Soft Paper Back Cover: A Short Story

Looking back out of the small window, I catch a final glimpse of corn fields and lonely railroad crossings before they dip below the horizon. For my first time on a plane, the excitement of adventure meets me as I depart from the comfort of home and enter a world unknown outside of Nebraska. Seeing the world in God’s view as the landscape evolves below, I fall in love with flying. Looking down from 30,000 feet and seeing earth on such a vast scale, I realize how much there is to discover.

“So much is there, so much to see, you just cannot. You are not one; you are not gifted like me. I can be free. The void will save me, I shall live free.” With that I took the extra step off the edge. Then I was falling through the thick fog down the steep cliff -

“It’s not like I even like it here” I mumble under my breath answering her previous question.

The last thing I saw before I was whisked away was my brother, a lonely soul with no one left to love him. I left on a Monday morning and by nightfall, I was in what seemed like another world,

“Hello” I shout. “Anybody there” I yell into the darkness. My voice echoes far into the darkness of the world beyond. I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know who I am. Each day I sit here calling out into the dark hoping to see the light. I am trapped. I travel each and every hour searching for light or a means to escape this perilous abyss. I wait for the light to reappear each day, small slivers of light at first. But, eventually the bright gleaming rays of light pierce the abyss.

"And why do you say that?" I finally manage to say swallowing my food roughly.

“You don’t mind if we ask some questions about why you’re standing there all by yourself?” said

“These questions are useless. If a question prompts you to ask the obvious, then it is not a true question. You should be ashamed of yourself for asking this question. Don’t ever ask questions like this.” She ended firmly.

For days he stayed there, curled up by the wall. The sun would rise, somewhere, illumine the mouth of his pitiful den, grace the cold rock in front of him with a soft blue sheen, and set again, immersing his life in empty darkness. One day, two, three, he stopped counting, buried his mind in the chambers of his soul where a soft dim warmth still glowed. Waves of grief passed through, turned him over in riptides of hungriest despair, roaring death pounded nightly at his door, and then, hearing no answer, tore away again, letting warm comfort envelop him and soothe his damaged

In the pages of this book, the readers are transformed from readers to listeners, listening to the troubles and concerns of a close friend. By sharing so candidly her personal beliefs, Williams is able to gain and keep the interest of her readers by allowing them to personally relate to her and the characters she describes.

As a young child in the years of first to second grade I quickly developed my love for reading. I was never a big fan of the outside world. I thought the world around me was boring and tearing everything/one apart, and thought the adventure inside a book was much more exciting. In my childhood home there was a large bookshelf full of different stories. Most days when getting home I would sit by the shelves in my small pink bean bag chair with numerous children books scattered around me. By endlessly trying and sometimes failing to read my children books such as, the infinite number of Dr. Seuss rhyming stories and Winnie-the-Pooh books I felt comforted by the happy feeling the characters within the stories gave me. The pictures within

Perkins Gilman aptly used narrative voice to shape the meaning of “The Yellow Wallpaper,” by writing a first-person narrative about a woman who slowly loses herself to madness. This voice is one of a woman who may possibly have post-partum depression or some other form of manic depression, and her unheard cries for help. She slowly draws within herself, and allows the insanity to take over. Within the first few paragraphs we learn general characteristics about the narrator: she is middle class, as indicated by the phrase “mere ordinary people” (354); we also learn that she is married, suggested a statement about John laughing at her, something she says is only expected in marriage. Though we are never given her name, these generic aspects

[Literature] may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and an evasion of the visible and sensible world.

“Uh,” I stammered as I searched for the right answer. “The same reason as everyone else, I guess.” She stared at me with an annoyed expression. After an uncomfortable few seconds of silence, she wished me the best and walked ahead. I had not correctly answered Jada’s question.

I was propelled even further into metaphysical realms whilst grasping for insight and credibility for my so-called paranormal experiences when my dad crossed over. It soon became apparent that I needed a compass to navigate the seemingly uncharted seas of grief and pain. It was my writing eventually became that compass! My morning pages, inspired by Julia Cameroon, brought immense healing as the floodgates of tears opened. Memories surfaced in the form of words and images, drifting across the oceans of