Harry Potter [SPOILERS]

OK, so in October I began reading the Harry Potter series for the first time in my life.  And oh my gosh, can I just state I have missed out on so much fun.

(First of all, I want to say something to the homeschoolers/Christians reading this.  You might feel frustrated to think that I, being a hardcore Christian, am reading books that contain witchcraft, sorcery and magic.  Well, let me be frank.  Yes, these books contain those topics.  Yes, I wouldn't want my six-year-old reading them or watching the movies.  They're dark.  But honestly, I believe that if you're mature enough to handle some of the mature content, then I'm pretty sure you won't be sent over to the Dark Lord's side.)

Now, to get back onto point.  I love J.K. Rowling's writing style.  It's so witty, blissful and yet, so impacting.  I just finished the sixth book, and I cried my eyes out.  I normally don't cry when characters die in movies or books, not because I have no feels or sense of emotion, I just find that the tears don't come.  Call me insensitive and harsh.  It's just the way I work I suppose.  But believe me when I say that my mind undergoes internal turmoil when great tragedy strikes in books or movies;  my mind becomes this wormhole of emotions that swirls and tears and screams inside my head.  I just get drastically depressed throughout the day and can't seem to wrap my head around the fact that the character is gone.  I believe that this is what makes a writer a fantastic writer.  They can get us enveloped in the stories they create and the webs that they weave, that when they throw and unexpected twist at us, we flip out and scream "oh my god they've done it.  How dare they actually do what I did not want or expect them to do!"

It's the inner anxiety and strife that we, as readers, have to endure.  We are at the authors disposal.  Try as we might, beg as we want, we can't change the story.  But, generally, if the author is a superior one, they will always have a rhyme and reason to why certain deaths must occur.  Now, I know this full well in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.  I have to rant for a second.  Bear with me.

So, I've always hated Severus Snape.  Hated his guts.  I hate the reasons for which he blames Harry, I hate his arrogance, etc.  But in the back of my tiny little brain, I've always known he is in the story for a purpose that we don't expect.  No matter how bad Rowling makes him look, he has good.  I especially noticed it in this book.  And, when he kills Dumbledore, I saw the situation as Dumbledore, for some reason, asking Snape to kill him.  And it was some secret message the two had already discussed, or planned between them, that made Snape do what he did.  I just have faith in Snape.  And, surprisingly, him killing Dumbledore made me have more faith then I ever did before.  That there is something behind all of Snape's disloyal, vile and sinister ways.  I just don't know it yet!

I'm very excited to read the final installment of the Harry Potter series.  Well, I'm excited and scared at the same time.  I also don't want to read it, simply because I don't want my Harry Potter journey of adventures and excitement to end.  The seventh book is the end.  I've heard tales that the ending is satisfying and all nice and dandy.  But darn, I will miss waking up in the morning, seeing the book on my bedside and thinking to myself, "I am excited to read what happens next in the story of the Boy who Lived."

-Cari

Short Story: Melancholy by Cari Frantz

Mallory stirred her cup of black tea and sighed as she leaned back in the squeaky, rusty kitchen chair. Her hair, which hung limply at her shoulders, seemed to pull each thin strand towards the floor. The wrinkles and lines were not entirely invisible in her sallow, veiled face. Her eyes, which were as grey as a dead wildflower in winter, squinted up at the old clock on the wall, waiting for the hands to reach three o’clock. Clutching her leg, Mallory kneaded the muscles that had become stiff with age and stress over the years. Silently, a tear slipped down her hollow cheek and fell onto her jet black pencil skirt, where it disappeared instantly. She didn’t seem to take notice, or care to wipe away the mark it left in her caked facial makeup. Steadily, she gazed on at the clock on the wall. Her stare was dead; she didn’t seem to be thinking at all. Mallory removed her hand from massaging her sore muscles, and placed it gently on the table. The clock struck three. As silent as the grave, she stood and picked up a hairpin from the table. Twisting her hair into a simple bun, Mallory fastened the hairstyle in place, not seeming to notice the wispy strands that still hung about her face. She strode over to the mantle above the ashy fireplace and picked up a black lace veil, which she placed on her head. The veil looked as if it hadn’t been worn for many years, and indeed, it hadn’t. The lace was torn, chewed and ragged; the hat didn’t look as handsome as it did in its glory days. A rose, which had been fastened onto the headpiece many years ago, was now wilted and lifeless.

After pinning the hat in place, Mallory trudged with what little grace and dignity she had left. Towards the door she walked, straightening her crooked back as tall as it would go. Placing her hand on the doorknob, she twisted it and cracked open the front door. She turned, and observed the room from which she had just walked. Her life was contained in this small, simple living room. Her artifacts, treasures and lessons learned. The laughter, the sorrow, the pain. Always, someone had been there with her. Someone who would enjoy every moment, scream at the pain or thrust through the hardship. With her. Now, as Mallory watched the room with a vacant expression, she began to grasp the truth. She was alone. The sound of soft, tiny feet scurrying throughout the halls was silenced. The tones that were heard after a first music lesson; screechy voices, an out-of-tune piano and straining guitar notes, were now muted. The tears and cries that screamed from the room due to the death of an unborn child, seemed to hush itself from the room.

All these memories seemed to flash before Mallory’s eyes as she lamented on days past. Suddenly, as if realizing the moment had come, she took one final look upon the apartment, and stepped outside the door into the bitter air.

The funeral service she was to attend was the last she would ever need to be present at. Her son. Her daughter. Her husband. All killed in the train wreck that lasted ten seconds.

As Mallory prepared to step into the little black car that waited beside the walkway, several tears began falling like snowflakes. Her eyes began to flow like a stream of running water. She didn’t care. She didn’t need to care. Her life was over. Dead.

The silence was deafening.

She screamed as the tears began to consume her.

Never, had she felt so alone.