Roxy pulls another weed aimlessly out of the ground of her family’s cornfield. She makes a tiny pile of all of them and then throws them away into the field. She’s hiding there to escape chores, and to be alone. Regularly, Roxy would bring the water to the animals in their barn with only a complaint or two, but today she was in no mood to do anything. Breakfast that morning was quieter than usual, which Roxy ate as quickly as possible, leaving the table quicker than usual. Roxy became pretty hungry, after sitting alone for a few hours. “Uncle Tuck and the boys must be done plowing the field”, Roxy thought to herself as she got up to leave, “I could hide in the attic after I eat, and it’s a lot cooler there than here in the field.” She walked between the corn rows until she reached her house: a two-story wooden structure, painted a faded turquoise, with a saggy, leaky roof. It was big and roomy, but not built to house as many people as it did. Roxy’s cousins slept in the large upstairs attic, while the adults had rooms downstairs. The bad part about living with so many people under one roof was that Roxy could never be alone.
Roxy’s cousins had finished their chores and were in their front yard, playing stickball, a game they invented a few summers ago. Andy hit the ball down the yard, Tim ran to retrieve it, and Bertha tried to get the triplets to play by the rules. That was just enough commotion for Roxy to sneak up the porch without notice.
“What are you doing?” Roxy turned her head at the sound of Jess, who was leaning against the railing.
Roxy crossed her arms and turned away from the stairs to face Jess.
“Nothing you need to know about.”
“I hope you finished watering the animals like you were supposed to, it took you lo...
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...ling of a stream. She turned around and saw the creek she was trying to get to all along. She made it! She put her hand on a lone elm tree next to the river’s edge. She traced her fingers over the name carved in the tree, Joshua. A tear rolled down her cheek. She knew how to find home now.
“Roxy! Roxy! You there?” Roxy spun around to the sound of her name. “Momma? I’m here!” She ran toward the sound of her mother’s voice. Her mother appeared with her two uncles behind her. “Roxy!” Miriam ran toward her, and the two met in a relieved and joyous embrace. “I was so scared! Don’t ever do that to me again!” Roxy looked up at her “I’m sorry Momma. I just, I just miss Daddy.” Miriam pushed the hair behind her ear. “It wasn’t Jess’s fault,” Roxy continues, “I was just being stubborn. Can I come home now?” Momma wipes the tears from her eyes. “Of course, let’s go home.”
It was a village on a hill, all joyous and fun where there was a meadow full of blossomed flowers. The folks there walked with humble smiles and greeted everyone they passed. The smell of baked bread and ginger took over the market. At the playing grounds the children ran around, flipped and did tricks. Mama would sing and Alice would hum. Papa went to work but was always home just in time to grab John for dinner. But Alice’s friend by the port soon fell ill, almost like weeds of a garden that takes over, all around her went unwell. Grave yards soon became over populated and overwhelmed with corpse.
Filban said the home had a yard that was overgrown. “The trees and bushes were overgrown, and the house was dark,” Filban said. “And the windows were covered.” She and her sister slept in the front bedroom of the house. She remembers the bedroom having a large, floor-to-ceiling window. She said you could look out and see the wra...
Susie’s mother opened the door to let Molly, Susie’s babysitter, inside. Ten-month old Susie seemed happy to see Molly. Susie then observed her mother put her jacket on and Susie’s face turned from smiling to sad as she realized that her mother was going out. Molly had sat for Susie many times in the past month, and Susie had never reacted like this before. When Susie’s mother returned home, the sitter told her that Susie had cried until she knew that her mother had left and then they had a nice time playing with toys until she heard her mother’s key in the door. Then Susie began crying once again.
“Well, Alice, my father said, if it had to happen to one of you, I’m glad it was you and not your sister” (57). Even though Alice was the victim of the horrid crime, she had to stabilize her own emotions, so that she could help her sister cope with this tragedy. Throughout Alice’s childhood, Jane struggled with alcoholism and panic attacks. “I wished my mother were normal, like other moms, smiling and caring, seemingly, only for her family” (37).
Under the orders of her husband, the narrator is moved to a house far from society in the country, where she is locked into an upstairs room. This environment serves not as an inspiration for mental health, but as an element of repression. The locked door and barred windows serve to physically restrain her: “the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.” The narrator is affected not only by the physical restraints but also by being exposed to the room’s yellow wallpaper which is dreadful and fosters only negative creativity. “It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide – plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions.”
The past few weeks had been hot, dry, and rainless. A drought. Rain had not fallen for three months. Though, despite the drought, the O’Leary family had been having an exceptional October. The O’Leary family consisted of Mrs. O’Leary, her husband and 5 children. Mr. O’Leary worked as a laborer, as Mrs. O’Leary kept with the cows and the children. The family was on welfare, but were livng pretty fair lives, and Mrs. O’Leary was selling fresh milk on the side. A small way to make some more money for her family.
Underneath a tree bearing the word “CROATOAN” sat a young girl. Her eyes were like waterfalls as tears cascaded down her raggad cheeks, landing on the cold ground beneath her.
Marie’s grandparent’s had an old farm house, which was one of many homes in which she lived, that she remembers most. The house was huge, she learned to walk, climb stairs, and find hiding places in it. The house had a wide wrap around porch with several wide sets of stairs both in front and in back. She remembers sitting on the steps and playing with one of the cats, with which there was a lot of cats living on the farm...
Arriving at Lacey’s house I walk to the backdoor letting myself into the house. Lacey was putting on tanning lotion in the kitchen, “Lacey,” I called to her, “my mom wants me to pick up snacks for the beach, do you want to go into town with me?”, “Sure,” she replied, “do you mind if my cousin comes with us?”, “Of course I don’t mind,“ I answered, “but we have to get moving, my dad only left me the car to use ‘til noon.”
"The house is 10 feet by 10 feet, and it is built completely of corrugated paper. The roof is peaked, the walls are tacked to a wooden frame. The dirt floor is swept clean, and along the irrigation ditch or in the muddy river...." " ...and the family possesses three old quilts and soggy, lumpy mattress. With the first rain the carefully built house will slop down into a brown, pulpy mush." (27-28)
“Oh no,” I couldn’t stand to see the river like this. Other koalas were coming in to see the river, just like I had done.
When a wife surprises her husband on his birthday, an ironic turn of events occurs. Katherine Brush’s “The Birthday Party” is a short story about relationships, told from the perspective of a nearby observer. Brush uses the words and actions of the married couple to assert that a relationship based on selfishness is weak.
It’s 10:30am and Janice, Alex’s mother, receives a phone call. “Hi Janice, this is Mrs. Smith calling with regards to Alex. Yes, he isn’t having a good day. He has been very disruptive this morning. We tried calling down Alex’s older sister to calm him down, and to talk to him, but he wouldn’t calm down. Would you please come and get him?”
The story begins as the boy describes his neighborhood. Immediately feelings of isolation and hopelessness begin to set in. The street that the boy lives on is a dead end, right from the beginning he is trapped. In addition, he feels ignored by the houses on his street. Their brown imperturbable faces make him feel excluded from the decent lives within them. The street becomes a representation of the boy’s self, uninhabited and detached, with the houses personified, and arguably more alive than the residents (Gray). Every detail of his neighborhood seems designed to inflict him with the feeling of isolation. The boy's house, like the street he lives on, is filled with decay. It is suffocating and “musty from being long enclosed.” It is difficult for him to establish any sort of connection to it. Even the history of the house feels unkind. The house's previous tenant, a priest, had died while living there. He “left all his money to institutions and the furniture of the house to his sister (Norton Anthology 2236).” It was as if he was trying to insure the boy's boredom and solitude. The only thing of interest that the boy can find is a bicycle pump, which is rusty and rendered unfit to play with. Even the “wild” garden is gloomy and desolate, containing but a lone apple tree and a few straggling bushes. It is hardly the sort of yard that a young boy would want. Like most boys, he has no voice in choosing where he lives, yet his surroundings have a powerful effect on him.
I awoke to the sun piercing through the screen of my tent while stretching my arms out wide to nudge my friend Alicia to wake up. “Finally!” I said to Alicia, the countdown is over. As I unzip the screen door and we climb out of our tent, I’m embraced with the aroma of campfire burritos that Alicia’s mom Nancy was preparing for us on her humungous skillet. While we wait for our breakfast to be finished, me and Alicia, as we do every morning, head to the front convenient store for our morning french vanilla cappuccino. On our walk back to the campsite we always take a short stroll along the lake shore to admire the incandescent sun as it shines over the gleaming dark blue water. This has become a tradition that we do every