The fog slipped through the night, hunched-shouldered, hiding from the sun. It stretched out every morning and evening, through towns, along roads, always searching. People would assume that this fog would not have a name, but this one did, although unpronounceable to a human. Its name was a sound that was a little like the vibrations of the tail of a rattle snake or Jack Frost’s bony fingers playing icicles like a harp.
The fog was hunting. Nights fell, mornings rose. Hunting, always hunting.
Over time the fog’s finger tips had brushed against many, hoping for the right one. She had to be perfect.
Every week, Caroline came with her mother. Down the long winding street, past the old church and into the graveyard. Caroline would wait by the
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“Caroline,” the fog whispered that night, when the lights were out, the house as quiet as a tomb.
“Who said that?” Caroline asked, sitting upright in her bed.
Before she could stop, her feet pressed on the cold floor. The fog opened his arms wide and welcomed her. She followed him up the street, past the harbour and down the long winding road to the graveyard. It had been raining so her bare feet sloshed in the mud past the fresh flowers her mother had only laid that afternoon. He led her gently, to the shared gravestone of father and daughter, John and Alice Evans.
The fog’s fingers reached from gravestone to gravestone, gently touching dates long past, long forgotten. It started to rain. Caroline watched in a trance like state the tiny raindrops bouncing from the gravestone and to the ground. As she watched she noticed a tiny glint of gold. She knelt down and between her fingers she grasped from the mud a necklace, fine and old.
Her cold, wet fingers fumbled with the chain as she gently placed it around her neck. It felt familiar, like coming home. As she turned to leave the tiny heart necklace upon her chest began to beat. Beating a tiny crying chorus like a nest of heartbroken
Jane quickly stopped singing and silently look at her mother with fear in her eyes. The men continued riding their horses to the house about a mile from where Jane and her mother were, Ruth told Jane they must be asking the homeowners if they saw anyone running around last night. As night fell on the swamp Ruth began carrying Jane. She was walking through field moving very slowly just incase someone was out looking for her.
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.
The poem The Cremation of Sam Mcgee takes a lot of turns throughout but always seems to keep to the themes of perseverance and friendship. This is evident in the things that the narrator does throughout the poem to keep his promise to his friend. A promise that seemed impossible to accomplish in the dead of winter on an Artic trail. The poem is about a trip to the Yukon back in the days of the gold rush. The poems narrator tells us a story about his friend Sam Mcgee who freezes to death during their journey.
Ms. NS expressed that she was often frustrated with her siblings that her family had been always the one to cook, clean for her and took her to the doctor’s office. Ms. NS reported that her grandfather left her grandmother when Ms. NS was still little. She stated that, because her grandfather had never been involved with her mother’s life, she neither knew who he was nor where he had been for all these years. Ms. NS recalled that she unknowingly ran into her grandfather at her uncle’s wife’s funeral one day, as she randomly greeted visitors. Ms. NS described that her mother came behind her and spoke in a low voice that this old gentleman was her
In countless people's lives, the loss and grieving of a loved one, will most probably be experienced. In Steven Herrick's novel ‘by the river’ many of the characters from this novel too face the loss of loved ones as well due to death or physically leaving the town of which the novel is set in. These characters deal with the losses in a myriad of ways, however the most prominent of them would be the rituals that are undertaken to respect the person that they lost. They also try to escape the town physically and mentally, and feel the presence of their loved ones.
The approach of autumn was well on its way. “Autumn’s hand was lying heavy on the hillsides. Bracken was yellowing, heather passing from bloom, and the clumps of wild-wood taking the soft russet and purple of decline. Faint odors of wood smoke seemed to fit over the moor, and the sharp lines of the hill fastnesses were drawn as with a graving-tool against the sky.” As Ellie drove down the road she was much more aware of all her surroundings.
Our feet sank into the mud. Again, the waiting. I fell asleep standing up. I dreamed of a bed, of my mother 's hand on my face. I woke: I was standing, my feet in the mud."
“Come in then” said the man. The Baudelaire orphans overheard this conversation and all wondered why Olaf only said Beatrice. Beatrice was the name of their mother. “Had Madam LuLu told Olaf which of our parents were alive?” thought Violet. After two minutes of driving around the
The Black Death “Clara! roared The Doctor. Hold on!” “I am! ” replied Clara irritated. “What’s up old girl?
I looked out from the passenger side window as we pulled into our parking spot. The trees were beginning to go bare in the frigid October weather, and the ground was covered in their dry, crispy leaves. The four of us were going on a haunted hayride tonight, a popular past-time for season. We clambered out of the car and left our bags behind. It had rained the day before, and it made the ground beneath us soft with mud and trampled leaves.
The thickness of the fog consumed the sun’s beams of light leaving nothingness in it’s path. There was a cloak of gray and darkness lying gently over the barren meadow. The barren meadow was silent, the atmosphere would cause a normal human brain to become nebulous and cold. There was no movement or sound, other than the shrikes of a striking, young fawn letting out her final breaths on a deathbed made of dead flowers, brown grass and sharp rocks. The only two living creatures in the barren meadow were a slender, pale, man dressed in all black and a elementary school age girl, with blonde gleaming hair and bright warm brown eyes in a plain white sundress.
There were red flowers, blue flowers, and all of the flowers you could think of. I Looked at Pastor Hiller in the coffin. Next, I put my sleeve over my face so no one could see I was crying like a baby. Water was gushing out of my eyes.
The air seemed brown, and all the things about were black and grey and shadowless; there was a great stillness. No shape of cloud could be seen, unless it were far away westward, where the furthest groping fingers of the great gloom still crawled onward and a little
“The girl was running. Running for her life, in the hope of finding a safe haven for her and her family. She never looks back, the only indication her father was still behind her was his ragged breathing above her head, forming puffs of air in this cold morning. She suddenly stumbles on a root, but her mother secures her fall with a small wisp of air. They lock hands, all three of them, and continue pushing themselves, desperately trying to find the others they lost on the way.
Small, stagnant puddles, on the uneven planks of timber wood reflected the dark, brooding sky above - rarely disturbed by the callous slices of moonlight seeping through the clouds, creating a specular reflection through a ripple in the languid water. Surrounding the lake, lay a rigid, pine forest, which stretched far past the mountainous boundaries - rising high, around the solitary lake. A death-like mist pervaded through the trees enveloping them in a gelid, cutting fog. A silent, lonely willow shivered as the still, biting air engulfed its aged branches in an icy cage and suffocated its stiffened lungs, causing each freezing breath to drag. Crusted leaves stacked one on top of the other as