A Mousetrap

I had never read anything of Virginia Woolf's before this class, and I was pleasantly surprised by her writing. I actually really enjoyed reading her work. I think what I favored most was her ability to pick one subject/object and expand on it in as much depth as the subject would allow. She comes to very profound conclusions in her work based on the smallest of objects: in the essays we read, a pencil and a moth. She is able to make grand conjectures about empathy and death from subjects that at first seem unimportant to the reader. A few things I noticed about her work are:

• Narrowly focused beginnings; more general life observation to end
• Favoring lengthier sentences
• Lush words
• The ability to be in the story without over-inserting herself 

The following is my attempt at emulating Virginia Woolf.


"A Mousetrap"

We set the mousetrap in the corner of the hallway, where I thought it be best out of toe's harm, because it seemed, being that my roommates might forget its existence, that danger was eminent if the trap was placed in a busy space. The trap was small, barely the size of my hand, I was astounded that a trivial piece of plastic could hold the ability to maim with the quickest of strokes. The mousetrap looked anything but ruthless in the dirty corner of the apartment, where feet rarely walked, but its deadly force would be surprising to an unsuspecting mouse that wandered upon an enticing dollop of peanut butter, who thought that a marvelous dinner would follow its grand plan to covet the treasure.

I imagined the dreadful moment when I, myself, would find that mouse, lifeless, lonely, and cold on the floor. I speculated that the discovery would occur at an unpredicted, unfortunate time; I would be joyful, and in a moment I would be faced with a murder I plotted but never believed would materialize. And life can be unexpected at the worst times, for even the littlest creatures. Doom will befall us when our hearts are light, and those hearts will suddenly be crushed because nothing satisfactory or even wonderful can truly last forever, at least not consistently. I would find a bag and transform it into a coffin; pick up the dead mouse at an arms length with the plastic, and bury the mouse in the trash, along with the spoils it never possessed.

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As an aside, I must add that I am currently in the midst of ridding a tiny fourth roommate, who so kindly squeaked and clawed at the wall above my bed for an hour and a half on Sunday night. I hope that the mouse leaves the premises before it decides to venture into our actual apartment rather than staying in the walls, as I don't want to deal with a poor, deceased animal.

I'm not afraid of Virginia Woolf. I may not write as eloquently about creatures and grand themes as she, but I can try.