Trudy's Parody: A Short Story

The house, although beautiful, is institutional; the room the narrator’s husband chooses is large and airy, but the great bed is nailed down and there are bars on the windows. Even the wall-paper itself is unsettling. The narrator describes its color as “repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight” (Gilman, 957). Its pattern is brash and everlasting, “one of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin” (Gilman, 957). It is indecipherable, yet the narrator explains that she has made up her mind “for the thousandth time that [she] will follow that pointless pattern to some sort of conclusion” (Gilman, 960).

He takes a few steps through the doors and enters a foyer, walking through he notices how high the ceilings are... Cathedrals come to mind... His eyes wanders

Where the colorless tiles ended, a dark carpeting started. He looked further right, to the wall beyond the flooring, seeing the silhouettes of several stacks of boxes and metal racks used to hold clothing. From there, he looked ahead the thirty-foot space to the far wall, the view showing him empty floor space from where he stood, its emptiness ending at the building’s right wall.

"You can just call me Craven. I've been a knight for a few years now." answered the

He glanced at the warrior’s scalp knife sheathed on a soldier’s belt wrapped on his waist, and he wondered. Was that the same cruel blade that took Mama’s hair? Maimed her body and scarred his skin? Did he still carry Mama’s flesh in that old medicine bag hanging round his neck?

The golden shimmering crown was dimmed to silver as darkness encompassed the now forgotten light. Accompanying this shade was an ominous call from a crow that echoed in the hall. The room, rectangular and narrow, yearned for company. In the middle of this room was a now silver throne, and lying on it, a skeleton, regally posed with a goblet in grip. Chairs were home to cobwebs, their antiquate designs, never exposed to light. Years of absence showed in the walls, and the once purple tapestry, black as the heart of a raven. The door creaked open to muster a gust of light – the room welcomed this newfound hope with lust, and so followed this light, a domineering shadow. A man clad in dark armour, aura of sin, dominantly made his way to the crown. He brushed the skeleton into dust and claimed the royal jewels.

Moving about the room, she stopped here and there, fingering objects that caught her attention. The room was formal and pretentious and she wasn’t a fan. She missed her tents filled with carpets and furs and cushions, hand carved toys littering the floors and her bed tucked behind brightly colored sheer fabric. She had just thrown another log on the fire when a tall man let himself into the room closing the door loudly behind him.

As Perceval progressed, he considered Gawain’s advice: “Keep your head on straight.” Perceval would do just that; however, part of focus meant conjuring anger. That emotion would keep him sharp and fierce. He took a moment to recall the violence Joan and her friends had endured at the hands of the Picts, the Pict’s who’s assaulted them on their honeymoon, and the Pictish attacks on the king and queen. It was time these northerners paid, and heartily.

It was a cold winter’s night, with mighty winds blowing hard against Jimbo’s glistening pectorals. Jimbo bounded over a small, thorny brush in pursuit of his next victim. His prey was fast, remarkably so, but neither Man nor Nature could stand between Jimbo and his next meal. The prey’s foot got caught on a small twig, completely halting their breakneck speed. Jimbo pounced on the prey’s struggling body, and without hesitation, sunk his teeth deep into the victim’s abdomen. Jimbo let out an audible moan of pleasure, as there was nothing Jimbo loved more than the taste of fresh gazelle. Jimbo felt his rush of adrenaline slowly dwindle. He toyed with the flaccid limbs of the gazelle, not knowing what to do next. He had been exclusively a lion

She dissected every stained glass on every window and determined this church had a gothic feel to it. Her envisioned decorations would incorporate a sharp white on black contrast and when those black double doors opened she could make her dramatic entrance. Wearing her boundless, exotic, feathered, gown she would walk down an unusually lengthy aisle. Strutting like a monarch as the center of attention. Enjoying a long walk up to the altar, where her groom, whom she had no idea what he even looked like would be waiting for her.

Something that was not supposed to be in that room. However, in the Tally’s nonchalant and uncaring fashion, she went over to investigate. When she saw the appalling face, she screamed, but her mouth was unable to open.

A pillar of light emanates from a window and dust flutters endlessly beneath it. It’s a soft light breaking through a harsh and darkened room, it exists on its own and creates vision where the surrounding room lacks it. The room itself is comfortable and seems fit a home, of what best one can make a home that is. It has an air of openness to it, an attractive glow of hospitality and home within the walls. The room itself is small and seems fit for a guest. It is plain but varied and made into a home with the various objects and trinkets that litter the walls and spaces. It is a haven for a man in exile, it is a space and a catalyst for artistic creation and is used as such by its resident. This home is known as Saint-Paul-de-Vence and will

In gothic literature, the architecture that inhabits a story can go a long way not only in establishing the mood, but also in establishing the story’s characters. In “The Fall of the House of Usher,” by Edgar Allan Poe, published in 1839, readers are introduced to a dreary house that is falling apart, while in another story by Poe published in this same year, “William Wilson,” readers are introduced to a school that, although not in disrepair, is labyrinthian and similarly dreary. Moreover, Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë, published in 1847, showcases a house, the size of which would normally reflect the wealth and high class of it’s owner, and yet the grounds are overgrown, indicating a lack of attention to maintenance while the house itself only features sparse furnishing. In all of these stories, the buildings that inhabit their pages are more than merely settings. Instead they are fragments of specific characters, representations of some form of wellness, while almost being characters in their own right. In “The Fall of the House of Usher” the house represents the physical wellness of both Roderick and Madeline Usher; whereas in “William Wilson” the school reflects the mental wellness of the lead character; and in Wuthering Heights, the titled building represents the emotional wellness of its owner.

The significance of this specific building is apparent from the moment you enter its domain. The door, witch is not shaped like a door you will find in an average office building or home, is designed to be deliberately dark, narrow,

Aside from the piano, only a few pieces of furniture, all scratched and dinged from their trip west, adorned the room. No paintings or artwork of any kind hung from the walls, and only a threadbare rug covered the floor. Certainly a far cry from the fancy drawing rooms to which Melissa would be accustomed. Yet, he supposed her opinion didn’t matter much as long as he could keep her from changing her mind. Besides, if anything chased her off, he doubted it would be their décor or lack thereof.