Trasnlate three titles from the three Works cited below:
Susie Brown Will Be In Town
Susie Brown will be in town. She will be in town to sell her things. Susie Brown is moving far away. She would like to sell her queen mattress. Do we want her queen mattress? Do we want her ottoman? Do we want her bath items?
It is time to say goodbye to Susie Brown. We have enjoyed her friendship.
We have enjoyed her tennis lessons.
The Case of The Lower Case Letter
She breezed into my office one cold September morning. I’d been enjoying a hot cup of Starbuck’s finest and surfing the web for local news. The famous lexical semanticist Professor Edgar Nettleston had been found dead, a gunshot wound to the head. The police verdict was suicide.
She held out an elegant hand as she floated towards me and I glimpsed a wedding band with a stone the size of a peanut M&M.
“I’m Edith Nettleston.”
“Sorry about the old man.”
“I’m not. He loved me, but he loved words more. I’ll be brief. My husband was working on a paper that will rock the very foundation of lexical semantics. It’s worth a fortune in lecture tours, but nobody can find it. I believe his suicide note is a clue to its whereabouts.”
She removed a scrap of paper from her blouse.
“edith. i’m not going to whine, i’ve had a good life. i’ve found wealth and happiness as a teacher, a seller of knowledge. but i find myself depressed beyond hope … and so i’m choosing the hour and manner of my own demise. i have treated you badly. i demanded you dyed your brown curls blonde. i thought i could buy you when i should have won your love. i called you a witch. i’d complain: where’s the woman i married? i said you ate too much. if i wanted change, i could have used a carrot rather than a stick. you probably wanted to wring my neck. forgive me. farewell.”
“It’s all written in lower case. My husband was a stickler for correct grammar. I refuse to believe it doesn’t mean something.”
“Mrs. Nettleston, I think I can help you. There’s a couple of odd things about this letter. Firstly, as you say, it’s written entirely in lower case. Mr. Nettleston was a world-renowned lexical semanticist, not a teenager texting his BFFs.”
“Secondly, it has a more than usual number of homophones, words where there is another word with the same sound but different spelling and meaning. When dealing with a lexical semanticist, that’s surely no accident.”
“If we read those homophones in order, we have: whine, seller, hour, manner. And translating to their homophones: Wine cellar our manor.”
Several hours later, we arrived at the Nettlestons’ country house and immediately headed for the basement. A flip of a light switch revealed tunnels filled with rows of dark bottles.
“Where is it? It would take years to search this place.”
“Not so fast, Mrs. Nettleston. First I have to ask you something: your wedding ring diamond, how large is it?
“It’s eight carats. Edgar wouldn’t stop talking about it.”
“That’s what I feared.” I pulled out my trusty revolver. “How you must have hated him and his lexical semantics! You figured you’d kill him and keep the money from the paper yourself. You forced him to write that suicide note, thinking you knew where it was. But he was suspicious and he’d already hidden it. And he had another surprise for you: the rest of the note, it doesn’t reveal where the paper is, it reveals his killer. The final homophones: dyed buy won witch where’s ate carrot wring. That is: died by one which wears eight carat ring.”
As the cops left with Mrs. Nettleston I took a quick trip round the maze of tunnels. It didn’t take me long to find it. Most of the wine lay unpacked on racks but in one corner two cases sat stacked, one on top of each other. Carefully, I opened the lower one.
This city greets me with a grey smile
I dream of being where the blue is
Where polyester kites fly above corrugated roofs
Where sunlight glints off an elephant’s bathing spot
Where the salmonella ice cream is cool but the weather hot
Where the children laugh in a language only my soul understands
She sits alone
But one of them
A Bollywood actress being brought up by wolves
She remains subtly majestic despite her dogged tiredness
Her face is pink at the edges
Her smile weary
Her eyes teary
Just from staying open for so long
But she refuses to miss a second of this
So she keeps blinking to a minimum
Children the colour of cinnamon who smell like poverty and dust
Have taught this nutmeg girl how to smile
Meanwhile I sit in a grey classroom in a grey country hoping she returns soon
But for now
She tames wolves
Whilst I howl to the moon.