Why Was Billy Budd, Sailor Published Posthumously?

The day I got back from a trip, my housekeeper filed a lawsuit against my father and me. In court, she stood with her visibly pregnant belly, her voice shaking with anguish. "Jethro Roberts and his son are nothing but monsters. They tricked me into moving into their home under the excuse of offering me a job as a housekeeper. They tied me to a bed and abused me. "The baby I am carrying belongs to Jethro Roberts." Her mother wept hard, nearly collapsing from the strain. "These two monsters destroyed my daughter's life! They should pay with their lives." As soon as she spoke, the courtroom burst into an uproar. "Shameless criminals! The dad couldn't even be bothered to appear in court. They must be punished severely!" "That's right. Look at the son. He's actually smiling. He has no conscience! They both deserve to pay for what they did." Then, I calmly stepped forward and presented my evidence. A stunned silence swept through the courtroom.

Three years after I died, my mother sent me twenty dollars for living expenses. Three years before that—the first time I ever asked my family for money—she said to me, offhand, "Sometimes I think you're just putting on an act. What's so unsanitary about a thirty-cent boxed meal? And why can't you wear a five-dollar down jacket? Face it, you're just more high-maintenance than your little brother." Later, when I needed twenty dollars to buy some cheap medicine for my stomachache, she blocked me immediately and cut off all contact—along with every relative we had. "Don't contact me anymore. I'm clearly not a good mother. I can't afford to give my son a life of luxury." But for my younger brother, who had just started high school, she spared no expense—renting him a three-bedroom apartment. Even the family dog got its own room. In the end, on the day my brother became the top scorer in the state, she finally remembered me. She took me off her block list and transferred twenty dollars. "It's only twenty dollars. Was it really worth giving your family the silent treatment for three whole years?" What she never knew was this— On the night my stomach ruptured, three years ago, I had already died. I couldn't afford to go to the hospital. I froze to death in the snow.

Merida was a certified black sheep of the family. She loves to hear her grandmother's story about fairies, dragons, pirates and princesses and her favorite was the tale about the legendary pirate named Escarial, and a Princess called Athalia. Listening to her grandma’s folktales was her routine all throughout her eighteen years of existence. That’s why when her grandmother died without having at least a last talk with her, she turned badly depressed. She didn’t go to school at all, and just stayed in her grandmother’s room to lock herself away from the rest of the world. Three days after her grandmother’s funeral, strange things happened in her room. The painting her old woman often gazed on suddenly moved and glowed. She succumbed to it, helpless, and had nothing to do to save herself because of the force that was beyond overwhelming. The next thing she knew, she was in North Sonnenfield. What’s more shocking to her was the name she’s called as by her servants; Princess Athalia—the heir of the throne, and the only daughter of King Eldar of North Sonnenfield. She was in awe, because she remembered that King Eldar was the character in the story. The palace where she found herself lost was the same place where the brave princess who ventured the dangerous sea had lived. She loves being in a Sonnenfield. However, she knew to herself that the day will come when she would wake up from a dream. But life always has a twist because Captain Escarial came to the scene. She expects that he will be gentleman just like pirate captain in the book. But to her horror, this Captain Escarial is snobbish, rude and proud. Oh, how she hates him!

Matteo Cassimo and I are childhood sweethearts. But he gets assassinated on the day before our wedding. I cry my heart out in front of his grave to the point I faint from exhaustion. When I wake up again, I see a few live comments crossing my vision. "Poor Annie… She's still kept in the dark about the truth." "Seriously, Annie believes everything Matteo tells her. Serves her right for getting duped by Matteo's fake death." "Can someone please tell Annie that Matteo fakes his death to get rid of her, because his mistress finds out he's about to get married and decides to secretly leave him? I bet those two are being lovey-dovey with each other right now!" "Forget about it. Annie has nothing but blind trust in Matteo, after all. Maybe when he finally comes back from the 'dead,' she'll marry him happily again." One month later, the news headlines all over the papers are filled with the explosive news of the impending marriage between me and the heir of the Valente family, William Valente. That's when Matteo's subordinate confronts me. "Our Don has just passed away recently, and yet you're already planning to marry someone else?" I merely chuckle icily in return. "So what if I am? I can't just be a widow at such a young age now, can I?"

In the fifth year after my death, my wife, Yuna Lane, visited my apartment once more. She wanted me to take the blame for her childhood sweetheart's corporate fraud crimes. "Finn, Joe is going to be elected the chairman of the Trade Association. He can't afford any blemish to his reputation. Will you only be satisfied by thoroughly ruining him? "It's only two more years in prison! Joe said he'll give you a job once you're released. Stop being so ungrateful!" Her screams and shouts startled my neighbors. … When she banged on the door once more, the woman who lived across from me finally stepped out into the hallway. "Miss, stop banging on the door. He died long ago." "He's dead?" The woman sighed. "Yes. I hear it goes back to that fraud case years ago. The victim's family wasn't happy with the sentence, so as soon as Finn was released, they had him run over and killed.” My wife's face turned stark white upon hearing the truth. However, barely a few seconds passed before she let out a cold scoff, confident this was all just a scheme of mine. "Great. He's willing to fake his death just so he can get out of helping Joe. Does he really think I'm helpless and powerless against his schemes? Tell him that his parents are dead meat if he doesn't show up in three days!" She then violently kicked the metal grills of my door before strutting away on her high heels. The woman watched her walk away with bloodshot eyes, shaking her head in pity as she muttered under her breath, "Poor guy. His old man died soon after hearing of his death..."

My husband, a military colonel with whom I’d been married for ten years, was barred from entering our son’s funeral wake. Because before our son died, he made three final wishes. The first wish was not to tell his father about his death just yet, as he was afraid the news would upset him. Secondly, to cook his father’s favorite meal and let his father be there for his final birthday. Lastly, if his father were to miss his birthday, then under no circumstances—no matter what—never allow that man to appear before his grave. Even though the man’s eyes were bloodshot and his body was shaking as he cried his heart out in the torrential rain lashing outside the funeral home, I never let the man take a single step toward my son after his death. Three days earlier, after spending a whole night setting fireworks with my childhood friend and her son, Logan Pearce came home with a brand-new schoolbag. That was his idea of making up for missing our son’s birthday. The man frowned, puzzled by the tears in my eyes. “Isn’t it just one birthday? I’ll make it up to him next time, won’t I? Little did he know that our five-year-old son had already died from an asthma attack. The little boy would never live to see the first day of school.