The Child Of Condemnation

This is a short period piece written by Nico Grant. It is told in the voice of a young girl, an English servant and reveals just some of the hardships of the working-class in England during Feudalism.

I sat in a gazebo, before the impending stagnantly placid pond. This particular body of water held a murky dark stain, and the sheer simplicity of it made it seem melancholy to no end. I sat in the blisteringly cold British winter while wearing nothing more than the simple dress of a handmaiden: a long layered dual entity that had come to define my life. In my hands, I held the headpiece that I usually wore to signify my painfully low social status, but I recently tore the covering off of my forehead. My fingers grew numb because of the shivering cold, however I budged not a bit. I began to gently rub the material of the headpiece with my appendages. It was made of linen, and it was I who had to hand-stitch it. I supposed that would forever be the tale of my dismally dreary existence: Prudence Lynette Mitchell, passive handmaiden with little opportunity and even less respect. The plain and pale young English girl who would always be, “but a serf”.

My focus shifted from the filthy opaque water of the pond, to the general surroundings of the wooden structure that I sat in. In the far north corner, visible were hundreds of acres of barren farmland that was always abandoned in bleak British weather. However this was the Lancaster Manor, in Yorkshire; often, I wondered if winters were this depressing in other parts of the Kingdom, such as Wales. I learned all about the region from my love, William. When I was meant to be cleaning Lord Lancaster's study, I dreamt of one day fleeing to places like Wales. I, as a low social status-bearing female during the “fin de siecle” was oppressed, besmirched, and disregarded as a person worthy of happiness. Though, after nineteen years, I probably should have been used to it, I loathed the truth that I was incessantly discarded by society. My cheeks became flushed cum my sudden tone of animosity, for all of those thoughts began to make my skin crawl.
I continued to stare at my surroundings. I witnessed as countless mistreated serfs walked from the manor's small village to the vile inhabitable locations that were called their 'homes', while lugging around large sacks that I presumed to hold potatoes. They walked along a dirt path near the manor's seven-meter stone wall, meant to keep rebels out and them in. I say 'them' because though we were more or less in the same boat, I couldn't help but feel superior to them. I quickly acknowledged that I shouldn't be on a high horse, not to them, but as people, we find it much easier to state the consequences of our own lives as paled, in comparison to others. My role in the manor was much less tedious than theirs. They lived life around one another, so they couldn't disrespect each other, but the disrespect that was doled out to me was much more blatant. I was far past feeling inadequate; often, I merely didn't feel like a person.
Men, women and children, alike, possessed an earnest countenance that showed they knew that they were just pawns in a meaningless game; they knew they were just fodder in the scheme of others' lives; I saw that they knew that their life wouldn't amount to more than servitude. They knew that respect would never be a prerequisite in their lives, and no one would ever look at them as a true person. It saddened me to see such an expression, from any person. The numbness bestowed by the passing winds faded, as pain filled my interior.
It was so heart-breaking to see large degrees of sorrow masked by nonchalance because not too long beforehand, I was one of those little girls: dragging a sack of potatoes and holding on for dear life. When Lord Lancaster ascended me to be a handmaiden of his estate, I was more than happy to leave the drudgery behind at the farming land in which both my parents, my three sisters, and the love of my life, William Biden worked, in lieu of a warm and ornate small palace, but I didn't know that this decadent home would strip me of the little confidence that I had.
It would be here where I would learn that I could never amount to anything and not a bit of cheer could ever be mine. It was a concept drilled into my mind by the very walls of Lancaster Palace. Every candle, every torch, told me that the only respect that would ever be given to me was Lord Lancaster asking me to shut the door before using my body without my consent.
The first time it happened, I tried to resist; I wanted to be angelic for the day I would marry my true love, William, who had taught me how to love and how to want more from life. He had told me stories of the rest of the world: how things worked and looked, much like Lord Lancaster, except the Lord's always seemed to be negative toward "my kind". I occasionally wondered whose world stayed true to the real world outside of Yorkshire; perhaps it was a combination of the two, or perhaps the world simply differed from both tales. I asked William how he knew all of that information, but he would become very coy, and never tell me, labeling it as a "secret". It's disheartening to know that I can ask him no longer.
William came to the Manor during our impending adulthood started to approach steadfastly. My father allowed him to stay with the Mitchell family if he would work on our parcel of land. William and I started out as friends, but our relationship evolved into so much more. It was a mutual mad love that we both wanted to seal with marriage. On that day, I wanted to give myself to William as my first and only, but Lord Lancaster was a very powerful man, and he assured me that he would tap into such powers if I were to resist to what he called, "the inevitable". I began to feel sick, but there was absolutely nothing I could do. Afterwards, I loathed him. I thought of him as being vile and disgusting. Though he may have been of the noble, upper-crust, held much respect throughout the land, and was even close acquaintances with Duke Philip of Yorkshire and Prince Frederick of Suffolk, Lord Lancaster behaved like low-class rubbish ¾ refuse that should quickly be disposed of. And that was exactly what I did.
After the most recent manor-raid, I was never the same. On the morning of the fateful day, I distinctly remember what I said to William.
"William, my love," I started tenderly. "When will you finally make me your bride?"
"Darling," he appeased. "When the time is right, we will both know. I must first develop a better life for the both of us."
Though I sometimes found him to be painfully enigmatic and withholding information, I loved him. This forced me to be satisfied with his reply. I said, "You speak the truth, but do not wait too long. I fancy the sound of 'Prudence Lynette Biden'."
"As do I. However, I fancy you even more than the confines of my heart can hold."
"You have forever captured my heart, William Elliot Biden."
We commenced our sentiments with a brief embrace, before William had to return to the farmland. After seeing William run off, I turned around to see Lord Lancaster, with a devilish fire in his eyes. The Lord was a plump man clad in frilly purple and white material that symbolized his status. He possessed robust red cheeks, a demonic mustache, and small beady eyes. After my stomach churned, I looked toward the grassy grounds on which I stood. At that moment, I was sure that I could never fully comprehend how menacing he truly was. My hatred was barely contained, and it could never fully be described in words, so I decided not to. I didn't know what to do, but I knew that a sign would come to me. And one did.
After that raid, I never saw William again. Some serfs claimed to have witness William be dragged off by the rebels; others say that he was killed directly inside the Manor, but either way, I knew that I would never look into his brown eyes again. The feasibility level was just so low, that I felt little pain. I was merely numb, like how I felt sitting in the disgustingly frigid gazebo.

* * * * *
"I would like you to know that I do not boast of what I did, but I didn't have a choice in the matter, and in retrospect, it is better than the alternative," I found myself saying to the gentle man, while sitting in his sanctuary of warmth.
"Prudence...why?" he asked. When I didn't immediately respond, he continued, "What exactly was your reasoning?"
"Respect ¾ it didn't exist there, and that killed me more than anything else," I replied while staring up at the ornate ceiling, with chandeliers and murals. I could only imagine how many serfs were ill-treated for the detail of a single ceiling. It was sheer levity. "I was being slaughtered by the lack of it. A dagger was thrust into my bosom every moment I was there." There was a long pause before I earnestly uttered, "He didn't pretend to even fancy my company, and yet he used me. He used me!" I screamed with fury. "I was not treated as a person, but merely an object. A substitute for a warm body. I used to be loved by all my family and the other serfs I knew, but in that scathing house, there wasn't an acknowledgment of my existence. You must take me for mad, but I realized that I would never be important while standing in those halls, which spoiled attempts to live vicariously through the nobility that strutted through the thresholds. It became too much for me to comprehend, and yet, I distinctly knew that I was a child of condemnation." In the latter part of my speech, my voice became less piqued with animosity, as it became quavering and quiet.
I realized that I needed to leave, so I told him as much. "What have you done?" inquired the man who wore a collar.
I left; I simply ran out, aggressively pushing all of the daunting doors that stood in my path. Tears streamed down my face as I once again entered the exterior world of disrespect and coldness. My breath became exaggerated as I ran down all of the Gothic-styled steps, and I was once again before the pond of filth and squalor, where I knew, as factual, no life flourished, but perhaps something undeserving of air was finally in it's rightful place. I began to grin as I wondered if the Welsh understood the word "respect" ¾ something beautiful in all contexts. Read more!

The Dark Curtain

Co-Written by Ixchel Bosworth

Nesreen A. Al Jubouri is an Iraqi teacher and one of the millions of Iraqis struggling throughout the United States' War on Terror. Last week, she graciously came from Baghdad to teach us here at WritopiaLab about what's really going on and to clear up any and all misconceptions surrounding the situation. I felt anxious about the possible discussions we all could have had. I was worried she would feel as though we were prying into her life and that she had a bad image of Americans in general. But, my worries were wonderfully wrong. Nesreen was willing to answer all of the questions asked and with thoughtful and insightful answers. I felt as though a curtain was being drawn back and a new image was vividly exposed.

Nesreen did not sugar coat the tragic events taking placing in Iraq yet she was not graphic. I could feel the pain in every sigh she made as she stood eyes focusing on each of us, telling the terrors that engulf her homeland. I was most surprised by the comment that Saddam Hussein's leadership is a better alternative than the war. I probably shouldn't be, but seeing as how his dictatorship was harsh and stern, I'm sure many can relate to what I'm saying. Nesreen really wanted us all to know that Iraqi culture is severely suffering and that the war is digging Iraq into a larger rut than it was in the previous day. It is all a perpetuation of violence that serves justice to none. It is so heartbreaking to watch a woman fight back tears while explaining how unsafe she is in her own house, sans basic human needs like running water. It is the same at her job and all throughout her life. That is something I will not soon forget. She has been thwarted by hatred, violence, and gloomy consequences to the aforementioned. She is a true survivor.

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Bethesda Fountain

Anyone who knows me would know that I have a soft spot for Central Park. It is to my belief that every New Yorker should, and not surprisingly, most do. Its lush landscaping and picturesque settings are simply inspiring, and therefore, Central Park will be the focus of my inspiration for this post. Directly on The Lake, is Bethesda Fountain - a beautiful scene that we should all be familiar with. Now while I do not go there with a pad and pen for writing, it is unmistakable that a trip to this fountain will allow you to feel inspiration literally seep into your pores and travel through your veins. I recommend going to Bethesda Fountain in the Autumn, perhaps even Winter, because that is when it can be appreciated the most. You may ask what the purpose of a fountain with no spurting water is, but just trust me. A trip in the Fall will make you smile.

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Writers' Block

Let's face it; whether you're a best-selling author or new to the world of writing, you know that there are moments when your work just seems like a disaster. Everyone has them. When you have your plot, your have your charecters, you have a scene, and backround, and everything else you can think of. And yet you just can not come up with a single damn idea of where this story should go. Many people give up, or stare blankly at the computer screen for an hour. While both these options are understandable, neither will get your story back on track. So, when the curse strikes next, here's something you can try.
Coming from someone who gets writers' block as often as other people get the hiccups, I find this stategy to be woonderful and amusing. It's called the whatif game. Get a sheet of blank paper and write down everything you can think of that might happen, or that a charecter might do. Does it have to have anything to do with your story? Does it even have to make a vague amount of sense? No, and no. Here's what mine might look like: what if joey found a diamond ring what if abby robbed a jewelry store what if dinosaurs weren't extint what if um um um um what if there was a volcano on the corner of fifty first and lexington...
The catch? You can't let your pen stop moving, even for a second. Even if you have to write um um um for a while, as demonstated above. This is guarenteed, if not to get your story revved up immediately, then at least to get your juices flowing. And failing that, in a worst case scenario, it will definately make you laugh. Sometimes a bit of relaxation is what's best for the weary author's mind. Seriously. Just try it. And....good luck!

xoxo
~ Rebecca S. Read more!

Live Earth

While most of us were out enjoying our summer vacations, there was probably one of the best concerts of the year playing on your television live all day on Saturday July 7. The concert was Al Gore's Live Earth, developed to raise global warming awareness. It took place all day in seven continents and included acts such as Madonna, John Legend and the Police. But the draw for this all day long concert on t.v. was not very big. While the people who actually were able to attend the concert was huge, nobody really wanted to sit home on the couch and watch people at a concert.

I happened to see a segment in which they showed the various environmentally safe home designs available. My personal pick was the old wool sweaters that were used as seat cushions. Perhaps I have a space in my heart for sitting on soft itchy substances.
I wasn't surprised to see that the numbers of viewers was below expected, but it did make me wonder if this is the best way to raise environmental awareness. The concert goers could organize themselves to do some community service in local parks. Rather than driving to the concert in SUV's and then going back to work in places that give off fossil fuels, they could sit down and read about how to help the environment.
Instead of just flying performers on big company airplanes, which pollute, and giving them merits for singing a song, they could also give large amounts of their own money to organizations supporting environmental safety. I always feel like none of these performers really care about the causes that they are performing for, I mean if most regular people don't care, then why would rich people care??
But hey, that's just some cynicism. Wear sunscreen, stop using Styrofoam, and plant a tree. That's just some general advice. Or watch Live Earth on re-runs and make some Eco-friendly toothbrushes out of twigs and mint leaves.

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The Checklist of Circumstance

It is well-known to all writers that character development can be difficult, however what can also be difficult is creating character dynamics, in general. Picture it: you just became inspired and you discovered your protagonist for your latest prose piece. You quickly sit down to write, and you come up with a great first page. I mean something exemplary; you truly start off with a bang, and though you are too close to be objective, you can tell that it is good material that properly represents your character and the direction for their journey. But where do you go next as it pertains to other characters?

You just finished a page about your hero/heroine on the tail end of their trip to Calcutta, India, but whom are they coming home to? Should they be married, have children? Should their parents be alive? Many writers absentmindedly choose the relationships of their characters' life, as with a pen and checklist. Some writers do carefully think through the the life circumstances and status of relations in their protagonists' life, but do all really take time to think about what the character would bring to the main character that originally made them sit down to write? I can say that I don't always, and I wonder what's the consensus on that front? Make this post a forum to pique each others' curiosity.

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Literary Landmarks of New York: The White Horse Tavern

In New York, it is incredibly easy to locate literary landmarks because of the sheer number of poets, playwrights and novelists who have called the city home. A writer's life can be a very solitary one, so many men and women wrote or relaxed with friends in cafés and bars -- to draw inspiration from the everyday people and goings-on, perhaps, or maybe just to keep from feeling too lonely.

One such little place, located on the corner of Hudson Street and 11th Street in Greenwich Village, is the White Horse Tavern. It was built in 1880 and was initially frequented by longshoremen--the men who worked loading and unloading ships at the seaports a little further downtown.

Despite its old-fashioned, traditional decor, the White Horse became the hotspot for the progressive, experimental minds of the Beat era and members of the folk/hippy movement: Jack Kerouac, Norman Mailer, and Bob Dylan (not necessarily literary, but a poet in his own right) were all regulars. In fact, legend has it that Kerouac visited so often that a fellow drinker once scrawled "KEROUAC GO HOME!" on the bathroom mirror. Hunter S. Thompson, James Baldwin, Anais Nin and Allen Ginsberg were among the many who would gather there, sometimes in groups or pairs and sometimes alone. The New York School poets, including Frank O'Hara and John Ashbery, also dropped by the White Horse on occasion. Sadly, the most lasting legacy of the White Horse Tavern is the fact that it is the bar in which Dylan Thomas, the Welsh poet, overdosed on alcohol and died. However, the White Horse Tavern remains open, and many tourists visit it every year--some on the New Ensemble Theatre Company's tour of literary bars in Greenwhich Village, and others alone--to catch perhaps a little bit of the magic that surely remains within its walls, the remnants of a once-thriving, explosive and creative place.

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contemporary iraqi artists

Here are some links to art made mostly by Iraqi expatriates. To put things into perspective, most of these artists grew up during the Iran-Iraq war (Gulf War), and are now living their early adulthood with the spectre of the current situation.

• Ali Rashid, now living in Germany, graduated from the Bahdad Institute of Fine Art: http://alirashid.exto.nl/gallery/detail/id/233872.html
• Haider Wady, born in 1976 Baghdad, is a member of the Iraqi Society of Plastic Art, has exhibited in Paris, Syria, Morocco, Iraq: http://www.haiderwady.netfirms.com/gallery.htm

• Mohammed Al Sadoun, raised in Southern Iraq, studied at Ohio State and the University of Hartford in CT, as well as the University of Baghdad, has been exhibiting internationally since 1975, here is an interesting article with artwork included: http://www.arabworldbooks.com/Articles/article70.htm
• Dr. Ali Zayni, born in Baghdad, is a practicing cosmetic dentist as well as an artist, also studied music in Baghdad, later taught the oud (Arab instrument) for a year in a New England school, today lives in Amman, Jordan: http://ali.enana.com/gallery.htm
• Lamia Jamal Al-Talabany, Iraqi Kurd, graduate of Baghdad University and London University, lives in Jordan, quote from front page of website "I hope my children and grandchildren will have the opportunity to live in a better world, a world of freedom and justice," http://www.lamiajamal.com/Gallery.htm

Here is a good site to search for more: http://www.iraqiart.com/

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Pick of the Week - Independence Day!!

Eli will be entering the 7th grade in September and is 12 years old.

by Eli R.

I lay weary at eight in the morning, pondering if I should get up. I realize that this is an important day for my company, and I am forced to sit up in my bed. Today I have a lucrative opportunity: to promote my insurance company in a lecture to possible customers. I groaned and got out of bed, staggering towards the drawer. I got dressed and made my way to the kitchen to gather a Propel from the refrigerator. The blinding sun shone in my eyes as I flagged down a taxi. The summer was unusually hot and my perspiration already soaked my shirt. A taxi came by and I was relieved to be in its shade.

“Hi, if you would please take me to 29th and Broadway that would be great.” I greeted him.

“Yes sir”, he answered automatically with an Indian accent. He was a man with a dark complexion and large white turban surrounded his head. My eyes wandered over to his profile and name.

“That’s and interesting name, where are you from?”

“I am from India, Bombay.”

“That’s interesting I just traveled there for a business trip. Wish I could have stayed longer. Here we are, at the near corner.” The fare was $3.25 and I handed him a five-dollar bill. I opened the cab door and once again felt the searing sunrays stinging my neck. I grabbed my Propel in haste and the refreshing fluid calmed me.
I stiffened as I entered the serious domain of business. My legs became locked as I advanced with my jaw clenched and my muscles flexing, onto the podium. My now firm and raspy voice traveled through the audience, their pupils growing and boring into mine. Following the monotonous lecture I discussed our inadequate policy with probable clients, and stormed out of the tense atmosphere into the atrium of the building. Flushed, I rushed to the private garage where my car waited and lounged for a moment in profound thought. I then steamed out of the garage with the hope of a relaxing drive on the highway.

After an hour gliding over the concrete I felt powerful and accelerated until I was averaging the speed of 80 miles per hour. I was unstoppable, and again increased the speed until a man flashed across my bumper. Through my window I saw him twitch and lay motionless. I hit the breaks and watched the blood seep from his chest; his button down shirt was smeared, as was my window shield. A wave of shock covered my face but I merely turned the windshield wipers on and the blood was washed onto the ground. I continued to drive.

In my apartment I lounged on my bed and watched the blood coursing through my veins and pulsing into my forearm’s. I sat, staring throughout the night, thinking, and sipping my Propel as the moonlight shone into my eyes. As the sun rose I sat weary and realized I had had work today; I disregarded that thought and sulked towards the mirror. My reflection was pale, drained, and frail. For the next week I abandoned my occupation, along with my happiness, but I wasn’t noticed.

The next morning I ambled towards 35th where the police station awaited me and I admitted my sin. The following week I sat in a dank jail cell, happy for the first time in my life. Read more!

My Favorite Writing Exercise and my favorite place in NYC

Another one of my favorite writing exercises is to sit with a pen and piece of paper and follow my stream of consciousness. This usually helps me put down a great number of thoughts, even if they aren't connected to one main idea. I can then reread what I've written and look for a topic that I believe I can weave into a story.

Another one of my favorite places in NYC is Grand Central Station. What I love about Grand Central Station is the immense open space inclosed by the spectacular dome ceiling. It is a place crowded with people either trying to reach a destination or arriving home. Grand Central Station is one of the finest of New York City's historical sites and a place that has the potential for generating many stories.

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After a week of blogging & summer workshopping!

Hi WritopiaLab bloggers, writers, workshop participants, literary editors, and fans!

What a wonderful ten days it has been! New short stories and memoir have been imagined, remembered, put down on paper, pored over... Plays have been constructed and reconstructed as we prepare for staged, theatrical readings... And an array of thoughtful, profound, edgy, forward-looking, and most importantly, distinct personalities and ideas have been emerging each day from the blog. In fact, the first thing I do when I wake up is check to see who has written what on the blog. And I am not the only one! Each day we are getting about a dozen more hits than the previous day! Yay Writopia Lab's Teen & Tween Writers!!!!

Some news: Email Dan (Dan@WritopiaLab.org) if you want to see "Voices in Conflict," a well-reviewed play about Iraq written and performed by teens. We are going together next week. (We have free tickets!)

Also, it is official, we will be having a reading in September at Barnes & Noble at which all of our summer participants will be reading the work that emerged from the summer workshops!



Lastly, for all workshop participants and bloggers: Dan and I are planning a cooking party for sometime in July. Wanna come?

xoxo
Rebecca

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Seamless Transitions

The logistics of writing fiction can be flummoxing. In fact, all writers can suffer from some misdirection in this particular problem. The task is order -- sheer structure. How should the structure of a short story, poem, novel, or memoir piece be? This is a vast topic and therefore, cannot be thoroughly discussed, however it is often difficult for beginners in the writing craft to have a seamless transition of text that is cohesive and readable. Of course to some, such things come easily, but this is one thing that holds many people back -- the order of information about characters, setting, events, and all of the other components of good writing material.

If the order of your story is hard to follow, it may turn many readers off, unless you can properly pull it off. With age, and experience in writing and life, writers find their style; their "signatures"; and they discover what makes their writing styles different from other writers. Some writers turn out to be very straightforward in style, while others create mazes and intricate tapestries of creativity. I may be biased in this assessment, but I believe that writers who do have very intricate writing styles turn out to have the best material, though that may not always hold true. This goes back to finding your voice as a writer. There is so much writing in the world that writers should be unique in their style. Have some panache. Put some chutzpah into your work. It is important to go out on a limb and take chances while writing, but don't go too far, because the audience may not follow you -- something that boxes infinite creativity in our world. I personally find that my writing style isn't so straightforward. I jump through time a lot, use a lot of memories, and write orders that seem most natural to me and my voice. Life is not black-and-white. Write accordingly.

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Theories as Book Seven Looms Ahead

Welcome to the Harry Potter section of this blog! Despite the date of the very last book being published inching inexorably nearer, and with it the end of the beloved Harry Potter series, this part of the blog is just at its initiation. It will be a celebration of all things Harry Potter, any and every aspect of these amazing books that the given leader of the blog chooses to comment on, question, test, or ponder. I do not know whether to laugh or cry at the prospect of the last battle of Harry and Voldemort (shiver) and epic final book being read, and with it the suspense that so many fans have lived in for so many years relinquished.

However, I do know that the late Dumbledore once sagaciously said: “…I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me” (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets).Taking these wise words to heart, it is evident that even when the last book has been published, read, and placed on the bookshelf, the Harry Potter series will never cease in its glory until not one more person left in this universe is loyal to it—an astounding feat that I doubt shall ever occur.

Sentimentalities over, without further ado I shall present this weeks Harry Potter topic in one word, theories. Basically, please reply with your predictions of any events that may happen in the book to come, the most anticipated of course being who will die, namely Voldemort or Harry, because according to Trelawney’s prophesy, “neither can live while the other survives.” Additionally, J.K. Rowling has hinted that there will be two other major deaths. I dread, but surely not, that these may end up being Ron and Hermione.

Right now you are thinking skeptically to yourself that this could never happen, but I personally would not put it past Rowling to create a dark end. After all, she is said to have considered killing off Harry, on the grounds that if she didn’t, people would steal her character. So I wouldn’t put it past her, but my real theory is that this threat on the horizon is just a cover-up. See, J. K. Rowling doesn’t want her fans to commence reading with the mindset: Here is the big finish where Harry will struggle his way nobly through all of the Horcrux’s, after much dramatic action kill Voldemort, and live happily ever after. Also, her reasoning about character stealing isn’t very well founded, as people would steal her character regardless. If I were her, I would want people to open Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows magic-filled pages with an air of excited foreboding, the victor in posterity still shrouded.

Of course, you might argue that I hide behind this theory because I would be utterly depressed if Harry was murdered, meeting the same gruesome end as his parents, and you might be right. I am in enough of a shock that Dumbledore died. Speaking of which, one theory that would be especially intriguing to hear is the matter of Snape and Dumbledore.

My feeling is, why would the brave Dumbledore, the greatest wizard who ever lived, have the dying words of “Severus…Please” unless he was trying to convey some kind of important message? Maybe that is just how the event unfolded. Maybe Dumbledore sacrificed himself so Snape’s cover as one of the loyal Death Eaters would not be blown. Maybe it was something else entirely…for you explore. So, remember that the celebration of Harry Potter is not at its end but only at its beginning, and if you feel compelled to respond to anything in this far-too-long introduction, please do so. (Muggles included).

~Lily

Hi, I'm Lily and age 13. I enjoy reading, writing (which may be obvious), running, and playing the drums. I love animals, and have a tortoise who goes by the name Joey. I also like online computer games, and hanging out with my brother and sister. (I am a triplet). My favorite colors are hues of light and dark green and I prefer rock over other genres of music. This concludes my short spew of information concerning myself, and have a nice day. :) Read more!