Dear Mr. Obama,
I write this on the eve of your inauguration, with high hopes for the future. I do not wish to rag on President Bush, but he has not seemed to be overly preoccupied with the problems of the American people, as of late. I hope that your administration will raise our country’s global status to the level that it held before the previous servant of the state took office.
I have two main issues I would like to discuss. The first, and probably more important at this point, is the economical situation. I know that billion dollar bail out plans have already been tried to kick start the economy, but I really don’t think that it’s going to work. The banks, being the greedy little enterprises they are, will always try to better themselves first, before they use the money they were given to help their customers. I really am at a loss as to why we are in an economic decline. People have not changed their spending habits at all. I go to the local mall and see the parking lot bursting with cars. I can’t imagine that all those people are out window shopping, can you? People still buy ipods, and computers, and other unnecessary items. Maybe, if we leave well enough alone, we’ll come out of the depression on our own because of all the stuff we’re buying. Nothing is more simple than having the victims do the rescuing. But the problem is that unlike the Great Depression, we do not have the option of war to get us out.
I think that your second priority (but not by much) is to get our soldiers out of Iraq. I enjoyed your speeches about the evacuation plan. I think that you set reachable goals, but that it may take a bit of doing to complete them. Trying to salvage a nation’s reputation, economy, and people at one time can hardly be a small job. But Iraq should be on the top of your list because we had no business in there in the first place. Yes we need oil, but not that way. The soldiers in there I think have lost all sense of what they are fighting for; because there was no reason to go into Iraq. They are fighting in a civil war that needs to be decided by the natives. That is what a civil war is. We have the people that attacked us, now we need to stop the killing. Let what happens, happen. This is how history is made. We have set up a semi-stable government, let it try to do what it can. If it does not work, then we will worry about that later, when more urgent problems arise, and we are better supported by the U.N..
Mr. Obama, as I sit here today, I know that a better future awaits. I know that you will do all you can to get us back on track. And I know that no one can stop a man from Chicago, with dreams of a better world!
Sincerely,
Ben Mattern
Monday, January 19, 2009
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
WA-3 Draft 2
Dear Mr. Pullman,
I have read your books, the His Dark Materials Trilogy. They have inspired me greatly; in many aspects of my life. I remember that my family loves me no matter who I am, or what I do. I remember that friends are always important, and they are the ones that get you through the adventures in your life. I remember that love can come from somewhere you never expected, even through a different world in the stars. I also remember, that you should not deal with your soul lightly, for it is the only thing connecting you to happiness. It was your books that taught me these lessons becuase I read them at a very young age. They taught me some lessons that I would need in my life, and some that I would need if I had an armored bear as a friend, or my parents were sworn enemies but still loved each other greatly. I know that romance is not just found in the great wide world, but also in a small garden park. I learned that a story can have the same effect on the reader, as if the reader was the one experiencing the event. You taught me all these things, and I will never feel the same again becuase of them.
Thank You so much,
Ben Mattern
P.S. You could have made the end a bit more comforting, instead of breaking her heart.
I have read your books, the His Dark Materials Trilogy. They have inspired me greatly; in many aspects of my life. I remember that my family loves me no matter who I am, or what I do. I remember that friends are always important, and they are the ones that get you through the adventures in your life. I remember that love can come from somewhere you never expected, even through a different world in the stars. I also remember, that you should not deal with your soul lightly, for it is the only thing connecting you to happiness. It was your books that taught me these lessons becuase I read them at a very young age. They taught me some lessons that I would need in my life, and some that I would need if I had an armored bear as a friend, or my parents were sworn enemies but still loved each other greatly. I know that romance is not just found in the great wide world, but also in a small garden park. I learned that a story can have the same effect on the reader, as if the reader was the one experiencing the event. You taught me all these things, and I will never feel the same again becuase of them.
Thank You so much,
Ben Mattern
P.S. You could have made the end a bit more comforting, instead of breaking her heart.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
WA-3 Draft 1
Dear Mr. Pullman,
I have read your books, the His Dark Materials Trilogy. They have inspired me greatly; if not in writing, but in other things in my life. I remember that my family loves me no matter who I am, or what I do. I remember that friends are always important, and they are the ones that get you through the adventures in your life. I remember that love can come from somewhere you never expected, even through a different world in the stars. I also remember that you should not deal with your soul lightly, for it is the only thing connecting you to happiness. It was your books that taught me these lessons becuase I read them at a very young age. They taught me some lessons that I would need in my life, and some that I would need if I had an armored bear as a friend, or my parents were sworn enemies but still loved each other greatly. I know that romance is not just found in the great wide world, but also in a small garden park. I learned that a story can have as much effect on the reader, then as if the reader was the one experiencing the event. You taught me all these things, and I will never feel the same again becuase of them.
Thank You so much,
Ben Mattern
P.S. You could have made the end a bit more comforting, instead of breaking her heart.
I have read your books, the His Dark Materials Trilogy. They have inspired me greatly; if not in writing, but in other things in my life. I remember that my family loves me no matter who I am, or what I do. I remember that friends are always important, and they are the ones that get you through the adventures in your life. I remember that love can come from somewhere you never expected, even through a different world in the stars. I also remember that you should not deal with your soul lightly, for it is the only thing connecting you to happiness. It was your books that taught me these lessons becuase I read them at a very young age. They taught me some lessons that I would need in my life, and some that I would need if I had an armored bear as a friend, or my parents were sworn enemies but still loved each other greatly. I know that romance is not just found in the great wide world, but also in a small garden park. I learned that a story can have as much effect on the reader, then as if the reader was the one experiencing the event. You taught me all these things, and I will never feel the same again becuase of them.
Thank You so much,
Ben Mattern
P.S. You could have made the end a bit more comforting, instead of breaking her heart.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
WA-2 Draft 3
Carl killed him. Not kindly, not quickly, just killed him. The pools of blood slowly sunk into the ground, and a pink mist lay still in the air. The red water dropped like a fish net in the lake. A wall, an insurmountable barrier with memories of death swirling in the suddenly still water. The elder fish knew Carl. They knew his cruelty, his stubborness. The younger fish knew of him. They knew what had been told, the stories, the long kept secrets. They feared him, but they did not understand him. The elders knew what had shaped Carl. His shell covered his spiked haunches and back, like a newly ordained monk. It held unspeakable things. Horrors so ancient that many of the legends had warped the old minds of the hosts. He now was sitting in a small pool of his victim's blood; admiring its feel, like thick, scarlet, butter that had been heated just enough to melt. Small rain droplets began to patter loudly around the lilly pads on the lake, diluting Carl's little pool. In frustration, he beat the ground with his small paws, causing little pockets of water to hydroplane outwards. His actions were those of a small child's as his playground of death became obscured from the dying sun's rays. Suddenly, he summoned with a nod a small frog who had been staring intently, to come forward. Amidst cries of woe from his community, the little one shuffled across the grass to the infernal being in front of him. "Come, little one. Do not be frightened." whispered Carl loudly, over the rain. "I am not afraid of you, oh tyrant. For if I was, then I should be quaking from tongue, to tail." answered the tiny amphibian. "Hah Hah Hah," laughed Carl. "You are brave for your size. Let us see if you can sing as well as you can speak." The small one looked terrorized, but Carl didn't notice. He was preparing to sing. Carl started off on a folk song from the place that he was born. After a while, he stopped singing, and focused on the little frog. "Now you try. "I...I can't." The little frog looked into Carl's fiery eyes and saw himself. He saw what was, what is, and what could have been had fate not taken his life. He fell to the blood stained grass before anyone knew that he was dead. And so it had been for years and years. A Time so long that many of the elder fish had forgotten what life was like before Carl became their deadly dictator. A soft sigh of grief escaped the animals that had assembled to hear Carl sing. The fish in the lake swam sadly back to their solitary lives. The rest of the frogs looked away as Carl devoured his prey. Stories would be told. This day would be remembered. But many would soon forget. The tales would warp old fish’s minds. Insanity would be nailed over a more sensible floor. But someone, somewhere, would retain a fragment, a small strand of hope, of reason, that would lead them away. Away from their home, and their life of misery. Away from the blood lust that killed their friends, their family, and their sanity. Where is this place? Where none kill each other? It is easy to find. But you must kill Carl, the Scarlet Butter frog with your bare hands. He must die. A poisoned mouse, or a beheaded chicken. It is FATE's path, but in your hands.
Monday, October 20, 2008
WA-2 Draft 2
Carl killed him. Not kindly, not quickly, just killed him. The pools of blood slowly sunk into the ground, and a pink mist lay still in the air. The red water dropped like a fish net in the lake. A wall, an insurmountable barrier with memories of death swirling in the suddenly still water. The elder fish knew Carl. They knew his cruelty, his stubborness. The younger fish knew of him. They knew what had been told, the stories, the long kept secrets. They feared him, but they did not understand him. The elders knew what had shaped Carl. His shell covered his spiked haunches and back, like a newly ordained monk. It held unspeakable things. Horrors so ancient that many of the legends had warped the old minds of the hosts.
He now was sitting in a small pool of his victim's blood. Admiring its feel, like thick, scarlet, butter that had been heated just enough to melt. Small rain droplets began to patter loudly around the lilly pads on the lake, diluting Carl's little pool. In frustration, he beat the ground with his small paws, causing little pockets of water to hydroplane outwards. His actions were those of a small child's as his playground of death became obscured from the dying sun's rays. Suddenly, he summoned with a nod a small frog who had been staring intently, to come forward. Amidst cries of woe from his community, the little one shuffled across the grass to the infernal being in front of him."Come, little one. Do not be frightened." whispered Carl loudly, over the rain."I am not afraid of you, oh tyrant. For if I was, then I should be quaking from tongue, to tail." answered the tiny amphibian."Hah Hah Hah," laughed Carl. "You are brave for your size. Let us see if you can sing as well as you can speak." The small one looked terrorized, but Carl didn't notice. He was preparing to sing.Carl started off on a folk song from the place that he was born. After a while, he stopped singing, and focused on the little frog."Now you try.""I...I can't." The little frog looked into Carl's fiery eyes and saw himself. He saw what was, what is, and what could have been had fate not taken his life. He fell to the blood stained grass before anyone knew that he was dead. And so it had been for years and years. A Time so long that many of the elder fish had forgotten what life was like before Carl became their deadly dictator. A soft sigh of grief escaped the animals that had assembled to hear Carl sing. The fish in the lake swam sadly back to their solitary lives. The rest of the frogs looked away as Carl devoured his prey.
Stories would be told. This day would be remembered. But many would soon forget. The tales would warp old fishes minds. Insanity would be nailed over a more sensible floor. But someone, somewhere, would retain a fragment, a small strand of hope, of reason, that would lead them away. Away from their home, and their life of misery. Away from the blood lust that killed their friends, their family, and their sanity. Where is this place? Where none kill each other? It is easy to find. But you must kill Carl, the Scarlet Butter Turtle with your bare hands. He must die. A poisoned mouse, or a beheaded chicken. It's in FATE's path, but in your hands.
He now was sitting in a small pool of his victim's blood. Admiring its feel, like thick, scarlet, butter that had been heated just enough to melt. Small rain droplets began to patter loudly around the lilly pads on the lake, diluting Carl's little pool. In frustration, he beat the ground with his small paws, causing little pockets of water to hydroplane outwards. His actions were those of a small child's as his playground of death became obscured from the dying sun's rays. Suddenly, he summoned with a nod a small frog who had been staring intently, to come forward. Amidst cries of woe from his community, the little one shuffled across the grass to the infernal being in front of him."Come, little one. Do not be frightened." whispered Carl loudly, over the rain."I am not afraid of you, oh tyrant. For if I was, then I should be quaking from tongue, to tail." answered the tiny amphibian."Hah Hah Hah," laughed Carl. "You are brave for your size. Let us see if you can sing as well as you can speak." The small one looked terrorized, but Carl didn't notice. He was preparing to sing.Carl started off on a folk song from the place that he was born. After a while, he stopped singing, and focused on the little frog."Now you try.""I...I can't." The little frog looked into Carl's fiery eyes and saw himself. He saw what was, what is, and what could have been had fate not taken his life. He fell to the blood stained grass before anyone knew that he was dead. And so it had been for years and years. A Time so long that many of the elder fish had forgotten what life was like before Carl became their deadly dictator. A soft sigh of grief escaped the animals that had assembled to hear Carl sing. The fish in the lake swam sadly back to their solitary lives. The rest of the frogs looked away as Carl devoured his prey.
Stories would be told. This day would be remembered. But many would soon forget. The tales would warp old fishes minds. Insanity would be nailed over a more sensible floor. But someone, somewhere, would retain a fragment, a small strand of hope, of reason, that would lead them away. Away from their home, and their life of misery. Away from the blood lust that killed their friends, their family, and their sanity. Where is this place? Where none kill each other? It is easy to find. But you must kill Carl, the Scarlet Butter Turtle with your bare hands. He must die. A poisoned mouse, or a beheaded chicken. It's in FATE's path, but in your hands.
Monday, October 13, 2008
WA-2 Draft 1
Carl killed him. Not nicely, not fast, just killed him. The air was misted with blood, as the pools sunk slowly into the ground. The red water dropped like a fish net in the lake. A wall, an insurmountable barrier with memories of death swirling in the suddenly still water. The elder fish knew Carl. They knew his cruelty, his stubborness. The younger fish knew of him. They knew what had been told, the stories, the long kept secrets. They feared him, but they did not understand him. The elders knew what had shaped Carl. His shell covered his spiked haunches and back, like a newly ordained monk. It held unspeakable things. Horrors so ancient that many of the legends had warped the old minds of the hosts.
He now was sitting in a small pool of his victim's blood. Admiring its feel, like thick, scarlet, butter that had been heated just enough to melt. Small rain droplets began to patter loudly around the lillypads on the lake, diluting Carl's little pool. In frustration, he beat the ground with his small paws, causing little pockets of water to hydroplane outwards. His actions were those of a small child's as his playground of death became obscured from the dying sun's rays of gold. Suddenly, he summoned with a nod a small frog who had been staring intently, to come forward. Amidst cries of woe from his community, the little one shuffled across the grass to the infernal being infront of him.
"Come, little one. Do not be frightened." whispered Carl loudly, over the rain.
"I am not afraid of you, oh tyrant. For if I was, then I should be quaking from tongue, to tail." answered the tiny amphibian.
"Hah Hah Hah," laughed Carl. "You are brave for your size. Let us see if you can sing as well as you can speak." The small one looked terrorized, but Carl didn't notice. He was preparing to sing.
Carl started off on a folk song from the place that he was born. After a while, he stoped singing, and focused on the little frog.
"Now you try."
"I...I can't." The little frog looked into Carl's fiery eyes and saw himself. He saw what was, what is, and what could have been had fate not taken his life. He fell to the blood stained grass before anyone knew that he was dead. A soft sigh of grief escaped the animals that had assembled to hear Carl sing. The fish in the lake swam sadly back to their solitary lives. The rest of the frogs looked away as Carl devoured his prey.
Stories would be told. This day would be remembered. But many would soon forget. The tales would warp old fishes minds. Insanity would be nailed over a more sensible floor. But someone, somewhere, would retain a fragment, a small strand of hope, of reason, that would lead them away. Away from their home, and their life of misery. Away from the blood lust that killed their friends, their family, and their sanity. Where is this place? Where none kill each other? It is easy to find. But you must kill Carl, the Scarlet Butter Turtle with your bare hands. He must die. A poisoned mouse, or a beheaded chicken. It's in FATE's hands.
He now was sitting in a small pool of his victim's blood. Admiring its feel, like thick, scarlet, butter that had been heated just enough to melt. Small rain droplets began to patter loudly around the lillypads on the lake, diluting Carl's little pool. In frustration, he beat the ground with his small paws, causing little pockets of water to hydroplane outwards. His actions were those of a small child's as his playground of death became obscured from the dying sun's rays of gold. Suddenly, he summoned with a nod a small frog who had been staring intently, to come forward. Amidst cries of woe from his community, the little one shuffled across the grass to the infernal being infront of him.
"Come, little one. Do not be frightened." whispered Carl loudly, over the rain.
"I am not afraid of you, oh tyrant. For if I was, then I should be quaking from tongue, to tail." answered the tiny amphibian.
"Hah Hah Hah," laughed Carl. "You are brave for your size. Let us see if you can sing as well as you can speak." The small one looked terrorized, but Carl didn't notice. He was preparing to sing.
Carl started off on a folk song from the place that he was born. After a while, he stoped singing, and focused on the little frog.
"Now you try."
"I...I can't." The little frog looked into Carl's fiery eyes and saw himself. He saw what was, what is, and what could have been had fate not taken his life. He fell to the blood stained grass before anyone knew that he was dead. A soft sigh of grief escaped the animals that had assembled to hear Carl sing. The fish in the lake swam sadly back to their solitary lives. The rest of the frogs looked away as Carl devoured his prey.
Stories would be told. This day would be remembered. But many would soon forget. The tales would warp old fishes minds. Insanity would be nailed over a more sensible floor. But someone, somewhere, would retain a fragment, a small strand of hope, of reason, that would lead them away. Away from their home, and their life of misery. Away from the blood lust that killed their friends, their family, and their sanity. Where is this place? Where none kill each other? It is easy to find. But you must kill Carl, the Scarlet Butter Turtle with your bare hands. He must die. A poisoned mouse, or a beheaded chicken. It's in FATE's hands.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
WA-1 Draft 3
Loneliness. It wells up inside you like a fiery demon trying so hard to burst out of your heart, but at the same time trying to disguise itself by telling you it’s not what you think or know it is. Three hours on a lonely unnamed rock in the boundary waters on the Canada border. Watching every boat that passes you, hoping that it’s yours; knowing that it’s not, thinking that why would it be yours, they can’t see you, they don’t know you’re there. Even the spiders and ants that crawl over you have more of a family or connection to humanity than you do. Every tree has more friends that you, every bush has a better family. Loneliness. Like an overfilled pool. Reaching the critical level then spilling over into hysteria. Once it’s reached, can you ever go back, or are you scarred for life. Do you need a therapist for all your problems? Or can you handle them, until you erupt into a spouting volcano of doom and solitude? What do you do if you have to relive your worst fears for somebody you love? Can you cope with the loneliness for three hours if it’s out of ambition, or admiration? Is it as bad the second time? Or are you going to be left behind? The unknown soldier in the trench? That is the worst kind of loneliness.It’s only three hours you say? Well, let me tell you something. Three hours can be the longest period of time in your life if you don’t have anything to do, or nothing to hope for. There are only so many fish you can try to catch before they stop coming near you anymore. Only so many times you can carve your name into a tree for no one to see it. You could explore the whole island, but not when there is a towering wall of rock to climb, and no conceivable way around it. Only two hours left…It’s almost crippling, a surge of emotion so strong that the initial shock can cause tears cascading down the bearer’s many faceted mask. An emotional keep has been taken, a stronghold overrun. The troops of loneliness will strike at the opportune moment, when the defenses are being repaired, when the portcullis is raised. One hour left…You step off the boat, and watch it sail off into the distant sunset. Three hours of intense emotion. Bouts of insanity and cruelty are imagined and carried out…a soul fixed on one star in the sky, a lonely light in the universe. It seems brighter than it is. A light shining on a rock in the water. What could happen out there? Something bad, and no one knows until the shining light has suffered an excruciating death. Mauled by a mountain lion, then bled out for hours. Bitten by a snake, feeling the poison seep threw his veins. Losing feeling in his limbs, then finally passing out from the pain. No one would know. No one would care until three hours from then. They would never find you. Never. The loneliness is almost painful. Almost unbearable. Too much. Any minute now…But at last the boat comes, and all my worries sink back into the loneliest rock in the world. They stay there like a hidden predator waiting to latch onto an unsuspecting victim. To open the flood gates of loneliness in their heads. But you don’t have to worry about that until next time!!
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