A h-art felt rescue

Shauna Morrow
123 Green Ave
Hell, Norway
V2A 3W1

February 10, 2011

Inspector Clouseau
Chief of Police
123 Rue Justice
Paris, France
1A2 R3T

Dear Inspector Clouseau:

       I would like to apologize for allowing the Mona Lisa to burn. Although DaVinci's greatest work was incredibly famous, loved, and influential, the life of an innocent citizen was far more important. At first, my instinct was to rescue Mona Lisa from being engulfed in flames. A work of art classified as "priceless" would most certainly be worthy of being rescued. As I reached for the painting, I abruptly stopped. If I were to save the Mona Lisa, Ada Artlover would perish. The Mona Lisa may be priceless in terms of money, but a life is far more valuable than any inanimate object, no matter how historic it may be. I barely knew Ada but letting her burn would be morally wrong and I would regret it for the rest of my days. I can live with letting a painting burn because a painting was never alive.
     The Mona Lisa will live forever, whether through photos, videos or stories. When the physical copy went up in flames, it's legacy did not burn with it. The amount of footage of the painting will keep it's memory and it is unlikely that the average person would see it in person anyhow. Although Mona is the world's most famous painting,the amount that have physically witnessed it is few. The loss of Mona is a travesty, but her sly smile will stay engraved within minds for eternity.
       Ada is an average woman. It is obvious that she will never be as important to society as the Mona Lisa but to her family and friends, she's as priceless as the work of art. I could not even begin to fathom their horror after discovering that a person decided a lifeless wall decoration was worth letting their loved one perish in flames. If I had saved the Mona Lisa, they would view me as a murderer with taste. Saving Ada has made me a hero with soul. Soul is far more important than taste, and that is why I rescued Ada.
     






Sincerely,

Shauna Morrow

Shauna Morrow

An apple a day

A thick aroma of cleaning supply filled my nostrils as I stared blankly at the dull, white wall of the waiting room. Uneasiness and disease clung to every corner of the hospital and the atmosphere made me immensely anxious. Although the urge to simply stride directly out of the hospital was dominant, I knew I couldn't leave now, not my family, not with the state of my grandfather unknown. A tapping of a nervous foot filled the tense, stagnant air, piercing through the silent halls. No one in the room dared speak a word. I shifted uncomfortably against the torn, teal, vinyl covering of the outdated chairs, muscles longing for movement. My family and I had been seated in the same position for hours, still with no word of my grandfather's health. A murmur of voices echoed down adjacent halls as a man dressed in doctor's wear emerged through a dull, lavender coloured door. The wrinkles already forming on his otherwise youthful face were unnerving, as was his neutral expression. It was clear that he had delivered this speech on too many occasions to too many families. Rigid, we sat and impatiently awaited his word. My mothers eyes so filled with fearful hope when we arrived were looking drained now, heavier. His empathetic voice broke through the silence,
"I'm sorry," he announced. He needn't speak another word. The atmosphere dropped immediately. Tears began to flow from heart broken eyes leaving a glistening, salty trail behind. Ironically, my grandfather owned a fruit shop stocked with many goods; particularly apples. I suppose they couldn't save him this time.