In Defense of Obasanji Quagga

Obasanji Quagga
21 Jump St
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, Wales
0BA5-ANJ1

June 34, 2064

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


Dear Inspector Clouseau,

I stand by my descision to save Ada Artlover. Some people may argue the action I took as it resulted in the loss of the world's most famous painting, the Mona Lisa. However, any sensible human being will understand why I chose to save Ada.

The main reason I saved Ada is because she is a human being. Ada is 92 years old and may not live much longer but that does not justify letting her die to save a painting. The Mona Lisa is just a painting. It may be a very famous, innovative painting but a human's life is more important than a piece of canvas lathered in color. 

I also believed saving Ada would allow me a better chance of survive the fire. When the fire started I was standing next to her having a friendly conversation. The Mona Lisa on the other hand was across the room, closer to the flames. I decided it was a better idea to save her life than to risk my own trying to save a painting. 

The conversation I had with Ada before also affected my decision. I got to know her and heard some of the wisdom she had to offer. She has had many experinces from past wars and global events that make her an interesting and valuable window into our history. The Mona Lisa also does this but Ada has more variety in her wisdom where as the Mona Lisa shows us the first time common painting techniques were used.

From where I stand I believe I made the right decision by saving Ada Artlover. The art community may be angry but the general public should understand the moral dilemma I faced and see than I made an honorable decision.

White Walls

         All I could see was white. White walls, white floor, white doors, everything was white. The air felt as if it had been sucked dry of oxygen and filled with the overwhelming scent of cleaner. I caught myself staring at long, narrow, fluorescent lights that flickered ever so slightly while letting out a soft buzz. It had been several hours since Andy went into the operating room and the screw poking out of the cheap plastic chair into my back finally got to me. I got up and started pacing back and forth, feeling the stares of every other person in the waiting room. Dark circles of sweat formed around my neck and armpits; it felt as if the room was getting warmer by the second. I looked down and saw my reflection in the perfectly polished floor as thousands of thoughts flowed and swirled through my head. I leaned against the smooth, tiled wall and let myself slide down to the sterile floor. Sitting in the chairs I saw frightened, sad, and worried faces. None of the people looked at each other. A man with a bandage wrapped around his head sat next to a girl, no older than ten, holding her wrist. I caught eye contact with a little boy in a wheel chair with a cast for each leg. He smiled at me. It was the first smile I had seen in hours; it pulled me out of my brief state of depression and made me think that Andy will be okay. The room seemed to fill with color at that moment. Plants stood out against the walls, colorful pictures leaped out of their frame, and everything seemed to become brighter. My body relaxed and I let out a long deep breath. As I looked up the door across from me opened with a bright flash of light revealing the tattered, bruised, yet smiling face of Andy.