"The Guest" by Albert Camus

What is the setting of this story? What is Camus trying to evoke through his description of the setting? Why do you think this setting might be important? To Daru? To the Arab? What tone does this description establish?

The Metamorphosis: Say, Show, Mean

Please post your Say, Show, Mean Post here.

The Metamorphosis: Surreal or Existential?

How is this story "surreal" (abstract but revealing a deeper truth)?
*OR*
How is this work "existential" (having to do with the idea that we each create our own meaning in life)?

What does it mean to be a "cockroach"/"vermin"?

What does it mean if someone calls you a "cockroach" or "vermin"?

Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis: Background Research Findings

Research one of the following, write a summary of your findings, and post your findings here.
o Existentialism
o Surrealism
o Franz Kafka
o Racism against Jews in Europe during the late 19th-c./early 20th-c.

If you are unable to post for whatever reason, please bring a hard copy to class next time.

Horror Story Satire by Jasmine Q.

Horror Story Satire



Greg and his wife, Stephanie, moved to Wyoming and are looking for a house to live in after escaping the great acne epidemic in Colorado. They find a real estate agent and ask him for the cheapest house they can stay in before going back home



Agent: (in a raspy voice) Welcome, summoned ones. May I interest you in an oversized and expensive dwelling place?

Stephanie: Oh my. What an odd fellow.

Greg: Hello, my good man. My family and I will be living in this state for only a short while, so we wish to see the cheapest house you have to offer.

Agent: … Crazy knuckleheads. I’ll see what I can do for you

Greg: Thank you?

Agent: Ahh, here we go. This one is $1.35 per night. I’ll get you the address.

Stephanie: That’s amazingly cheap! What’s wrong with it?!

Agent: Absolutely nothing! However, people don’t want to buy it when I tell them it was built over a cemetery whish was use to bury the deceased prisoners, which was built on top of a mental asylum, which was built on the ancient torture chambers of the ancient peoples.

Greg: Why would we buy the house now that you told us that?

Agent: Because It has a coffee shop across the street?

Stephanie: Let’s go!



Greg and Stephanie drive to the house’s address when a thunderstorm begins.



Greg: Just our luck, Steph. We ran out of gas. At least we reached the house. What’s that vulture doing circling the house? It could get electrocuted in the storm.

Stephanie: Can we go to the coffee shop now?

Greg: It’s almost 10:00 at night. You won’t be able to fall asleep if you have caffeine.

Stephanie: Then why don’t we just talk with the waiter for a while?

Greg: Alright, but only for a while. We have to start unpacking soon



The couple walks into the coffee shop and sees a single waiter cleaning the counter.



Stephanie: Hello! Can I have a mocha cappuccino?

Waiter: Sorry lady. We’re closing. What are you two doing out here in the middle of Wyoming on a stormy night anyway?

Greg: We have come from afar to find a temporary home, and the house just across the street will suit us until we may return to Colorado.

Waiter: You picked the wrong place, sonny. That there house is haunted by a terrible monster. It has four long gangly limbs, a body that is 6 feet tall, a jet black mustache, and comes out only at night. It has the strength to lift a small child, the speed of a fat elephant, and feeds on wild animals.

Greg: Ha! What a far-fetched story. There are no wild elephants in North America! Come dear, and we will leave this crazy bitter man with his silly stories.

Waiter: Please come again.



The couple walks into the house and they begin to settle down.



Stephanie: They should take better care of this house. There are cobwebs and dirt everywhere, and I feel a draft.

Greg: There’s no electricity either.

Stephanie: I think this is the Adams family’s residence.

Greg: Oh, look dear. This must be the bedroom.

Stephanie: I don’t think beds are made of spikes and leather straps. This next room must be the bedroom.

Greg: Darn this storm. The roof is leaking.

Stephanie: Just use a bucket to catch the water



Greg and Stephanie wash up and get into bed.



Stephanie: Greg, what was that? I heard a thump.

Greg: It’s probably just the storm. The wind could have pushed a branch against the window.

Stephanie: Now I hear footsteps. There are footsteps, Greg!

Greg: Maybe the vulture is walking around on our roof.

Stephanie: Shhh. Do you hear that? It sounds like an old man moaning in pain!

Greg: …. That is a very sick vulture.

Stephanie: I can’t sleep! What if it is that horrible monster that the waiter told us about? He said it has the strength to lift a fat elephant, the speed of a wild animal, and eats small children with mustaches.

Greg: I don’t think that was quite what he said. Besides, there are no such things as North American elephants. I’ll search around the house with you to prove that there are no monsters



The couple gets out of bed and they proceed down the hallway.



Greg: See? Nothing is here. Now let’s check behind this door.

Stephanie: Don’t open the door.

Greg: Why not?

Stephanie: You’re not supposed to open the door.

Greg: Oh, for heaven’s sake! I’m opening the door! (Greg slowly reaches for the door and opens it)

Stephanie: AHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Greg: Calm down, Steph! It’s just a goat.

Stephanie: Oh. Alright, I guess there was nothing to be afrai …. Did you hear that?

Greg: What now?

Stephanie: I hear a scratching noise coming from the other door.

Greg: You mean this one? (Greg opens the second door, and a 6 foot tall smelly monster with a long stick steps out)

Monster: Howzit?

Goat: BAAAAAAA!

Greg: Run away!!!

Stephanie: AHHHH!



Greg, Stephanie, and the goat run away as fast as they can as the monster slowly limps after them.



Greg: Stephanie! If we die, we will die together! That monster may rip off our faces, but it cannot tear apart our love.

Stephanie: Get a hold of yourself Greg! We can beat this horrible mustache monster! All we have to do is pour water on it!

Greg: What kind of logic is that?

Stephanie: Mustaches don’t like to get wet, and it works in all of the movies.

Greg: All of the movies? Really?

Stephanie: Yes! Remember the leaky roof? I’ll bet that the bucket caught enough water to wash the monster out of existence!

Goat: Baaaaa.

Greg: Whatever. Maybe the water will surprise it long enough for us to get to the exit.



The couple grabs the bucket of water and they wait for the monster in the hall.



Monster: Euhghhhaahhh! (walks slowly toward the couple)

Greg; Here it comes.

Stephanie: Ahhhhhh!

Monster: Heyuuuuhhh!

Greg: It’s still coming

Monster: Ihavaheerughnh!

Greg: Getting closer

Stephanie: Just pour the water!



Greg pours the water on the monster.



Monster: Yowww!

Stephanie: You did it! We killed it!

Greg: Wait a minute. This isn’t a monster. See the dirt washing away? It’s old man Jenkins!

Jenkins: Thank you, my boy. I was parched. That water is very refreshing.

Stephanie: I guess that explains the moaning, but why are you so dirty?

Jenkins: I tripped over a lawn sprinkler in the mud outside, so I came into this house. When I realized that It is illegal to enter a house without permission, I tried to hide. Then, I realized that I should just ask you for a towel, but you screamed and ran away.

Greg: Why were you walking in so slowly and creepily toward us?

Jenkins: I’m called old man for a reason. That’s why I normally walk with my cane.

Stephanie: What are you even doing here in the middle of Wyoming old man Jenkins?

Jenkins: I’m looking for my goat. Now that I found it, I will leave. Good luck you two, and merry Christmas! (Old man Jenkins rides away on his goat)

Greg: That was strange. I have one more unanswered question though. Where did that monster story come from anyway?

Waiter: I made it up to scare people!

Stephanie: Ahh! Where did you come from?

Waiter: I walk to work every morning. I heard you yahoos talking about me so I came over.

Greg: Making up stories is bad for business, you know?

Waiter: Need some gas?

Greg: Umm, yes. Actually, I do. Let’s leave, Steph. Wyoming is too much for me to handle. I’d rather be a part of the acne epidemic.



Greg fills his car with gas and the couple rides away into the sunset.

The end.

Satire by Brigid N.

Phil Copeland stared into the dirty water of his sink, watching chunks of soggy food bob and float around before switching on the garbage disposal and turning away. The chores were finally done. Now he could watch TV and collapse into a sleep-deprived stupor in peace.
A reality show was playing. Spray-tanned chicks were prancing around in nightclubs, vomiting into their cocktail glasses. Yes, this would do. Phil watched until his eyes glazed over and the television became a blur, an ever-moving display of lights and whispers. He blinked, and then it was morning.
Sunday morning, which meant it was time to scrub the stain out of his blazer and go to church. Phil rolled off of the couch, reveling in the stretch of his aching back. He shaved sloppily and grabbed a sponge. A bit of soap and a few minutes of elbow grease later, the spot on his blazer had been replaced by a threadbare wasteland of faded fabric. Close enough.
Breakfast consisted of a cup of non-dairy creamer with a splash of coffee in it. After that, he shuffled into his second-hand Toyota and rolled past the local homeless shelter to the glossy marble church on the other end of town. It was packed with disgruntled old men and housewives like red bowling balls, but he managed to find a seat.
The pastor began reading from his lectern, his ample stomach jiggling through his robes at every word he enunciated. After a few passages on the fires of hell, he spoke with his own words. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to celebrate as people in the Body of Christ. Remember this, and you'll get to the pearly gates in the sky. If you don't, or if you turn gay or something, Jesus will send your spirit into the ground to burn for eternity. He loves you that much." People sat rapt, murmuring prayers or Amens every once in a while. The pastor cleared his throat and continued. "Remember, God blesses us all. Be thankful for what he does for you, his children. That coffee you drank this morning? That was God coffee. God did it. That stubbed toe you got when you walked downstairs to the kitchen? That was Go- no, that was all because of your total free will. However, the pain and suffering that some of us endure can all be solved through prayer. Pray enough, and God will either fix everything for you or not do anything to teach you a lesson about those less fortunate or starving kids in Africa or something..." He trailed off, his brow furrowing. "Either way, God helps. And how do we know?" He paused for a few seconds with a self-indulgent grin on his face. "The Bible says so. It was written a long time ago by people that were very devout and intelligent. We know they were because they wrote that in the Bible." He smiled and drank in the church's applause. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes, abortions cause hurricanes. Anyway, turn your prayer books to..."
<~(o)~>
Phil hurriedly stepped into his car, peeled off his blazer and button-down shirt, and changed into his work clothes. His shift at Burger Buddies started in 10 minutes. He drove out of the parking lot, his T-shirt still lopsidedly hanging off of his face, and headed for the freeway.
He arrived at Burger Buddies with 54 seconds to spare and pulled his shirt on all the way before clocking in. It was time for 8 hours of sweaty, greasy hell. He stepped behind the counter, wiped down the counter top and then his face with a paper towel, and flipped over a paper sign to open his cash register to the hungry populace. Work had begun.
"Okay, sweethaht, this is a long one. Two Beta Burgers with extra cheese, one Baby Burger with no mayo, One FryBurg with extra cheese AND no mayo..." a lady drawled in his general direction as three or four little kids pulled at her sleeves. "...and remember, that's a SMALL chocolate shake and a MEDIUM coffee." She finished and handed him a credit card as he scrawled down her order and handed it to Teresa, the fry chick. Goodness knew where it went from there. He put on his plasticy work-smile and turned to face the next customer. Some "plan" God had for him. He'd been the first person in his family to go to college, and now he was making half as much as his parents at a trashy fast-food place. For Chrissake, he was a BA! The world worked in cruel ways. He'd gone to college, been rejected from teaching and management positions due to lack of experience, and ended up working the cash register at his local burger joint. It was a life devoid of any divine intervention at all. Buy hey, he thought, at least he wasn't one of those starving kids in Africa. God must really hate them!
<~(o)~>
After work, Phil sat in his apartment and ate from an old box of Cheetos. His cell phone rang. He draped a towel over his greasy hand and reached for it. Crap. It was his mother. He reluctantly pressed 'Talk' and flopped back onto the couch with the phone cradled between his ear and his neck. With an 'ahem' and a burst of static, his mom checked up on her eldest son.
"Sweetheart! How goes it?"
He winced at the syrupy nickname. "I'm... fine. How's it going with you?"
"Oh I am just great. Your father and I are leading a youth retreat next weekend, so we're preparing for that."
Phil knew the drill. She wanted him to ask her about the retreat. The woman lived for the opportunity to let everyone know what a pious citizen she was. "Oh. And what're you guys doing for this retreat?
"Oh, it's going to be all about worship, love and defending our faith from the commu-fascist evil liberal agenda." She tittered. "The kids are going to have so much fun arguing against the separation of church and state and doing vocal exercises to shout down anyone who dares to question God."
He put on his fake smile and hoped she could see it through the phone. "That sounds great, Mom."
"It sure does! Bye bye honey." She hung up, leaving Phil wondering if she had called for any reason other than to talk about herself.
He shrugged and resumed staring out the window. The homeless shelter across the street was busy as usual. Kids in shapeless T-shirts played with grimy toys as their mothers leaned against the wall and smoked. It was a section of the block that no real color or emotion permeated. Just a grayish little section of land, a cauldron of yearning and numb sadness. What did these people have to be grateful for? Who did they compare themselves to to convince themselves that they were blessed? How many members of the elite stepped into their glossy cars and left these people in the dust on their way to Church to learn how to be more like Jesus? But who was he to question his faith? It was something you just accepted , because if you started to question it, it would become less credible and maybe you'd stop believing. Then you'd think that maybe there was no giant, invisible, all-seeing force that ruled over the universe and hated gay people. To even begin to think that was terrible. He might be sent underground and burned for eternity after death. Phil shivered and turned on the TV to numb his overactive mind.
<~(o)~>
A week passed uneventfully. Time slowed down in favor of an endless cycle of work, food-esque items, and sleep. When the weekend rolled around again, the one thing that Phil dreaded, oddly enough, was going to Church. It was though he had seen it do something dirty and now he couldn't look it in the eye. Usually, it was the other way around. But obligations were obligations. He pulled on his ratty blazer and drove to the same shiny church he'd been attending for the entire 23 years of his life. This time, however, it felt... different. The halls didn't shine with the same luster they used to. The sense of anticipation before the mass itself wasn't quite so tangible.
The priest stood at his lectern as always, his robes flowing around his ample figure. The crowd sat rapt as usual. Phil, however, had changed. He felt an odd sense of detachment, as though he were some greater being peering at the mass through a lens. An unpleasant image was fighting its way into his mind: that of a cult, in which robed figures whispered dark incantations to deities of smoke and mirrors, bolstered by the wide-eyed and desperate. The image closed in, shadowy and foreboding, as the oxygen seemed to disappear from the air he was breathing. He felt as though he were being drawn into some dark, arcane abyss. The pew in front of him seemed to swim before his eyes.
Phil couldn't take it anymore. He stood up and walked away. The hallway in front of him became asphalt and then a yellowish field as he strode faster and faster before finally breaking into a run. He sprinted, not feeling the ground underneath him, until his legs gave out and he collapsed. For a while, the world consisted of just him and a little blade of grass, buffeted by the wind. But he knew he had to face reality at one time or another. He was lying in a field playing with a bit of grass and sobbing like an idiot. His car was still in the church parking lot. He had work today. His mother was going to call him this afternoon.
Finally, he stood up, wiped his face, and turned to face the rest of his life. The church looked to be about a quarter-mile away. There was an apartment building directly to his left, which meant that his nihilistic little spectacle had been seen by a couple hundred people. Phil shook his head, laughed mirthlessly, and started back towards the parking lot.
Work. The ultimate in monotony. It numbed the restless mind and cooled the fluctuating mood. After 8 hours of soul-crushing cashiering, he almost felt like himself again. Almost. Phil's work-numbness was replaced by unfiltered dread the instant he unlocked the door to his apartment. His mom was going to be calling sometime during the next hour. He treated his phone like an explosive, setting it on the kitchen table and darting away.
When it finally rang, Phil took a deep breath. One word replies, he reminded himself. Poker voice. Everything is fine. He pressed the 'Talk' button with the sentiment of a samurai on a suicide mission.
"Afternoon, sweetie!" His mother chirped with her usual pep.
"Hey... hi mom."
"So, I'm sure you're just DYING to hear about the retreat."
"Of course I am! How was it?" He winced and prepared himself for her gushy reply.
"Oh, it was just wonderful! All of the kids had a very good time cleansing themselves of demons and learning to trust God more completely. One of them, Sarah, told us that she was a lesbian, so we all very much enjoyed telling her how disgusting and inhuman she was. And it was just wonderful to look up at the stars! A little boy tried to tell us how they had been created over billions of years by the gravitational pull of superheated gases, so we punished him with the 'prayer rod' for his blasphemous theories. It was amazing! You know, you should help out at one of these retreats sometime. We could use some more volunteers."
"Er... no thanks, Mom."
"Oh? And why not?" The touch of venom in her voice was unmistakable.
"Well... um... strictly speaking, I'm not really into that sort of thing anymore, you know..."
"'Anymore?' What on EARTH are you talking about?"
He was fed up with her and her control over what he felt and thought. "It means this, mom. I'm fed up with your arcane, baseless beliefs and ancient prejudices. I'm done with worshipping the empty air. I'm not going to stand for-"
She cut him off. "You are no son of mine, you Satanist. There will be no more calls. There will be no more money now or in the future. Enjoy your pitiful life, you disgusting worm." The dial tone rang in his ear. She had hung up. He lay on the couch, feeling like a blimp whose last connection to earth had just been cut.
<~(o)~>
Weeks passed. Notices piled up. Bills went unpaid and Phil worked overtime in vain. It was only a matter of time before he could hold on no longer. Finally, the day of reckoning came. He was drowning in debt and a nice young couple needed an apartment. Numb, he stepped out of that shrine to IKEA furniture for the last time.
For a while, Phil just slept in his car. He still had enough funds from his job at Burger Buddies to keep himself fed. But when he was fired from his job due to 'poor work performance' and two men shoved a letter from his mother in his face and took away the Toyota, he found himself with nowhere to turn. That homeless shelter he had gazed at for so many weeks seemed very much real. Its gray numbness threatened to overwhelm him.
Days and nights seemed to blend. The world had lost its color. He had lost his purpose. He had lost the only support that had kept him off of the streets. If only he'd majored in Politics, Phil often thought wryly. He'd be better able to communicate with his fellow humans, the ones he was stuck on this mossy rock of a planet with. But hey, maybe the religious people had it figured out. You could explain everything with a god. You could quench your fear of mortality with a god. You could stay shallow and happy by making up a deity and worshipping it. With vague words and rituals, one could shut out the harshness of the universe and feel warm and fuzzy inside. You could shape the face of the earth and control an entire populace with groundless belief. Faith was where people turned when they felt worthless. Faith was a place to shut down the rational mind and suspend common sense for the sake of spreading magic water on your face and murmuring assurances to an invisible man in the sky that an old guy with a robe told you was there. It was all so stupid, and that was what kept people happy. Mindlessness was a drug, an opiate for the populace. Phil sighed and chuckled mirthlessly. He thought too much to be happy. He was useless, a burden on a society that just wanted to believe in something that wasn't there.
After a few days of cynical observation and bitter thoughts, Phil decided it was time to leave the earth to itself. It was unknowing and it liked it that way. He found a bit of rope in a dumpster, then trudged down to the lake near his former apartment building. The water was green and wriggling with slimy life forms. He tied a sloppy knot and pinned his arms behind his back, then lied down on the rocky shore and plunged his torso into the murky water. His last thoughts were of murky water as he succumbed to the black abyss.