He was dead, and dead when the police found him. Blue and red lights penetrated the black of the bleak evening and men conversing in hushed tones, brushing blood-stained flour away to reveal the body. A yellow beam appeared, revealing the dust rising over the disturbed shack. A cockroach scurried across the floor, spending a split-second in the spotlight before continuing on into the darkness. A group of paramedics came in with a stretcher and carried him away. — — — The warm, humid afternoon annoyed Alan as he trudged to the bus stop. When he arrived, the bus tracker showed his bus was cancelled. He sat on the hard, plastic bench and thought aimlessly. Suddenly, a flush of excitement flew through Alan's body and filled it with bright energy. He looked at the tracker again, and route 180 to Diggers Rest was departing in four minutes. His Go card, as he knew, was valid to travel into town, but also out, too. He loved visiting his grandma. …show more content…
He sat in the back seat, dreaming of his grandma's farm. He imagined himself as an child, walking home and seeing Benny dash out the homestead and leap on him and lick him. He could see vineyards stretching to the horizon, and the Sun coming down to sleep on them... “Diggers Rest next stop. Change for Blactown.” Alan got up, grabbed his pack and hurried to the door. They opened with a wheeze, and Alan stepped out of the bus. A quiet whistle accompanied the breeze, which was causing the gum trees to casually sway, the leaves occasionally swishing quickly, with a gust. Alan walked along the pavement, stepping around potholes. His grandma's farm was unmistakeable. Hanging on one side of the gap in the corrugated iron fencewas a grey, ripped tyre. It surrounded a tattered, peach-coloured signboard, which, after brushing off the dust, Sean could see it read, "Roser's Fields Vineyards". He went in, swatting the numerous blowflies that found pleasure in pestering
The first day of anything is always going to be hard, that’s just the hard truth. In the short narrative “First Day” by Robert E. Murphy, the struggles of a first day are shown through the eyes of a medical student. Murphy used amplification, pacing, and tone to explore the struggles of a medical student first day at the clinic. Murphy uses amplification in order to show how over enthusiastic the student is to start their first day at the medical clinic. Amplification is when sentences are enriched with excess information in order to increase the worth of the sentence.
James burst out of the wooden screen door of his farmhouse armed with a double-barreled shotgun, his black finger ready on the triggers and a primordial holler, “You son of a bitches! What have you done to my barn?” From the front porch of the farmhouse and across a small open plain of grass made damp by midnight dew, a barn cobbled together from warped boards and pieces of timber, and just big enough to store a cramped allotment of hay, field tools, a broken-down tractor, and a cantankerous panicking mule, stood alight. Flames screamed violently into the blackness of night, as though they were challenging the brightness of the stars. Trees that hung over the barn, and provided protection from the summer sun’s relentless rays, and reminded James of his wedding alter, now curled and cracked from the undeniable blaze.
In this event, Howard is looking upon the farm-scene that he has been away from for so long with its “endless drudgeries.” With this, all of the joy of Howard’s homecoming disappeared. Among this farm-scene was Howard’s farmer brother, Grant, who was angry at Howard for his elegant clothes and clean hands. In conclusion, Howard comes home from his successful career and is struck with feelings of tension and overwhelmed by the farm life that he has been away from for so long.
As the sun slipped lower the incoming tide of evening claimed each field stalk by stalk with an increasing appetite for darkness. Where the hilly terrain rendered cultivation an impossibility, the furrowed earth dissolved into forest. Sprawling white oaks clung to the rocky ground with equally strong and sprawling roots while the blushing sweetgum leaves remained
“The back yard ran off into weeds and a fence-like line of trees and behind it the sky was perfectly blue and still. The asbestos ranch house that was now three years old startled her—it looked small. She shook her head as if to get awake. ”(941 Oates) “"My sweet little blue-eyed girl," he said in a half-sung sigh that had nothing to do with her brown eyes but was taken up just the same by the vast sunlit reaches of the land behind him and on all sides of him—so much land that Connie had never seen before and did not recognize except to know that she was going to it.” (949 Oates)
“The wind rustling the dead roadside bracken. A distant creaking. Door or shutter. I think we should take a look.
With an abrupt rattle and jerk, I was interrupted from my two-and-a-half hour uncomfortable van ride nap. Immediately, my nostrils were flooded with tropical coconuts, bananas, and citruses of nearby vendors and shacks. Drowned out by the rambunctious engines of motorcycle taxis were the passionate greetings of townspeople and the entire community. When I stepped out of the van, the horizon was noticeably stuffed with constant greenery and the humidity was so thick that I could almost chew it. The neighborhood seemed shabby and run-down, yet everyone smiled and treated one another like a big family.
‘ In the story entitled “The Jilting of Granny Weatherall,” Granny finds herself approaching death. Even though she believes she is just fine, minute details lead the reader to believe she is rather ill: “she meant to wave good-by, but it was too much trouble” and by the end of the story, she is too weak to speak, “[s]he thought she spoke up loudly, but no one answered. The story follows Granny as she reflects on her life, including the jilting for which the story is named. By the end of the tale, Granny is fastly approaching death and sees her dead daughter waiting for her. When looking at this story from the lens of literary techniques, the ones chosen give the story a unique flavor.
Me and Lennie were real happy there, cos we could go over to the town on Sunday and sit on the street and watch life go by. Ye, we had a hellu’ve good life up in Weed.” George paused and before he continued. “So we was sittin’ in the gutter one day in a quiet place of the town and Lennie sees a girl come by, really purty girl with a pink beautiful dress, ya know the color of dem real fancy cakes the baker makes for those rich folks. And there’s two things Lennie jus’ loves - bright colors and soft things, so when
The man placed the old man's body cleverly under the chamber’s floorboards. A disturbance was issued during the night and investigators came to the man's residence. He convinces the investigators, but. The man began to feel pale,
I had to keep going cause my folks really want some paper and tea for tonight. My throat was dry cause of the dust off the dirt road. I could finally see the glare of the lanterns. I also noticed a loud roar from town citizens . I jogged to see what the commotion was.
His upper body strength helped hold onto the slippery plants as he dragged himself up through the ferns. Standing at the top of the small hill, he closed his eyes to gain a more complete sense of the forest. The men were gone, moved beyond the perimeter of his ancestral forest home. He quickly figured out the direction the village lay in and began to walk toward home. His march was smooth, despite his disability, as he made his way to the inner sanctum of the Desolate Forest.
The sky was so overcast that night came two hours earlier than usual. My guide was a peasant who walked beside me along the narrow road, under the vault of fir trees, through which the wind in its fury howled. Between the tree tops, I saw the fleeting clouds, which seemed to hasten as if to escape some object of terror. Sometimes in a fierce gust of wind the whole forest bowed in the same direction with a groan of pain, and a chill laid hold of me, despite my rapid pace and heavy clothing. "We were to sup and sleep at an old gamekeeper's house not much farther on.
There was no chattering or chirping of birds; no growling of bears and no chuckling of contented otters; instead, the clearing lay desolate and still, as though it never wished to be turned into day. The only occupants were rodents and spiders who had set their home in the dank, forgotten shack. From its base, dead, brown grass reached out, all the way to the edge of the tree-line, unable to survive in the perished, infertile soil that made up the foundations of the house. Bird houses and feeders swung still from the once growing apple trees, in the back garden, consigned to a life of
The wind whispered through the trees surrounding the winding dirt path and chilled my numb fingers. I shivered as my hair whipped around my head like a tornado. I watched as a falcon soared gracefully across the fading