The Jotun

by Cooper Heilmann, staff writer

The chill was there that day
Just as it ever was. It had been there yesterday and the day before that
For the past month.  It wasn’t just winter in the usually-peaceful
Village of Vinterhavn.
The snow had engulfed the huts in its cold arms.
The well had frozen, and people huddled inside their houses,
Warm bodies against the chill. The candles were out.
The Norsemen were used to such cold; Winter was harsh.
But they had seen nothing like this before.

There was rumor that a terrible beast lived halfway up the mountain
To the north of Vinterhavn. The word was uttered often
A frightened whisper in a dark place
Between the lips of the frightened villagers: Jotun*.
This, they thought, was the reason for the shroud of winter
Over the village.
Cows had gone missing, and occasionally even children,
But no one dared to find the Jotun’s lair.

When no one had hope, they turned to the village chief Hrothgar.
He had five sons.  The oldest was Olaf, who was strong
And a mighty warrior in the minds of the villagers.
Hrothgar, who would flee before a lamb,
Sent out his oldest son to find the Jotun’s lair.
People waited anxiously for news of his return...
Whispering minds, no, it must be the cold wind...
But none came.
The people of Vinterhavn waited for three days,
And it was as if a dead silence
Had passed through the village. Finally Olaf was seen,
But he was fleeing in fright. He had abandoned
His people. The chill still hung in the air.

The villagers, furious at this betrayal turned to Hrothgar
Once again.

And so Hrothgar turned to his next son,
Sven.
He was a very strong man as well, and he bragged about
How he would take down the Jotun.
But no news came from him either. Three days, three days
Later, his body was found under a sheet of ice in a pond;
He had no wounds.
The villagers again turned to the chief Hrothgar, whose tears
Turned to ice as they slid down the crevices of his weary face.
Hrothgar kept wondering
How he could have met his end, a man so cunning and brave?
The cold lingered.

So Hrothgar again turned to his next son Leif.
Leif set out to kill the Jotun, but he was never seen again.
Once again Hrothgar mourned the death of his son,
Who had been so strong and brave. The villagers were weeping as well.
They wept not in sorrow
But in hopelessness. The Cold still would not leave.

Hrothgar, in a final attempt, sent out his fourth son Niels
Who was always very charming and handsome,
Blessed by Freja
He was.
Yet he too was vain and he never returned again.
He was dashing into the winter mist, Winter biting
At his heels and his cheeks,
After his brother Olaf.
Hope was gone. However, Hrothgar
Had a fifth son; never spoken of,
Never thought of.
Yet while his brothers held their fists aimed to Valhalla and failed,
Eric had been strengthening his arm, and his spirit.
For years he had been overcast by man-shaped shadows
But Eric didn’t mind. He knew his time had come.

One day, Eric told the village that he would slay the Jotun.
Some laughed, but some looked hopefully up to him.  Perhaps the
Aesirs** would help them this time.
The next day, Eric prepared to find the Jotun’s lair. His father,
As a final goodbye gift offered him his sword,
But he declined. It was tainted with cowardice.
He took up a sword he had crafted himself,
And left the village of Vinterhavn behind him
Without a word.

He climbed up the mountain as the chill grew colder,
Winter grew nearer,
And began to creep up through his bones like little spiders
With legs of snowflakes.
He soon found the cave of the Jotun, buried deep
Into the side of the mountain.
He called into the cave,
Oh Jotun, du som har vondt mitt folk så kom
Og utfordrer meg, barn av vinteren!
And with a terrible roar like shattering ice, the Child of Winter,
The Jotun, nine feet tall and breathing frost,
Stormed out of the cave wielding his axe of ice
And bellowing curses in a language unknown to man.

The Aesirs looked down from their golden palace.
They took their eyes off the world and saw him
With humble beginnings, taking up a sword and fighting
For his people.  The All-Father*** said to his mightiest son, Here.
Here is a true hero.
And so Thor gave him strength behind his arms
As he swung his sword with a shout of triumph.
The roar could be heard for miles.
And the villagers cheered in victory.  The frost
Lifted from the village. The wells thawed,
The cows slept soundly, and the flames in the souls
and hearts of the Villagers blazed
Once again.
Vinterhavn was saved.

But Eric’s story was different.

He was lifted from the blur
Of the snow and the glory
Of the peak.
And he was soon greeted
With many hearty congratulations.
Midgard^ needs more warriors like you, they said.
He was sure he would be remembered.
Eric remembered his brothers,
And wished they could have followed him.
But they didn’t. Maybe someday.
As the flames of the torches and the
Reflection of the Golden Hall bounced around
In his eyes, he lay back in peace.





*A Jotun is a mythological Norse monster similar to trolls from folklore.
**The Aesirs were a race of gods that ruled Valhalla, the Norse version of Heaven, where all warriors who died in battle go.  The commonly known Aesirs include Odin, Thor, and Loki.
***Odin, the Norse god of wisdom, who gave life to mankind and many other creatures and races, hence the name “All-Father”.
^Midgard is the world of mortal men.

The Black Dog

by Cooper Heilmann, staff writer

All my life it has followed me,
That dark, black shadow of a dog.
I’ve seen it
When I was seven,
then nine,
then ten and twelve,
and then again just today.
I’ve seen it
At the beach before it rains,
In the cemetery at dusk,
In the darkness of that pine forest,
In the empty house I left behind,
And in the faces of my friends gone by.

When I was little I believed it existed,
but then again, anyone would.
When you look back on your childhood years,
You think, “oh, how foolish I was,” and
“oh I remember that!” and
“It doesn’t actually exist”.
But it turns out I was right those years that passed,
When I was seven,
Nine,
Ten,
Twelve.
When I saw it
In the forest,
Alone at night,
As it disappeared over the hill,
And at the beach before the storm.
Now finally I stare it straight in the eyes;
Those cold, dark, beady eyes.
I stare it down as if it was an old friend,
Or an old enemy.
I stare into those dark, cold beady eyes that finally bring
The death of me.

MUN 2012: Where the Geeky Get Freaky

By Anna Campbell, staff reporter

My second year at the National High School Model United Nations conference, NHSMUN, was a highly anticipated event. We had waited for the day to come for almost a year, and shopped furiously for the requisite biz-cas clothes. Finally the day had come, and two modes of transport had arrived at the school; the bus, for the regular old plebeians, and the limo.

Clearly I was in the limo! We entertained ourselves by screaming at people outside who couldn’t see through the tinted windows, and finding drinks in the hidden compartments. It was, surprisingly, more cramped than the bus, although equipped with (empty) champagne buckets and disco lighting. The proximity to certain teachers was a little stifling, but we bore it surprisingly well.

  I had a few goals I wanted to accomplish, namely to yolo to the fullest extent, to not lose my wallet, and to debate and fully commit to the conference. And, loosely and generally, I did accomplish those goals.

  The Sturgis MUN crew, looking fly, cruised into the Sheraton by four o’clock, and our hotel rooms were exactly as I recalled. I made the mistake of breaking into a six-dollar bar of Toblerone planted in my way, but as a whole we managed not to succumb to the temptations of the room refrigerator, which was wired with a complicated bomb apparatus to stop possible thieves from stealing excess Pringles and Grey Goose.

  The Hilton was better. The conferences, held in enormous conference rooms within the upper levels of the hotel, were filled with young, highly attractive and international businessmen, which was essentially what we had come for- excuse me, I meant international issues. The country I represented along with Renee Orcione, Ketryn Kotchka and Rachael Bardfield, Uzbekistan, was debating child labor in my conference room, SOCHUM (Social, Humanitarian and Cultural issues) and regrettably, I had to debate for the benefits of child labor, since Uzbekistan’s child labor is a major sect of their economy. My colleagues and I signed paper after working paper arguing for the benefits of child labor, and played hangman during caucuses. I realized I had to kick my addiction to Starbucks, but told myself today was not the day. Multiple cups of coffee were necessary to suffer through Spain’s rambling.

  Although I did accomplish my second goal, not losing my wallet, somehow all my money bled through my willing fingers. Where did the money go?! I kept asking myself. Somehow I spent 100$ on the second day of our journey, and although I allotted 8$ for the final day, I spent 40$ instead. Well, you only live once, I told myself.

  Obviously, the highlight of the trip was the infamous MUN dance. For those who haven’t been, it’s a fact that the geeky DO get freaky. A former ballroom had been transformed overnight into a hallucinogenic nightclub crammed with five hundred sweating, dancing teenagers. We pregamed hard in preparation for the event, but, as always, the dance itself was something of a disappointment. The method of courting in the dance was for strange boys to creep up behind innocent ravers, hiss in their ears, “Wanna dance?” and forcibly dance the night away. We didn’t wear the customary MUN stilettos because of the sheer amount of sprinting necessary to flee from odious males.

  The next morning was agony. Dozens of MUN students made the walk of shame to the United Nations building, and we all dutifully voted in the United Nations building after the long-winded security check. I made it back to Sturgis feeling like a new woman, and can’t wait for next year.

Head of the Dragon: Part III

by Cooper Heilmann, staff writer


Link to Part II: http://sturgisstormwatch.blogspot.com/2012/03/head-of-dragon-part-ii.html

Eric walked down the path to the smithy, where he worked with Asvald, the village blacksmith.  It was a dark day, and the clouds hung low in the sky.  Smoke rose from the chimneys of the huts.  It was an unusually cold day, so Eric wore furs and leather to keep warm.  Odin’s totem stood in the center of the village square.  It was a carved pole of wood that depicted Odin wearing a deer skull mask and two ravens on his shoulders.  In times of need, the village would gather around it and ask Odin for the wisdom to fix their problem.
The steady ringing of steel resonated from the blacksmith’s shop as always.  The past few days seemed to have gone by very slowly.  Eric couldn’t wait for his sixteenth birthday.  It was then that he would receive his first weapon.  Eric had practiced with many swords before, and he was a fine sword fighter.  However, he wasn’t as skilled as he would have liked—not as good as his father.  He loved nothing more than to listen to all the tales of heroes that slew frost giants in the north, or blessed by Thor, the god of thunder and war.  One of his favorite stories was Beowulf and Grendel.  When he was little, he always wanted to be Beowulf.  He would spend hours pretending to be strong heroes that would vanquish monsters with their bare hands.
 Eric knocked on the door of the blacksmith once, but there was no answer.  He just stepped in.
Asvald was hammering an axe into shape when Eric came in.  He looked up from his work and greeted him.
“Eric, how good of you to come.  Are you ready to get started?” Asvald asked.
“Sure,” Eric replied.
“That’s my boy!” Asvald said.  “Get those young muscles of yours pumping!”  He went about his daily job of pumping the bellows and refueling the fire.
Eric finished his work late.  The moon was shrouded by the clouds, and the lights were out inside the houses.  He was about to head back home when he heard something behind him.  He froze in his tracks and slowly turned around.  There, crouching behind him was the dark shape of a wolf.  It’s ragged silver fur glistened in the moonlight and its amber yellow eyes glared at him.  Eric looked around for something to fend it off with.  He had dealt with wolves before and he knew how dangerous they were.  They used to kill the village’s sheep and chickens.  However, this one seemed angry.  Its eyes were hungry for him.
The door of the smithy was only a few paces away.  If he moved, the wolf could pounce.  He was about to wait it out when the wolf suddenly dashed towards him.  He only just had time to doge the beast as it leaped at him.  He stumbled and backed up to the smithy door.  The wolf rolled over and charged him again.  Eric grabbed the torch by the door and threw it at the wolf.  He hit his target, but the wolf shrugged it off.  It leaped straight at him.  He rolled out of the way and picked up the nearest object: a hammer.
    Eric brandished the hammer and waved it in the air, trying to scare the wolf away.  Just then, another wolf appeared behind him.  The first wolf leaped at him.  Eric’s hammer struck the wolf and the the beast hit the wall of the smithy.  The second one tackled him to the ground, and he kicked it off him.  It charged him again, and he spun around and hit it in the shoulder.  The wolf collapsed on the ground with a whimper.  Eric ran for his house, the hammer still in his hand.  He could hear the howls of more wolves coming for him.  He knew he was in trouble.
Three wolves were behind him, sprinting after him at an incredible speed.  Eric ran as fast as his powerful legs could carry him.  He started yelling, trying to spread the alarm.  The wolves were almost upon him, and he knew no one would help him now.  A sudden surge of bravery hit him.  He stopped in his tracks and swerved around.  Just as a wolf leaped at him, he swiped it out of the air with the hammer.  It flew sideways into the wall of a hut and rolled on the ground, whimpering.  The other two wolves kept coming.
Eric ran to the nearest hut and ran up the wall.  He grabbed the thatch roof and hoisted himself up just before the wolf’s jaws snapped shut by his heel.  The wolves jumped and snapped at him while he regained his breath.  He looked around him.  He could see more wolves running into the village from the forest.  All of a sudden, they stopped and backed up.  They ran at the wall as if trying to scale it.  Eric panicked for a second, but his battle instincts took over.
He ran and jumped off the roof of the hut, his hammer raised above his head.  He yelled a war cry and smashed down on a running wolf.  He stood up to face the other wolf, but it backed away in fear.  Behind him, he could see half a dozen warriors from the village emerge from the huts with torches and swords.  A dead wolf lay at his uncle Bjorn’s foot.  The last wolf retreated, and was joined by three more.  Eric stood, breathing heavily, and watched them dash back into the darkness of the forest.

A Thai Treat

By Rachael Bardfield, staff reporter

With an open mind and an empty stomach, I recently ventured to the Thai House on 304 Main Street, Hyannis, to soothe my craving for oriental cuisine. I have always been biased towards oriental food: the salty, rich and indulgent dishes that leave you in a food coma even after digestion. To my surprise, the menu at the Thai House was quite vast, ranging from sea foods to meats with my choice of a variety of sauces. Curries are an aspect different from Chinese food, light and flavored with curry powder and spices, with Thai House hosting 5 different types. What truly caught my eye was the deal of a century- the Combo meals that came with a choice of two appetizers and a main dish for $8.95. It was hard to choose from the variety of pad thai and curries to fried rice. When my meal arrived, I feasted my eyes upon a stacking plate of colorful vegetables, chicken, and a tasty red curry sauce- Combo Number 4. And it tasted just as good as it looked! I felt full and satisfied but not groggy after my meal reassuring me that Thai House uses fresh ingredients. The meal came fast and my bill left an accomplished smile on my face. I would strongly suggest Thai House for the perfect spot for Thai at the right price.

Watership Down a Rare Treasure

by Alicia Pollard, staff reporter

Watership Down is one of those rare treasures that hide behind a humble appearance seemingly dull premise: a book about rabbits sounds dry at best, but is a poor description of Richard Adams’ incredible story. Watership Down is a window into a captivating world where men are one of a thousand enemies, survival is paramount but precarious, and the veil between natural and supernatural unravels. The language, characters and storyline are so vivid as to make them as real as the reader’s armchair: the tension of escaping an unknown doom, one rabbit’s tenuous, frightened possession of the second sight, and the peril of escaping an evil, prison-like warren. Adams masterfully blends the portrayal of a rabbit’s life with the humor, courage and friendship of humans.

            Adams’ rich language is vibrant in its description yet clear in its expression. Without dragging down the story with boring digressions, he lets portraits of wildlife’s beauty steal into the action so that both the peace of quiet moments and the tension of dangerous ones come alive. Though avoiding elaborate, clumsy wording, phrases such as “sunset…red in clouds” (12) and “far land of wild mountains”(356) catch the reader’s imagination yet disappear into the intertwinement of setting and atmosphere.  He describes but the characters’ feelings with a gentle, meditative tone and descriptions such as “delightful sense of security” (89) that keeps the omniscience of a narrator and the temperament of the character.

            The characters in Watership Down are charming and realistic, with the instincts and aims of rabbits but the flaws and strengths of humans. Hazel’s wise yet humble leadership, Bigwig’s proud but frank toughness, and Blackberry’s quiet ingenuity are endearing and entertaining. Adams has also made his villains as real as his heroes: heartless and ignorant as Cowslip and Strawberry, or cruel and calculating as General Woundwort and his Council – all as terrifying as complex, realistic villains should be. The characters are engaging from the first page and continue to captivate the reader as they grow and develop.

            One of the most fascinating elements of Watership Down is how Adams has woven culture into the rabbit’s lives. From explanations about the world’s beginning to why some litters miscarriage, the rabbit folktales sprinkled throughout the story are entertaining and enhance the main plot. The glimpses into the mystery of the folktale’s truthfulness also bind them to the central storyline: Fiver’s truthful prophecies, the storm which helped Bigwig and his fugitives escape from General Woundwort, and Vilthuril’s retelling of one of Hazel’s adventures as a folktale all speak of a society shaped by love of trickery and desire to survive. This colorful description of an animal culture so akin to human culture enriches each character.

            Watership Down is simple enough for young and older readers to enjoy, yet rich with imagery, language and characters that become three-dimensional from the first page. Adam’s work lets readers experience the thrill of an adventure and the deeper meaning of a quest.

Head of the Dragon: Part II

by Cooper Heilmann, staff writer

Link to Part I: http://sturgisstormwatch.blogspot.com/2012/03/head-of-dragon-part-i.html 

The frozen grass crunched under the feet of a young boy.  The early morning sun cast its waking gaze over the twinkling grass.  The boy plodded up the hill, enjoying the warmth of the sun from the east.  When he reached the top of the hill, he was standing on the edge of a sea cliff.  To his right was the fjord that led to the docks of his village.  To the left, the untamed coast stretched south for miles.
Eric always loved to come here.  He was fifteen years old, and he stood tall and proud.  He was rather muscular for his age.  He had matted blond hair and piercing blue eyes, like the half-melted ice in the later spring months.  His thick eyebrows rested on his low forehead.  Some people said that he didn’t look at all like his father.
Eric tried not to think about his father, Hrothgar.  He had been lost at sea when Eric was only eight years old.  Other ships had returned from his father’s expedition, but every time Eric asked them what had happened, they said his ship had been caught on an iceberg.  They seemed to shun the question whenever it was asked.  When they did talk about Hrothgar, they did so in hushed voices.  Ever since the day he had awaited Hrothgar’s return on the docks, Eric had come up to this point.  Every morning, he watched the sea, as if his father’s ship would appear.
Deep inside, Eric didn’t believe that his father had hit an iceburg.  Hrothgar was the finest warrior for miles around.  He had wrestled a bear naked, driven out an enemy Viking village, and swam from the pier to the docks in the middle of winter.  He was also an excellent sailor.  Hrothgar was appointed the leader of a raid on some villages far up the north coast.  He never returned.  Eric sighed and walked back to his village.  On the way there, he met his uncle Bjorn.
“Oh hello, Eric,” he said.  “Up early again, eh?”  Eric nodded.  “I see.  By the way, the blacksmith wants you there early today, so I suggest you get going,” Bjorn said.  
“Okay, goodbye uncle,” Eric said.  He headed down the slope.
Eric’s village was at the mouth of a fjord leading into the North Sea.  On land, it was surrounded on three sides by a dense forest that the villagers called “Wolfwood”.  To the south, the faint ghost of a road wound down a cliff and disappeared into the hills.  No one ever left Eric’s village except to hunt or cut wood.  They had set up a permanent, though small, residence.
Eric worked as the blacksmith’s assistant.  He enjoyed the job.  It was hard work, but it was worth it.  He pumped the furnace and watched the flames melt and twist the hot iron into weapons and other items.  Then the blacksmith would bend and hammer, bend and hammer until the iron changed shape into tools ranging from horseshoes to swords.
As always, smoke billowed in a thick black cloud from the small building ahead of him.  Eric walked in the door and began his work.  The forge rang with the sound of strong hammers on steel, like the song of the Valkyries when the Aurora Borealis lit up the sky.

Head of the Dragon: Part I

by Cooper Heilmann, staff writer


The little boy stood on the docks, waiting.  Waiting for the head of the dragon.  The waves splashed against the frozen shores and rocked the moored karfi and other boats.  Mist spread out across the fjord, reaching halfway up the steep, rocky cliffs.  Smoke from thatched roof houses rose into the air above one of the cliffs.  This was where young Eric’s village lay.
His mother stood next to him, holding his shoulder.  They waited and waited like all the others on that shore.  The longboats and karfi should have been coming by now.  The sun hung low in the gray sky.  Eric looked up to his mother.  She just stared blankly out into the open ocean, waiting as he was.  Eric’s uncle, Bjorn, walked over and stood next to them.  He towered up about six feet and three inches tall, and he was built like a bear.  He stood there, hand in his thick, blond beard, waiting.
Just then, a shape could be made out approaching the fjord.  It was a ship.  The sails were being rolled up.  People—tall, strong people were running about on the deck.  On the prow of the boat stood the figure of a mermaid.  The ship beached ashore, and the people cheered as the men jumped out of the ship.  Each held treasure of some kind.  It ranged from rice, salt, and meat to gold, jewels, and weapons.  Each man had an axe at his belt and a heavy wooden shield on his back.  They held horned helmets in their arms.  They walked victoriously onto the shore.  One walked right past Eric as if he wasn’t there.  Eric’s uncle ran up to the man.
“Sven!  Sven!  Do you know the tidings of my brother?”  The man shook his head.
“Thought ‘e was ‘ere,” he replied, and walked off.  Ship after ship came into the harbor, but none of them belonged to Eric’s father, Hrothgar. The sun soon set over the ocean, and Bjorn and Eric’s mother turned away and headed back to the village.  Eric stared out at the open ocean, and a small tear ran down his cheek.  He stood there for a while, before trudging through the snow back to the village. Eric was only eight years old.


To be continued...

"The Help" Turns Back Time

by Alicia Pollard, staff reporter

In a world where racism is quickly becoming a memory, “The Help” turns back time to when racism was not only tolerated but praised under the guise of respectability. Emma Stone as the shyly courageous Skeeter, Viola Davis as the wise but under-appreciated Aibleen, and Bryce Dallas Howard as the manipulative, fashionably cruel Hilly skillfully portray the battle of words and actions that goes on in Jackson, Mississippi between rich housewives and their poor “colored help”.
The movie’s filming elegantly captures the beauty of Mississippi in the glory of summer: Skeeter’s lonely bench beneath a magnificent weeping willow and the lush gardens of wealthy homes are ironically peaceful behind the cruelty and injustice of racism. The luxury of the white Hilly, Skeeter, Celia (Jessica Chastain) and Mae’s homes are a significant contrast to the plainness and small size of African American Aibleen and Minnie’s houses. The subtle emphasis on the racial divide of housing in the town is something of a shock today, but its seeming normality teaches the audience about the thoughtlessly selfish mentality of the early 1960s.
The costumes used in “The Help” both revealed the characters’ personalities and were a continual reminder of how different life was in the 60’s from today. Skeeter’s mother’s prized olive green dress (and why she gives it to Skeeter), Mae’s lovely purple floral dress, and Celia Foote’s unforgettably revealing red dress show the importance of being dainty, feminine and modest as a woman in this time period. The plain blue starched dress-and-apron that Aibleen, Minnie and the other maids wear demonstrates how they were viewed as inferior and suited mainly for work. A reminder of a past society and its values, the costumes used in “The Help” create an atmosphere of comfortable wealth and stretched poverty, stylish delicacy and coarse discrimination.
The acting in “The Help” is exceptional. Hilly’s demanding, superior attitude is an interesting contrast to Skeeter’s warm, easygoing personality. Jessica Chastain plays the kind-hearted but scatter-brained and oblivious Celia with strength and subtlety. Octavia Spencer is hilarious as the sassy, outspoken Minnie, and shone especially in how she carefully balanced Minnie’s confidence to others but allowance of her husband’s abuse. The cast of “The Help” deftly portrays the vast spectrum of characters and their diverse responses to racism - acceptance, obliviousness, or horror.
“The Help” is a captivating portrait of the relationships between the races at the beginning of the Civil Rights movement. Both the actors and scriptwriters skillfully kept a balance between the stereotypes of radical racism and passionate equality, both addressing the issue and making every character human with their own hopes, dreams and fears.

Storm

by Cooper Heilmann, staff writer

The wind blows hard against the sail,

The water lashes against the dragon’s head,
Thunder slams and booms and wails,
The men sail on ahead.

The oars splash against the water,
The ropes pull and twist and grind,
The men do not seem to bother,
They leave the far western shore behind.

The ship moves on through the storm,
The brave captain bellowing orders,
The gale pushes and fights and roars,
The men live with the salty odors.

The ship pushes on and on and on,
As the sail rips and the oars grind,
The men fight on and on and on,
With only one place in mind;

Home.

Breaking Dawn Delivers for Twihards Only

by Anna Campbell, staff reporter

I entered the movie theater with dubious expectations on the day when the first part of the final segment of the Twilight Saga opened. I was ready: my fellow reporter, Lucie Palmeri, and I were equipped with candy, an article on the movie, and pens to document every scene. I even raced through the mall to save us the best possible seats and growl at anyone who wanted to mess - however, waves of adolescent girls a few years younger than us were fierce in their attachment to The Saga, and fought me for them. We ended up a few feet away from the screen.

 And then, the movie began, symbolically with Bella, the blushing bride, tottering in too-high heels. She did her whole ‘I’m just a klutzy tomboy, a lamb in love with the lion’ routine, but it was getting a little old. I fail to see the wonder in an unexceptional, dumb, unfunny teenager totally submissive to her boyfriend. That said, Kristen Stewart did her character a favor in this part of The Saga - because the first part of Breaking Dawn is mostly a horror story, KStew could use her vast collection of sulky faces and increasing confidence playing Bella Swan to a happy audience of prepubescent girls. Her acting was what I most admired about the movie, apart from the money. It was clear that none was wasted in the making of the movie, from the filming of the bride and groom’s own personal honeymooning island, to the gruesome birth of their demon child.

Bella and Ed got married, and it was cute. My fellow reporter was sobbing throughout with joy/love. The wedding decorations were nice, and her dress was pretty. Jacob, the rejected werewolf lover, came in for a cameo, and another fight with Edward, but I was more distracted by his Dirty Sanchez moustache.

They sailed away to the honeymooning island. Here Bella and Edward could finally be together and consummate their years of chastity/violence together, and in a heady ten minutes, all of Bella’s dreams came true. The script was as bad as expected;  obviously directed at prepubescents, I was a little disillusioned with Bella’s annoying, continual idiocy. She mumbled and stuttered constantly.

But then came the turning point - Bella eats fried chicken, gets sick that very morning and realizes she must be pregnant. Her tummy is already bulgy and Edward wants to abort it, seeing its tumor-like speed and growth. But Bella manages to get her way and keep the child, before they fly home, back to the Cullen family’s home. Jacob comes back into the picture, sees her, is repulsed, and flies through the forest with his vision all red in a hallucinatory video game sequence.

This is the point at which the movie turns horrific, and I was confused as to whether this was my own familiar Twilight, or some ghastly rendition of The Corpse Bride. Shots of Bella’s bruised, liver-diseased belly and zombie-like, skeletal complexion terrified me out of my seat. Ed and Jacob, my Twilight counterparts, were equally frightened. Everyone thought Bella was going to die, but she doesn’t... oops, spoiler. In a blur of morphine and scenes of Bella’s bloody body on a sacrificial altar-like hospital bed, the demon child was birthed. Many fans in the audience cooed at the anti-Christ, but I was not one of them. The baby was whisked away before Jacob imprinted on it, seeing visions of the devil baby as a beautiful woman in the future. Can someone tell me what’s wrong with a mother’s ex-boyfriend falling in love with her newborn? I guess nothing...

I was actually quite impressed with the montage, Tree of Life-style, of vampire venom overcoming Bella’s insides and burning her, etc, near the end. It was more evidence of the money put into this movie, the good director and camera people behind it. Well, I won’t tell you how it ends, but it left a bad taste in my mouth. Nevertheless, I’ll probably be seeing it again with Lucie.

Breaking Dawn Delivers for Twihards

By Lucie Palmeri, staff writer

Breaking Dawn, the last installment of the Twilight series was released last Friday

 Breaking Dawn, the final installment of the Twilight Saga came out last Friday and as an open Twihard, I saw the movie on opening night. Although at first I was a bit skeptical if the movie would be as good as the book, a fellow Twihard reassured me that it was the best of the Twilight movies and said that it made her remember why she fell in love with Twilight in the first place. She was right: I once again fell in love. The movie was brilliant.

Harry Potter & The Deathly Hallows: Part II

By Sara Prygocki, staff reporter 

The final chapter in the Harry Potter series finally arrived in theaters this summer. Lasting more than ten years, the series has been a worldwide success with all eight movies on the 35 Highest-Grossing Films of All Time list. Based on the bestselling novels written by J.K. Rowling, the movies collectively have garnered over 50 awards.

Daniel Radcliffe returns for the last time as hero Harry Potter along with Emma Watson as Hermione Granger and Rupert Grint as Ron Weasley. The trio set out to destroy Ralph Fiennes’s villainous character Voldermort once and for all.