Finally, I managed to enter the Souq with great force, as I collided, crashed and got clustered by the visitors. The boisterous crowd with many people; many nationalities, many accents, hit my ears like big boulders. People from all over the world were present. The local people of Qatar; men
It was like they were as monster trucks in an arena trying to get over the steep hills. All the different colored leaves orange, yellow, and bright red would be picked up by the gashing wind, then spiraled harshly in midair. The winds were making scours and soars
In the 1st chapter of Don Delillo’s “Falling Man” the reader is drawn right into the midst of things. “It was not a street anymore but a world, a time and space of falling ash and near night. He was walking north through rubble and mud and there were people running past holding towels to their faces or jackets over their heads.” (P.1 L.1). The scene is set with utter chaos and mud, rubble and debris are scattered all around the city, which is the cause of disoriented and scared people running away from the cause of this terror. Roaring sounds from sirens and screams fills the air as police officers and firemen are scurrying about.
Of course, all of the animals that we would’ve eaten for food were driven into the hills by the floodwaters. Food was scarce. Interviewer: How cold was the water? George Rogers Clark: I don’t know, but the water was cold. It was very cold, almost as cold as King George’s heart.
The flying things…flying detritus, flying limbs, flying people. The frantic screaming. The gruesome sight of blood spilling from people, people who were moving, talking, laughing just 10 seconds ago. The instant sense of loss, far surpassing the feelings of shock and surprise. Like even before you realize what has happened, you know that it’s tragic, sad.
Limpid rain was falling into the ground from the sky. The noises from the street become beeping sound and it passes through my ears. I think I have to open party again for them. When I host a party, people run around and yells. I like those situation.
Going down the list making sure everything was there. When it came time to leave, a swarm of angry butterflies found a home in my stomach tormenting me with every movement. But it was too late to pull out now, I had to keep going, they were relying on me. There we were, standing in a freshly mown field full of people, all with their own reasons for doing this. As I stood there they hit me again, the angry butterflies intensified by the magnitude of what I was about to take on.
The battle was dynamic, riveting even! Hero and his Villain bounding across the spring-laden dawn tundra, bursts of energy igniting between them as their tails and armour collided. Butterflies cascaded about from both Hero and the grasses. A wide smile crossed the Hero’s face but a grimace of anger and frustration stuck to the Villain’s. “Why can’t I!
Relaxing this I grabbed only what I could carry and made a run towards my car. The alarm bouncing a tsunami screeched loud enough for the entire city to hear. Growing full of worry I noticed that people around me had also made a run with groceries in hand and some of the most needed even with carts full. I was shocked not expected to ever see the peaceful city near the coast in so much terror and what was yet to come. I stood there looking at my surroundings some parts of the city already looking like ghost towns.
But as the crowd closes in on Bakha in the middle, the readers, who are afforded a coup-de-ouill at the incidents as if in aerial omniscience, can visualize a diagrammatic representation of the scene that ironically tells an entirely different story. Apparently, Bakha is hounded by the Brahmins circling him. But the diagrammatic representation of the scene would find a picture of a circular periphery with a centre—and astonishingly—with Bakha at the centre with the apparently menacing crowd at the margin—the