Thursday, 24 May 2012

Short Story-An Alternative Chapter Twenty for The Picture of Dorian Gray


An alternative Chapter twenty for Oscar Wilde’s novel ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray.’

Chapter 20

It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm, and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home, smoking a cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He heard one of them whisper, “That is Dorian Gray.” They both sneered at him and walked away. He had grown tired of people speaking his name. In the past, he had loved to be the centre of attention, but now things were different. He had gone to see Sybil play in the theatre every night. She had called him Prince Charming, and he had told her he loved her. Then that fatal night, her poor performance, and he had been incredibly angry and annoyed. He did not know what had got into him. He had told her he did not love her any longer. She had begged him, pleaded with him, but he had not felt anything. He could not comprehend anymore what he had done next. The guilt was constantly on his mind, the sense of loss overwhelming him. How could he make amends? He was not going to meet Lord Henry ever again.

When he got home, his servant and Lord Henry were awaiting his return – just the person he had wanted to avoid. He told his servant to go to sleep. He sat down on the sofa, staring blankly at Harry.
      “Where have you been, Dorian? I have not heard from you, and you have not been to the club for days. We need to talk.”  
   “A person cannot have any privacy anymore, can they?” said Dorian harshly. 
   “I have never heard you say something so vile and mean, Dorian! What has gotten into you?”
  
He got up from the sofa abruptly, turning away. A sense of anger passed though him. He wished that he could return to when he was young. He knew that he had changed, turned into a different person – and certainly not a better one. He lit a cigarette. How shallow he had been, vain and selfish. He could remember that fatal day that he had first looked at Basil’s portrait as if it had been yesterday. Harry had made him vain, afraid of growing old, with his comments about youth being the only thing that counted. He had made him grow a wild passion for pleasures. No, he himself was the one who had changed his lifestyle. He looked at himself in the mirror, a present from Lord Henry. He only felt self-loath and hatred. Why had he become like this? How could he have rejected a friend like Alan Campbell so cruelly?  

   Lord Henry rudely interrupted his thoughts, “Dorian, why are you not paying any attention to me? Where are your manners? Listen…”
   Dorian frowned at him. “I’m not here to entrain you, Harry. You invited yourself to my house.” He briskly turned around and left the room. He locked the door behind him and slowly walked up the stairs to the attic.

His eyes fell on the barely visible outline of the covered portrait. He turned on the light, pulled the curtain. He was looking at himself as an old man, wrinkled and with sagging skin. Thoughts of Basil Hallward consumed him. He had tried to warn him about the downward spiral from which there was no return. Basil had always been by his side, not abandoned him even though he had treated him shoddily, laughed at his thoughts and feelings. When Basil had confronted him about his reputation, he had decided to murder him. He still could not explain what had come over him.

His mind returned to the day Basil had painted the portrait, the day he had first meet Lord Henry. How he cursed that day, that utterly stupid wish about keeping his youth and the portrait growing old instead. Yes, he still looked the same, but he certainly did not feel like it. His soul had aged rapidly, was being eaten away, and that was what Harry had intended. He had used him, played him like a puppet-on-a-string and turned him into another version of himself, even openly admitting his intentions. But why had he let him? Basil had said he was a bad influence over his friends. Why had he not listened? Like an addict, he had hung on to every word Harry had spoken. He had exposed his soul, sold himself to the most sinful, corrupt and evil person ever. But could he blame Harry? No! He himself had allowed things to happen. He alone was to blame.

On his return to the library door, he could hear thumping, shouting and kicking. He had not expected anything different. He slowly turned the key and opened the door.
   “Dorian, how dare you lock me in here? You’re out of your mind!”
   Dorian looked into his eyes. “Oh Harry, don’t you start on me. You have driven me to this state, and I have something rather special to show you. Just follow me upstairs.”
   “I will not follow you anywhere, Dorian. You are clearly not the person I have been friends with all those years. Goodbye.”
  
   Dorian grabbed Lord Henry’s wrist, “You are not going anywhere, Harry, and, indeed, I have changed – because of you. I want you to see the wreckage you are leaving behind.” His grip of Lord Henry’s wrist tightened.
   “Dorian, for the last time, let go! You have no right to imprison me.”
   Lord Henry tried to pull away, but Dorian had him in a tight grip. “For once, you are not going to escape the consequences of your irresponsible behaviour but face up to reality.” Dorian rudely pushed Lord Henry into the still brightly lit room. “Look at the portrait! Now!”
   Lord Henry’s facial expression was one of confusion. “What is this portrait you are showing me? A picture of some old man.”
   “You can’t ever see what has become of me?”
   “You are insane, Dorian. You don’t look anything like him.”
   “So you have no memories of that day when you first meet me? Or have you chosen to forget? Basil painted my portrait. This is what I have turned into, Harry.”   Dorian pushed Lord Henry closer towards the portrait. “Your words changed that portrait. This is your work of art,” he said venomously. “Who said that I should give all my time to pleasures? You knew exactly what you were doing. Don’t play innocent now.”
   “I have done nothing wrong. It is all in your sick mind. I gave you a better life.”
   “The portrait shows my soul, Harry. A better life? Ha!”
   “Dorian, I have been like a father to you, taught you many important things. Who was there for you when Sybil died? You should be thanking me rather than making ridiculous accusations.”
   Dorian glanced at the window. The knife he has killed Basil with sat on the sill. He silently took the few steps to the window and picked up the knife. He threw himself at the unsuspecting Lord Henry, stabbed him in the back, fatally wounding him in an instant. He then turned to the portrait and slashed it until his countenance was no longer recognisable.

He could not carry on like this. Maybe he should kill himself? He had caused the deaths of so many people. But what would change if he took his own life? Nothing! The easy option would make him even more of a coward. He walked out through the door.

   “My name is Dorian Gray. I am responsible for the deaths of Basil Hallward, Sybil Vane and Allan Campell.”
   “Mr Gray, we are arresting you on suspicion of murder.”
   They took out a pair of handcuffs, and Dorian gladly stretched out his hands.

By Elena Kokonova. I wrote this a while back. One of the 1st short story attempts I made. I really enjoyed it I hope you do to. Any feedback is great! many thanks for looking :D

Friday, 18 May 2012

3 Sonnets


A Heart Light

Like the Christmas lights
around the tree you light my heart
but not with a cord plunged into the electricity
but with the heat, flavour, depth and width of
your love for you
Your fingers touched my heart and its guard
That soon you unwrapped and threw away
and my heart was left defenceless and unprotected
but you never left anything thing harmful enter my heart
and soon my heart was shining like that of the royal knight armour
up in the museums of history
Your soul I felt brush against my beating heart
and then you loved that heart which had never loved before
so when it shone it did not stop even at night all year round.

A Diamond

Your love is clear and crystal like a diamond
Pure and simple that you can see through
but it is invisible to the conventional eyes
and it is has no price because no price tag can be put to it.
It does not hang and weight but infuriated my heart
And nested its self there forever more
A was not rich nor famous but I gained the world
You could not be contained in the ball of my eye
but only on the whiteness of my feathers
It glides along the my outer coat – that is my skin
It has changed the ray of light that passes
and the perspective with which I watch the world.
The world cannot see me because I have become transparent
There is no longer a veil that hides that truthful feeling I behold

Wreath

Weaved around my hair are the dried sticks   
just like that feeling has weaved itself through my being.
With sticks, weeds we fish out and make a garland with it
We wish upon the deep moats in the woodland and we drink to
the end of another day that we have spend together.
The wreath goes beyond the dawn, twilight and the eclipse
It transcends the understanding and the logic of the scientific world
It is only a symbol that stands for something much more powerful and enduring
That all natural feeling that I have given myself up to
and that we should all look for it in the clouds, the branches and the waves of the grass with it we are transformed and become a different person – a better person 
There is no path to guide us to or in that journey
We have to find it ourselves within the expressions of the leaves and branches
The nests that are weaved just like what we have right here and forever more. 

By Elena Kokonova 

I absolutely love these 3 sonnets I have written. They are free verse sonnets :-) and they follow one another as I have written them so they go together. Think of it like a package deal. Hope you enjoy. Some feedback would be fantastic. thanks

A March


We are made from one bloodline
So when one soldier dies a little part of us dies too
with him since there was a fractured fragment of us in him

He does not fight for the nation
Because the nation is made up of ordinary
people who didn’t decide to send him to war
Its those glorious politicians and the adverts too

Ask man on the street

Would you send soldiers to die at war?
No

That’s exactly the point.
War it’s not a will of the people but rather the will of government
Who would want a human being to die a pointless death
at the hands of a ruthless and foamy government

When you wear a poppy think what it stands for
A symbol of pointless death – those deaths need not have happened
It does not come down to a symbol at the end of the day – its about what its in our hearts
Nobody thinks of how their loved one REALLY died – the horror, the anguish because its beyond the birth of their mind.

Its better to shut it out.

Government doesn’t remember the name of each soldier killed – so that result is that at the end everything is down to numbers
How many died? How many survived?
How many are injured?
How many are need? How many more should be recruited?

Why is a mother to give life for it to be then taken away.
Life that is prematurely ended – by the bullets of guns and grenades…
How is that right and glorifying…

The rule of one shall not murder doesn’t apply to war
This is simply hypocrisy – a trickery of the dirtiest kind 
When one person takes the life of another – that’s murder. Right?
So when one soldier shots and kills another soldier
What is that if not murder?

When you take away the life of one beating heart then its murder
No matter who made you do it
You have showered in blood and there is no forgiveness, no glory and no celebration

Why celebrate a win when that so called win has been taking lives
and we are celebrating – is that not sadistic
We celebrate the win by saying well done for slaughtering the other side
Well done for taking away their lives and
dismantling their bodies, lives and livelihoods

What a win you have achieved!

 By Elena Kokonova 

This is a poem about war and politics. I had a great time writing it hope you enjoy it too. It must say it did move me but then again I did write it. Feedback would be nice :-)


What I Would Share with You?


I would share my Nutella, 
my pancakes and my ice cream with you 
of course along with my bed, blanket,
pillow and cover too. Then next in line comes
my smile –  well I’d gladly share that with you.

I would share a drawing
and water bottle with you too
and the duffle-bag of mine
I use to travel the world.
Hand in hand walks along the breezy fields
observing leaning grass and puddle pools

If there is only one piece of bread I’d break it in half
and only one glass of wine I’d pour out equally in two cups.
If there is only one shirt then we shall be in it together the best way we can
and if two shoes, we shall wear one each.
If ever you are short of a smile I’d give you part of mine to make it full

This is the real deal and not that shitty fake stuff on TV that’s being sold as love. It isn’t and never will be.
Love it’s about does little tiny things and about the hardship that in love ones always go through.
It’s not all easy peasy lemon squeezy. It’s an emotionally touching journey not some soapy comedy bull where we all grin, laugh and everything is alright.
This is the real hustle of what love is like in life.
It’s a connection, an effort, a trail and a break through and that’s what makes it unique for each one of us.
If we aren’t willing to fight for it then the truth is you simply weren’t in love unlike all the comedy movies where love is all around. 

By Elena Kokonova

I really loved writing this poem. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much. Please leave a comment really helps with my writing. :) thanks