Something Is Confuddling: [sic]

You see it in quotes, excerpts and paraphrasing, usually following unusual idioms or misspellings. It sits there, glaring off the page in its own little square-bracketed world:

[SIC]

For quite some time now, I have been meaning to look up what this odd little sign means, and finally, FINALLY, I decided the time had come. I sat down at my laptop, cracked each knuckle individually, then clacked determinedly at the keyboard. “What does [sic] mean?”, I demanded of Google. Answers popped up on the screen, and I gleefully opened up a window to find my answer.

…It’s Latin for thus or such. Bit of an anticlimax, I guess, but soothing to my curiousity, nonetheless!

It is used to indicate that the misspelling, unique spelling, turn of phrase or error in the passage you’ve quoted is represented as it was in the original source. Basically, when you write [sic] after a quote, you’re telling your reader, “This is not MY mistake. It was this guy’s mistake. I’m awesome, you see, and would never make such a belligerent error in my writing.”

So, for example:

“Mr Extreme suggests that every man [sic] has the ability to be a good writer.”
Here, [sic] is informing the reader that use of the exclusive term ‘man’, rather than ‘person’, is stated as by the original source.

“Miss Blog stated in her article that ‘the novel was an extroardinary [sic] piece of work’.”
Here, [sic] is accounting the misspelling of ‘extraordinary’ to the source’s text, and not as the writer’s own mistake.

So there you have it. If anyone else was curious about this helpful little three-letter message, then I hope your questions have been answered.

And if you’d like some help in remembering, use this helpful little acronym:

[SIC]: Spelt In Context

- Love The Bad Guy

“The Raven”

Hello, dear readers. As you know, every now and again I like to draw your attention to a piece of writing, not my own, which I feel is a must-read. One of these is The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. This is surely a poem that you’ve all at least heard of, but I know some would admit to never having read it. However, it is truly an excellent example of writing – the rhyming scheme, the picture he forms, it is all just brilliant. Poe really is a mastermind and an inspiration.

How is a raven like a writing desk…?

Enjoy.

by Edgar Allan Poe (1845)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’”- here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as ‘Nevermore.’

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never-nevermore.’”

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking ‘Nevermore.’

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore -
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked upstarting -
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!

- Love The Bad Guy

Picture taken from here

“Midnight Confessions”

Hello readers!

I offer today a short story in the genre of “murder-mystery”. I hope it is to your liking.

The boom of the clock echoed twelve times in the still, silent room. Detective Charlie Fraud slowly paced the floor like a lion stalking its prey, watchful blue eyes scanning the room’s six other occupants.

“Mr Andrew Black,” Charlie drawled, his voice shattering the quiet of the room. He ran his fingers along the frayed edge of his coat as he circled his audience. “Thirty-two years old. Three point four million dollars to his name. He asked you all here for a simple discussion regarding his will… Yet now he’s been murdered.” He smirked at the absolute stillness around him, as though everyone in the room was holding a simultaneous breath. He brought his arm up and pointed viciously to each person in a sweeping arc. “The murderer is with us, here in this very room!” He paused for dramatic effect, his smirk widening. “And I know who that person is.”

Charlie gazed around the room, a hand running through bristled blonde hair with an airiness that seemed out of place in the tense atmosphere surrounding him. He lowered himself leisurely to kneel beside the chair of his first victim, speaking with the casualness of a man enquiring about the weather.

“It could be you, Miss Lily Diamond,” Charlie said softly, resting a hand on top of her own finely manicured fingers. “You had motive. You loved him. He promised you the whole world, just you and he together… And then he left you for another. Betrayal like that leaves a mark, doesn’t it, Lil? With a burning, festering scar that like, it would have been all too easy to convince yourself to break into his desk drawer, steal his gun… Pull the trigger.” He gently stroked her cheek with the back of his hand; a gesture that, in any other circumstance, would be comforting. Lily, however, remained deathly still, and with a final chuckle, Charlie rose and turned to the opposite side of the room.

“But the same intentions could lie with Ms Rebekah Lee Rose, no?” He skulked closer, pausing for just a moment to admire her quiet beauty; her long black hair covered her delicate face as she slumped in her chair, seemingly trying to make herself as small as possible. “You won the battle with dear Lily, but you lost the war, didn’t you, Bek? You sacrificed it all for him; your house, your friends, your family. You moved to the other end of the country to be with him, but then he grew bored and threw you away like yesterday’s trash. Because of Andy, you became a leper in a town you didn’t know. Couldn’t blame you for wanting a piece of revenge…” Charlie trailed off, his unspoken words undeniably clear: You knew where the spare key was. You knew where the gun was hidden. All it took was one shot, one bullet, one moment…

Rebekah remained wilted in her chair, never once lifting her head. Charlie spun on his heel with shocking precision, bringing him in front of the eldest of his audience. The couple were pressed against each other on a sofa that was far too small, yet they seemed ignorant to the world as they rested greying heads against one another. Charlie towered over them, his manner darkening ever so slightly.

“But perhaps it wasn’t about broken hearts or severed romances. Perhaps it was about a son refusing to do what he was told, hmm?” He lifted his chin but kept his gaze locked on the elderly couple as he announced to the room at large, “Mr Thomas Black, and Mrs Marjorie Black… You loved your son, no? Wanted to protect him from the cruelties of this world; wrap him in cotton wool until the day you died… Or until the day he died.” He smiled winningly as he stepped closer, revelling in the fear upon their faces. Thomas’s eyes were swollen with alarm, though he wasn’t meeting Charlie’s gaze. Marjorie, by comparison, had clenched her eyes closed, hiding in her own cocoon of darkness as Charlie spitefully continued.

“Was it a case of, ‘if I can’t have him, no one can,’ Maggie? You were losing your little boy piece by piece, and you couldn’t stand it, could you? So you put an end to it… Or did Tommy do the deed?” He fixed his piercing blue gaze back to the elderly man’s stony face. “Yes… I think it would be Tommy. Daddy dearest standing up for his family; Andy was tearing you apart, undoing all your carefully tied connections, and apparently a father-son chat just couldn’t hack it.” Charlie clicked his tongue with mocking sympathy. “Such a shame, wouldn’t you say, Barty?”

Charlie leered as he stepped toward his final victim, his shoes clicking loudly against the wooden floor. He took note of the clenched fists and stiff shoulders with a wicked grin. “Mr Bartholomew Tyes. You were dear Andy’s best friend, weren’t you? Childhood mates, and all that. You were like brothers; it takes years to form a bond as close as the one you two had… But you got greedy, huh, Bart? You knew Andy had left a very generous amount of money for you in his will, and you couldn’t wait to get your hands on it. Suddenly, those decades of friendship didn’t mean much, did they? It’s amazing how easily bonds can be broken. How easily people are thrown away…”

His voice broke on the final word; taking a deep, shuddering breath, Charlie once more surveyed his silent, unmoving audience. Sapphire eyes rose to the heavens, and he spoke in a soft whisper. “We call ourselves acquaintances… friends… brothers…” He clenched his fists tightly, vaguely feeling the sticky sensation of blood pooling around his knuckles as his fingernails pierced deeply into the flesh of his palms. “But when it comes right down to it, every friendship, every connection has a limit. Belonging is just an illusion!” he spat fiercely. Heart hammering painfully, he looked back to the motionless crowd around him. Not one had moved an inch. Their breaths had long since stopped. Their hearts had long since fallen still.

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he turned to the sixth person in the room. Blood trailed sickeningly from the single bullet wound in his chest and his dull blue eyes stared at nothing from his position on the floor. Charlie knelt beside the prone figure of Andrew Black.

“Everybody had a motive, Andy. Every single one of them.” He glared around him, but no threat remained. Lily was propped deftly in the chair, appearing so at peace that if it weren’t for the slit throat, she’d appear to be sleeping. Rebekah had slumped forward the instant Charlie had placed her on the sofa, black hair dripping red. Thomas’s face was forever frozen in a final portrait of fear, and Marjorie eyes would never open again as she remained unmoving in her husband’s lifeless grip. In death, Bartholomew’s air of superiority was shattered, as the steady drip… drip… drip… of blood began to fill the silence. Charlie looked down upon Andy’s spread-eagled form, eyes staring into nothingness. He reached down and pulled the limp body into his arms.

“I could see it in their eyes, Andy,” Charlie whispered into his ear. “They never cared for you, never loved you. There was only ever me. I had to keep you safe from them. I wasn’t going to let them hurt you like they hurt me.” With a gentle, red-soaked hand, he stroked the blonde hair from Andy’s cold forehead. “You belong to me, Andy. You’re mine… I’m sorry you couldn’t see that.”

Later that night, people around the nation would be horrified as they watched the news: Six people murdered, five stabbed and one shot; they were each killed throughout the home, yet all found in the lounge, positioned as though alive and well… It was like a cruel parody of a family enjoying each other’s company before bed.

The police were now searching for their only suspect: Thirty-two years old; he had a twin brother, but was adopted as a newborn; Detective Charlie Fraud.

Formerly known as Charles Black.

- Love The Bad Guy

Book Review: The Hunger Games

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

The first book of The Hunger Games trilogy is set to become a film in 2012, so perhaps I’m late to the party. Nevertheless, I have just read The Hunger Games for the first time, and I am (if you’ll excuse the pun) hungry for more.

I have not yet read the second and third book of the series — I most definitely want to, but for now my efforts must be aimed at the autobiographies of my non-fiction class, and the remaining novels in my unit of Children’s Literature; The Hunger Games shall be my reward after a long semester of study! — but the first book was sufficient in drawing me head-first into the story.

The books are set in a futuristic, dystopian society where, every year, a contest is held in which a boy and a girl from each of the Twelve Districts must fight to the death; there can be only one survivor. Grim, certainly; but the story has a consistent tone of tension, drama and action. Though the term may be clichéd, The Hunger Games is a page-turner.

The series is aimed at young adults, and so, as one might expect, amongst the violence and suspense is a love story. Katniss volunteers to be one of the ‘tributes’ for the Games, to go in the place of her twelve year-old sister. Alongside her is Peeta, whom Katniss knew only as ‘the boy with the bread’ — a child who offered her food when she and her family were starving. As she and Peeta prepare to depart for the Capitol, where the Games are held, Katniss must farewell her trusted friend and hunting partner, Gale. As you can see, Suzanne Collins has all the right ingredients for a delicious love triangle.

I’ve yet to read on, but I am anxious to see how this story ends — and if that isn’t the mark of a good story, I don’t know what is!

- Love The Bad Guy

Can I Get a “Hell-Yeah!”?

I’m back at university; my nose is bearing the unmistakable grazes that one obtains from pressing it heavily against grindstone; and I am tired, stressed, and generally freaking out about that fact that, apparently, three weeks is a sufficient amount of time for one to fall so far behind their work load that the only relief would be a swift shot in the back of the head.

But today, I’m smiling. Because I have reached 1500 views.

When I reached 500 views, I bolded, capitalised and randomly coloured the phrase so as to express my joy to you readers. But quite frankly, I’m sure all my fellow bloggers can understand my excitement without the use of overly-flashy text.

Thank you everyone who reads, comments, or simply passes through this little blog.

And I’m not giving up yet – 1500 views is only the beginning.

Cheers to you, my fantastic readers!

- Love The Bad Guy

P.S. Oh, what the hell. It’s 1500 views! HELL-YEAH!!

“Haunted”

Hi all! This is a textual intervention (a fancy, university-style way of saying “fanfiction”) for Henry James’s novella, The Turn of the Screw. For those of you who haven’t read it, it is a story about a young Governess who travels to a manor called Bly where she is to watch over a boy named Miles and his little sister Flora. However, the children seem to be keeping secrets, and the Governess begins to see people wandering through the hallways; people who have died long before her arrival.

This intervention is from the perspective of Flora, many years after the happenings of the book. It would be more enlightening to those who have previously read James’s work, but I hope those of you who are unfamiliar will enjoy it, too! (Note: This story contains spoilers for The Turn of the Screw.)

As we turned into the avenue, I had expected, or had dreaded, something so melancholy that what greeted me was a surprise. Perhaps I had been anticipating a view of sombre clouds and skies as dark as the history of the house—but no. As the carriage trundled to a stop on the rocky earth, I was forced to accept that the manor of Bly was as immaculate and deceivingly perfect as it had always been.

            The rider eagerly offered me his hand to guide me down the carriage steps; I accepted, primly ignoring his appreciative glances. It was of no surprise to me that I was of some interest to the man. I had possessed an angelic beauty in my youth, and, like a fine wine, I had only improved with age. Some may call me boastful, but when one so oft hears of their own splendour, it comes to be accepted as fact, cold and simple.

            I frequently wonder how my brother would have aged, given the chance. I am sure he would have been grand, a symbol of immaculate wealth and brilliance. Together, we could have faced any challenge. Two lone soldiers against the world…

            “Is there anythin’ else you’ll be needin’, miss?” the rider courteously asked. His voice held an eager wish that I should need his assistance with something, so as to offer him the opportunity to prove himself. I shook my head demurely, dashing his hopes, and requested that he remain outside, then I lifted the hem of my skirt and tentatively approached the doors of Bly.

            I had spent years trying to accept the events that took place in this archaic edifice, and had thought myself ready to return to its confines. However, the moment I stepped into the shadowed entrance hall, I found myself haunted by memories; my breath came in laboured gasps and I quickly sat on the nearest stool, lest I should fall. I heard a voice, sobbing and calling out through its own pain; I soon realised it is I who was weeping, with a single name escaping my lips in an urgent rush: “Miles, Miles, Miles, Miles…”

            He was my entire world, my big brother. Death seemed to follow us at every turn, tearing our hearts to shreds with well-aimed blows. We finally learnt how to love again through our friendships with the kind-hearted Mr Quint and Miss Jessel at Bly, but they were cruelly taken from us, too, in time.

            The day that our new Governess arrived, I had been filled with joyful abandon; I had naively believed that perhaps she could help to fill the aching crevice in my soul. Miles, however, met the Governess with a gentlemanly detachment; through a stranger’s eyes, he was perfectly pleasant and well-behaved. I, alone, could see through his façade and reach the broken boy within. Our complete and desperate need for one another knew no bounds; and herein laid the disaster that was to arise from our plan.

            It had seemed so innocent in its design, convincing the Governess that Bly was host to a myriad of ghosts. Miles claimed the trickery would cause the woman to contact our absent uncle, but I knew my brother too well to fall for his cleverly-spoken lies. In truth, it was but a simple method of removing someone from his domain before either he or I could welcome them into our fractured hearts.

            Our reasoning may have been pure, but the results were tragic. Our sweetly ignorant Governess was pushed too far by our tricks, and driven to an insane certainty of the so-called ‘paranormal’ activities of Bly. You can only bend a bough so far before it breaks.

            The cracks became clear on the day that I lead the Governess to the eerie land at the farthest end of the lake. The young woman, when she found me, was frantic and stupid in her delusions; she gripped me tight and pointed into dark nothingness, yelling wildly, “She’s there, you little unhappy thing—there, there, there!”

            In that moment, I was overtaken by regret, horror and an ugly rage, as if she was responsible for the wrong-doings at Bly, as if she was to blame for all of the awful happenings in our lives, and I shouted back: “I see nothing. I never have. I think you’re cruel. I don’t like you!”

            I turned my back on it all, and I ran.

            And there I was, twenty years later, caught within the same web; but I was tired of running.

            I arose shakily and began to wander the hallways with silent footsteps, an aimless traveller in my own home. It wasn’t until I lifted my eyes in the dining room that I realised where my feet had taken me.

            Hours passed before my rider sought me out; I imagine he was quite startled by the scene he encountered. To him, it was merely a room, but I knew that the very spot in which he found me, inconsolable, was where that Governess, strengthened through fear of a non-existent evil, had clutched my brother until his little heart stopped.

            The rider lifted me off the floor, cradled me like a child and carried me swiftly to the carriage; he was unsure of what had happened, but was certain that I needed to be removed from the unseen horrors of that house.

            I was somewhat composed by the time the carriage stopped outside my home. The rider took my hand and guided me down the carriage steps once again, but held onto my fingers for a moment longer than necessary to ask me quietly, “Are you goin’ to be okay?” I nodded and lightly pulled my fingers away from his. He tilted his cap politely, clambered aboard his carriage and took hold of the reins, but was unable to withhold his burning question: “If you don’t mind me askin’, miss… What happened back there?”

            I froze on the spot, unable to meet his eyes. In a voice as cold as ice, I stated, “Back there is where a woman killed my brother.”

            I was unsure of which woman I was speaking: the Governess, victim to a cruel and idiotic prank… Or myself.

            The rider could formulate no reply; with a quiet ‘ha!’ to his horses, he steered the carriage down the street until the cacophony of hooves had died away, and I was alone with the quiet day and the ghosts of my past.

- Love The Bad Guy