My neighbor is usually pretty friendly, but for some reason, he's been acting really out of character. Halloween was a few days ago, and my family invited him to the pumpkin patch like we always do, but he looked like the idea was poison in his mouth that he wanted to spit out. So, we went without him. I always used to order a pumpkin spice latte with him and split it. It made me sad when I saw it on the menu, so I didn't order it. It just wouldn't have been the same. When we got back, He was standing on our front doorstep with a plate full of muffins, just like he did when we first moved in. He had clearly baked them himself, because he still had his apron on. He looked back to normal, like nothing had happened to him. We never asked him what was wrong, and he never told us. But, if he's better now, I suppose it doesn't really matter who or what hurt whom. I'm just glad he's okay.
((I hope that's okay. I wasn't sure if you were supposed to use all of them or what so I just used as many as I could while still making the story make sense))
I smile at the baker. I'm a regular at his cafe by now, so it only makes sense that he knows what I usually order; however, today, I'm feeling adventurous.
"Tropical surprise, please," I correct. "And...a carton of milk."
The baker chuckles, a friendly glint in his eye. "Trying something new, I see!" Despite being a quirky man, he had good character, and made an effort to connect with each of his customers.
"Yup," I respond. As I pay, I glance behind me at the semi-filled room; small clusters of people dot the array of tables, but there are still a plethora of empty seats.
"Thank you!"
I glance back, smiling when I catch sight of the flour smeared both on his apron and his beard. I gesture towards his chin, and he catches on, dabbing at his peach fuzz. With that, I turn and make my way towards an empty table.
As I walk, conversation drifts through the room. I catch bits and pieces; one student frantically mutters about composite functions and prime numbers, no doubt cramming for a math test. Two others discuss the wildfire at the basin located on a landform.
I take my usual seat, grab my laptop, and gently pry it open. My document is still there, blinking at me. I take a deep breath, take a quick bite of my fruity pastry, and begin typing. <em> </em><em>"For whom is the poison, sir?" </em><em>"'Tis your duty to deposit it in the drink of the fair maiden when the cannon is fired thrice. Do not fail me."</em>
My latest story slowly grows as my fingers fly across the keyboard. In the newest chapter, the villain, Sir Cot, has decided to prey on the brave hero of the story. It's a little silly, but writing is an escape, a whole new world through which I can escape.
The background noise slowly vanishes as I concentrate on one thing and one thing alone: the whole new world I've created. Even my pastry remains uneaten as I work. Nothing matters now but the words on the page.
(Just a drabble, but every word should be included. Hope this is sufficient!)
The way that William Butler Yeat's poem "From the Antigone" is parallel to Sophocle's Antigone is the speaker in the poem, as well as the chorus in the play, lament noble Antigon'e terrible fate. The poem only speaks about a woman who is dying. This woman is most likely Antigone.
