A Distant Memory With the smell of gunpowder and ashes, what I open my eyes to, I can hardly explain. Ashes are falling from the sky, like gray snow. Broken guns, used bullet shells, collapsed brick walls and roofs, leaving the buildings to looking like an area of ruin. Worst of all, Death. Pale lifeless bodies all over, like toys at a babies play date. I look down at my clothes, although being ripped like they went through a shredder, I see I’m wearing army pants, shirt, vest, with a mask, and a knife holder, with a bloody knife in it, all black, and as well covered in blood. I stumble to my feet, only to fall back down onto the concrete ground. I lay there for a solid 10 minutes so I can finally regain complete consciousness. I take a closer look to my surroundings, but not knowing where I am. I can’t remember who I am, or why I’m here, or what happened--I can’t even remember my name. The only thing I know for sure is that something wasn’t sitting right in my 16 year old stomach. In awe at my surroundings I decide it’s best to make haste and run. I run my smooth hands through my silky hazel brown hair, and dash off with my tattered clothes, to find myself, and what happened on that day of November 18, 2028. I turned the corner off the alleyway that I was just in. …show more content…
I smell the air around me, smells of Oak leaves, and Fertilized dirt, looking around skylight leaking through the tree canopies onto my body. I feel as though my body numbs to the point I can’t feel anything— or everything. My body falls backward down the steep cliff, of mud and dirt. This was the last memory I will have, crying tears of joy on my way down to my own dirt tombstone. My last moments, although agonizing, yet peaceful—yet eerie—yet comforting. With one last gasp of air, I close my eyes, but not before noticing the a sniper shell falling on me, creating one last smell, the smell of gunpowder and
The two men took a short walk across the perfectly manicured lawn and stopped beneath a large white oak, the thick overhanging canopy of leaves shielding them from the afternoon sun. Perspiration stood out on Booker’s forehead, the damp patches under his arms staining his navy-blue shirt. But his discomfort was more a testament of his pent-up tension rather than a reaction to the mild spring weather. He’d taken the burden of worry to new dizzying heights, his concern for his friend physically churning his stomach. Tom was unpredictable, calm one moment, anxiety-ridden the next, and he’d had no idea how he would react during the burial service.
It’s been 8 long months since I last saw your darling face. I long to hold you close in my arms one more time. Sadly my dear, that may be the last time I ever embrace you. You see things here in the God-Forbidden trenches are so grotesque that men are dying left and right. They have even resorted to burying them in the walls, making an awful stench.
Many days pass and people die very much. We bury close by trail.” (Lynn Peppas pg 4) A Trail of Tears survivor described it like this, imagine walking not really knowing when you are going to stop and watching people, your friends and family, die right in front of you.
I felt a sharp pain from my chest and I collapsed on the ground and I lost consciousness again. I woke strapped to a table this time with people looking down on me I reached for the knife in my jacket and cut the straps on the table and dropped the knife as I ran down the stairs and stopped at the door. It was beginning to open and I hid the people walked by with Dr.Zygon and I was about to reach out
I look down, I have a body, but why does it feel so peculiar. The last thing I remember is dying at the French & Indian war. I start walking, all I see are woods. I keep on walking for what feels like miles, until I find a colony. I start walking through the streets, there aren’t many people outside.
The sky was tainted with black puffs of smoke. The foul smell of blood was cloying. The soldiers trampled across dead bodies as they tried to escape the enemy’s gunfire—bullets were flying around in eccentric circles everywhere. They took cover behind the wall, which was smothered into bits seconds later by an enemy RPG missile. “Don’t fire the weapon so close to my ears!”
3.05 Reading Journal Part A In the Premature Burial, by Edgar Allen Poe, the author speaks of his terror upon being buried while not dead. The theme of overwhelming terror and the way it alters one mentally is used to show the narrator as he is swallowed up by his dread of being buried alive. The narrator is afflicted with catalepsy, which is a nervous condition that inflicts a trance or seizure with a loss of sensation and consciousness accompanied by rigidity of the body. The narrator internally fears that his paralyzed body will be falsely misconstrued as dead.
Introduction The title Death 's Acre says a lot of what to this book is about; Death. This book was a fascinating read for its worth. Death 's Acre goes into the life and mind of the man of rotting bodies himself, Dr. Bill Bass, lead anthropologist at the University of Tennessee. While talking about his personal life, he also incorporates a lot of his big cases and studies.
The faint buzzing of an old street light in the distance was the only sound that filled the air. The loud dogs that paced yellow lawns and fenced in porches were deep asleep. It was as melancholy as it could get. My hand trembled, I looked down at the paper weapon clasped between my fingers. I lifted my hand and pressed the cold cigarette to my chapped lips, long ago accepting the fact that I 'd never remember the taste of his mouth, in the same way I didn 't remember the last time my life wasn 't anything more than a huge fucking shit show.
Through this, “Feet in Smoke” allows the reader to “walk in someone else’s shoes” and conveys the cathartic and shared human experience of death and its looming
From the time my most recent pair of unworn shoes, usually laying in the depths of the closet, hits the dirt I feel like everything disappears. Everything in the real world is pushed away like leaves in the wind. Its just me and my mind alone for the couple hours of peace and thought up to come. Making my way up the trail I’m surrounded by a countless number of tree’s towering over me like doctors while
Lewis Thomas, a scholarly, distinguished scientist and scientific writer, writes “On Natural Death” to alleviate fears related to death. Thomas details the naturalness of death and how, when the time has come, they will be guided into death without fears. After his introduction, Thomas introduces the elm tree that fell in his backyard with an anecdote. Thomas begins to appeal to the mournful emotions of his audience admitting that the “...normal-looking elm…” , (in one week) would be “...gone, passed over, departed, taken” (Thomas 1).
One of my favorite memories growing up is how much time I spent reading. Whenever I got a new book I couldn 't put it down. I remember that I would always read on the bus ride home. Reading was something that I liked to do. As I’ve gotten older my choice of books has changed alot, a different genre for each of my phases.
I can see my breath when I breathe out. I can hear the snow crunching underneath my thick wool boots and fuzzy socks, and can hear the sound of my own breathing. The faint howling of the wind sounds like ghosts swarming the city on Halloween. I notice an old abandoned, dilapidated house far off in the distance, in desperate need for a new paint job. With it’s rickety old
Carl Sandburg, a novelist and poet, emphasizes ideas such as love, death, and many other themes in most of his works. He has complied many poems and novels throughout his career and many of his poems have been published in A Magazine of Verse (PBS). Overtime, the American people grew very fond of Sandburg, and he was commemorated as the “Poet of the People” in the United States. In “Cool Tombs”, Sandburg uses rousing diction and imagery to depict death as peaceful and restful, rather than frightening and terminal. Sandburg used stirring diction to convey death as peaceful.