face, as well. “Have you slept at all?”

She took longer to respond than he liked, but at least she did not lie to him.

“I haven’t.”

“Well, let someone else take over for a while. He…” Kieran hesitated, knowing he shouldn’t be insensitive as he glanced at the mage’s unconscious form, “…wouldn’t know the difference.”

“I won’t.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Lucia, you need to sleep,” Kieran said, taking a step closer. “You’re important, too, you know, more so than you realize.”

Her eyes gave him a knowing glance. “I do realize.”

He frowned, having grown to detest that glance, as if he were a book, and all she needed to read him was that one passing gaze. He knew he wasn’t the most complex person out there, but he did not accept that dismissive stare.

“He’d want you to take care of yourself.” Kieran had hoped playing that card would work, and it seemed to as Lucia’s grip on the mage’s hand lessened.

“But…”

“I’ll hear no more of it,” Kieran said, moving over and taking her other hand. “You need to get some sleep.”

She frowned. “Who will keep him company?”

“If it’s so important, I’ll do it,” Kieran said, tired of arguing this with her. He gave her hand a slight tug, but she shook her head.

“I want to stay. I want to be here when… he…”

“When he wakes up, I know,” Kieran said placatingly. “And I know he’d appreciate it, but you need to think of yourself. What kind of help would you be to him if you can’t keep your own head up?” he asked, and tried to pull her to her feet.

“But…”

He sighed, exasperated. “No more arguing. The lady is obviously too tired to realize how tired she is. Therefore, I, Captain Kieran of the Fifth Platoon of the Crimean Royal Knights, will help her.” Before she could protest or even really process what he was about to do, she was throw across his shoulder and being carried over to the closest empty room.

“Wha—Kieran!” she finally stammered, and started to struggle. “Stop treating me like a child!”

“Well, stop acting like one!” he fired back, but a snicker destroyed his stern tone. He carried her over to the bed and placed her upon it.

“What’s brought this on?” she asked, a fire in her eyes as she stood, matching the knight’s height as she drew close to his face with her own.

He hardly seemed fazed. “Do you remember how your sister forgave me for that fight I caused during the strategy meeting? When I called Soren a half-blood and gave murdering Ike my best shot?”

Well, how could she forget?

He continued.

“I decided then that I’d have to make it up to them both somehow. So, for Soren, since you are the object of his affections, I will make sure you keep taking care of yourself. And for Ike, I will watch Soren in your stead,” he explained.

The anger in her eyes dwindled, and then faded entirely. A long sigh drew from her lungs. “Blasted chivalry of yours,” she muttered, turning to the bed. “Go, then.”

His grin did not remain for long, but it appeared at her permission. He bowed his head slightly. “As you wish, my lady,” he murmured, and headed out the door.

“You know,” Draco said in a different tone of voice, laughing a little humorlessly, “to tell you the truth, there isn’t a single thing about the way life looks today that I would have predicted during our last years at Hogwarts.”

Harry’s smile had gone entirely. He stood and watched the pale man, his eyes unreadable.

“We are all taught things, growing up,” Draco went on. “And rarely do we have the sheer audacity to question them. We grow to take the shape of whatever our families define for us. The weight of generations of belief presses down, and makes us in their image. And most of the time that is a good thing.” Draco finally looked Harry in the eye, and for the first time since his arrival, the sneer was gone from his face.

“Most of the time, it really is a good thing, Harry. But sometimes we grow up, time passes, and long, long after any hope of rejecting those defining beliefs, we look back. And we wonder.”

James looked from Draco to his dad. His dad’s face was still unreadable. After a long moment,

Harry glanced back toward the house and sighed.

“Look, Draco, whatever you have to say, whatever you think needs to happen here…”

Draco shook his head. “Nothing needs to happen here. I didn’t come here to ask your forgiveness, Harry. I just came to tell you and your family that I am sorry for your loss. Despite what you might expect, I know Arthur Weasley was a strong man. He was an honorable man. My father wouldn’t tend to agree with me, but it’s like I said. We get older. Some of us look back, and wonder.”

Harry nodded slightly. “Thank you, Draco.”

Draco took a step closer to Harry. “There was one other reason I came today though. I think I should admit that to you. I came to prove something to myself.”

Harry didn’t blink. “What were you hoping to prove?”

Draco smiled a little, not taking his eyes from Harry’s. “I wanted to prove to myself that I could come and speak to you. And more importantly, that you’d hear me.”

Draco extended his right hand. Without looking down, Harry slowly shook it. James could hardly believe what he was seeing, knowing the history of these two men. It was hardly a tearful reconciliation, and James had the distinct impression that if Draco knew anyone in his family could see it, he’d never have done it. But it was amazing, nonetheless. The handshake was over in seconds, and less than five minutes later, both Draco and Astoria had left, driving away in their very large, very black automobile. But the image of that handshake, somehow both daring and vulnerable, tenuous as a soap bubble, stuck in James’ mind for a long time.

((He's looking for these things:

1. In the first paragraph, do you give the full title and author of the poem, cite the text in a correct parenthetical reference, briefly summarize the poem, and lead smoothly into a thesis statement?

2. Does the thesis statement state why the poem had meaning to the writer (or you) or what meaning the writer (or you) thought the poet wanted his/her readers to take from the poem?

3. Does the following paragraph or paragraphs discuss either of the above choices, AND include an analysis of the poetic technique(s) the poet used in the poem?

4. Is the discussion sufficient, reasonable, unified?

5. Does the discussion accurately reflect class discussion of the poem (the writer does not have to agree with points made, but should demonstrate that he/she listened to and comprehended class discussion of the poem).

5. Are poetic terms used correctly?

6. Are examples from the poem properly quoted and documented?

7. Are spelling and grammar correct? Check in particular for the most common errors: run-on sentences and/or fragments, consistent use of present tense when describing events in the poem, and pronoun agreement and reference.))

Countee Cullen’s poem, “Incident” (Reprinted in Arp, Thomas R., and Greg Johnson, eds. Perrine’s Literature: Structure, Sound, and Sense, 11th ed., [Boston: Wadsworth, 2012] 774-775) relates the speaker’s childhood memory of a visit to Baltimore and an encounter with racism. It says he rode through Baltimore, smiled at someone, and then the person called the speaker a “nigger”. It also tells you that he visited Baltimore for eight months, but he only remembers that one thing.  the usual rule with referring to literature is always refer to it in present tense. you might should fix this, it's the only instance where you break this rule The poem reminds me of my two adopted younger sisters, and I connected with how I would feel if this interaction had happened to them.

In this poem, Countee Cullen uses speaker, setting, and connotation to connect racism to his readers. should this be part of the last paragraph, or did he want your thesis to be all alone like this? It should connect more to the other half of your thesis about your reaction. might want to reorder them, too, as you discuss the mechanics before your reaction. these two sentences set up the structure for the rest of your paper, so it should be in the same order

The poet makes strong use of the speaker in this poem. He narrates the poem from several years later. He has aged since the events, and he now looks back on the situation with less emotion than if he recited the events immediately upon their happening. However, he informs you that “[he] was eight and very small” (line 5), as was the boy who insulted him. Their ages add to the message of the poem, because of the innocence associated with childhood and the vicious nature of the described interaction. Beyond that, the poem centers around racism, so the poem requires the racial difference between Countee Cullen and the boy Cullen smiled oops, I was wrong, should be "smiles" here at. These two factors make the speaker invaluable to this poem.

The setting carries great import as well. Countee Cullen placed the first two stanzas inside a memory, one that remains light-hearted until the seventh line, when the other child “poked out/His tongue, and called me, ‘Nigger.’” The poet does not reveal the temporal setting of the third stanza, but the statement of the stanza, that the poet remained in Baltimore for eight months but he only remembers the incident, shows that the poet set it years after the first two. This separated time setting adds to the effect of the poem. By having the first two stanzas earlier than the final one, the speaker seems to have digested the event better than if it were a retelling in the heat of the moment. Cullen removes his emotion from the writing and simply tells what happened, which allows the reader to experience whatever emotion the facts of the event bring to him.

Despite the lack of emotion in the setting, the whole poem does revolve around the connotation of one word: nigger. The second stanza, which is the last memory stanza, ends with that word. This arrangement emphasizes the word, but more than just the tangible elements of the poem center on this word. Thematically, the poem showcases the event. The first stanza reveals the setting, leading up to the insult. The second stanza shows the event, and then the third stanza comments on what happened. As soon as the boy speaks that word, the poem shifts dramatically in theme. It no longer tells a happy childhood memory; no longer does the poet describe the speaker as “Heart-filled, head-filled with glee”. line number Rather, in the third stanza, the poet tells the reader that he only remembers that one event, of an eight-month visit. Our cultural cringing of that word and its central placing adds meaning to the poem. If we did not hate that word so much, the poem would be much less meaningful.

The poem connected  present tense, or do you not connect with it anymore? haha with my emotions quite deeply. The poem does not include markers of gender, and so I did not realize the speaker was a boy. Because I did not view the speaker as a boy and did view him as a child, he reminds me of my two younger sisters. My family adopted them as babies, and I imagine how angry I would feel if such an interaction had happened to either of my sisters. Both will befriend anyone they meet, and both would be confused and upset if they received such a response. Considering that happening to one of them greatly personalized racism for me, and Cullen wrote the poem with such an effect in mind.

“So you’re homeschooled? When do you, you know, talk to people? How do you make friends?” People, oblivious to the irony of their asking me when I talk to people, frequently ask me this, and, while I excel at interpersonal interaction, their presumption that homeschoolers lack social exposure applies to one area of my life: groups. My complete and total disinterest in team sports removed that group opportunity, and my frequent moves prevented any camaraderie with neighborhood children. For the most part, my life limited my group experience to my family and a weekly hangout that has been based in my home for the past two years. These groups left me with relatively little preconceived notions, but they did give me experience that affected my view of and behavior in my presentation group.

My family group revolves around legitimate power. The power originates with our parents, who delegate power to their older children. From there, the power travels through the family, lessening as it passes each child. This group dynamic translates to outside groups in that I am quick to analyze power structures and hierarchy; I like to have a clear idea of who carries what responsibilities, even if a leader has not officially established them. My second main group experience came in the past two years. Teens from the youth group formed a social group which began hanging out in my home once a week. My older brother immediately became the emergent leader, and I created a high-involvement but low-leadership role for myself. In that group, I act as an evaluator-critic and initiator-contributor for my older brother when I provide insight into the group dynamic that he misses and sometimes tell him to scratch the whole idea and try something new. Post-decision, I work as an information seeker and opinion seeker to discern and analyze how the group had responded to whatever we had changed. This affects outside groups because I feel competent and comfortable in a non-leadership but high-importance role and view myself more as an advisor than as a leader.

These things translated to my interaction with my presentation group. I view Allston Heimer as the leader of our group, which happened as a function of several things. Due to table configuration, she sat at the head of the table. The American culture associates sitting at the head of the table with authority, so this helped her. She also joined our group with strong referent power because she carries herself with confidence. Everyone in the group felt nervous, especially when we first met each other, so we gravitated toward the vocal confidence. Allston also took on several group roles, which assisted my view. She frequently acted as an information seeker and orienter frequently, and she used those roles to pull people distant from the conversation to it. She also gave raw information and examples to draw people in by ensuring they fully understood the topic under discussion. Aside from using her group task roles to support other group members, Allston made a visible effort to encourage everyone in her group and helped set a tone of support for one another which became more and more valuable the closer presentation day came. I think Sony Ninan, Jacob Thorne, or Velma Souels occupied lower roles inside our group. Sony did a great deal of information seeking and giving. When we as a group received our speaker, he had a list of articles, interviews, and videos for us to look over by the next class. For those of us who had not reviewed the list and its contents, Sony quickly summarized the contents and filled us in. When the time to select what part of our speaker’s speech we would use came, Sony quickly sacrificed his own specific wants to find something that worked for everyone. However, he also tended to take a backseat during brainstorming and conversations. He would remain quiet and listening, but he usually said nothing until someone specifically asked his opinion. This query usually ended with his accepting the idea under discussion. Jacob Thorne ranked lower in the hierarchy, though he seemed to choose this. He limited his involvement more to his work specifically and just accepted what the more vocal people in the group thought the group should do. When he had a specific comment, he would give it, but he tended to remain silent. If someone sought out his thoughts, he would act as an evaluator-critic and gave some very helpful critique. Velma Souels seemed the weakest person in the group. She missed several classes during which the group met, which significantly lowered her involvement. Because she lacked involvement, when she returned, she focused mostly on her own section of the presentation. Velma rarely ventured outside her own work, and she did so mostly to ascertain how our parts would affect hers, making her only clear role that of an information seeker. My role in the group lay between Sony and Allston. I involved myself more than Sony, but I did not lead the group the way Allston did. I spoke frequently to give factual information and to give my thoughts and goals for our group. I commented on the design and what I thought would achieve the best effect; and I tried to explain my reasoning so that the group could optimize our presentation. I acted the same way when we decided which white board to write on and how to deal with our video clip.

I acted in the group as an information and opinion giver and an evaluator-critic, an advisor to the group decision maker. My experience with the social group prepared me for such a role because I had already been doing it for two years. My experience with my family readied me for the group because, while the power bases varied, I understood how to deal with responsibility and reliance on other people. Neither of them made me expect a negative experience from the group, but they did prepare me for a group assignment well.