Summary: Not to be taken seriously. A piece *written* in the style of D.H Lawrence. A crossover between the three novellas - although not so much the fox . Pairing: Dionys/Hepburn. Yes. PAIRING. And it's Lawrentian, so DOUBLE ENTENDRES. Crime against literature..
Disclaimer: The novellas' are Lawrence's, not mine. And I apologise to the artform of literature, for this heinous crime. but it had to be written. And how am I supposed to resist a calling?
Creative SAC
The Ladybird's Doll
Dionys sat in the dark dark corner of the dark dark room and contemplated his existence moodily, moodily. He had been exported back to Germany, back to Munich, and now he felt quite poorly again. Sitting in the dark dark corner of his dark dark attic room, he felt quite sickly, quite sickly indeed! He could not go outside for the brightness - the light and the brightness hurt his eyes. The light outside blinded him. The light outside blinded him, startled him until he felt like a deer caught in the headlights. And yet, when night came and fell like a rushing waterfall, bearing down on the warm, wet earth, he felt no comfort. His eyes did not expand. His pupils did not dilate, dilate, and he stumbled and fumbled around his room, crashing into unfamiliar and undistinguishable features. The room was alien to him, as undistinguishable, unremarkable as Munich had been to his poor, sickly eyes. And even with his eyes wide open, he saw nothing. Looking into a mirror, he saw nothing. No light reflected from his eyes, as if all the life in them had drained down the sink. His reflection scared him, frightened him. He could no longer peer at his soul, at the dark dark workings of his very essence. It was as if the doors had closed, and now, his eyes, the windows, had slammed shut as well.
It was the height of summer passion, and every day Dionysus sat in his dark dark corner was another day where the temperature rose above comfortable. Soon, his little dark dark room was altogether too dark and hot for him. The heat had risen considerably until he was literally in heat. And the heat was too much for the Count to stand. He stood and went outside, into the cool darkness of the night. But he could not see. His sickly eyes could not see the light.
He came to the staircase outside his attic room and felt his way down. He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. He tried to leave the door a jar so that he could return, but the wind had other ideas. The wind blew the door shut. Dionys remembered too late that the door was locked from the inside. He had no way of returning home. He was momentarily dreading the morning, when the light would blind and burn him, and he would melt, melt away, burnt to a crisp.
He stumbled, stumbled and tripped, eyes not adjusting to the light. As he looked up from the ground before his feet, he saw a fox, a foxy fox. The fox was dark, darker than Dionys' soul was, hidden behind that closed door. But the fox was bright too. The foxy fox was alive. Even with his sickly, sickly eyes, Dionys could see the fine whiskers stroking like velvet across the fox's nose, and the life pulsing in the fox's eyes. He could see clearer now, could clearly see the fox padding up to him, stroking up against him like a cat.
Laurence uses lots of animal imagery and here, the fox is the 'hunter' inside Dionys, the predator. Meeting the fox means Dionys will be able to return to his dark dark room and his dark dark soul.
Dionys' eyes were magically healing themselves like glue.
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Dear examiner,
I think by the end of this creative SAC you will see how marvellously talented I am. I hope you know what kind of a Lit student I am, and how well I know what you have to do in Lit. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you and tell you how much I have thoroughly enjoyed Laurence's writing. I know that you must love him too. I'd love to meet up with you to talk about Laurence. I'm sure there's much you can teach me! My phone number is: 0412 235 116
From the very good looking examinee, with love