I walked into my bedroom and crawled my way to the center of the bed. Overstuffed sage green pillows littered my path, and if I had fallen between them I could have hidden away from anyone who passed by my open door; there was an alluring jolt that accompanied the thought of hiding away. I could feel the bed giving into my weight as I turned to rest my back against the curved headboard; the springs creaked with each shift of my small body’s weight. My hands searched beneath the sheet colored in the same dull sage green as the pillows, for my phone. “Puke green is more fitting,” I quipped.
When my hand gripped the cold plastic of the phone’s case I pulled it from beneath the sheet dragging the headphones that seemed to be permanently attached
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Instead of a mouthful of food I had a mouthful of words I wouldn’t let myself vocalize. When she was no longer in sight I rolled over and buried my face in the pillows to let out a scream, and the pillows didn’t fill my appetency for them to muffle the sound. Sighing, I pulled myself into a seated position in the middle of the bed. My gaze locked on the walls; they were a washed-out shade of blue that softly contrasted with the light green coloring the bedding. It was a color combination I wouldn’t have chosen if I’d had a choice in the matter. I let myself fall back into the pillows; my hair blew up into my face sticking itself to my recently licked lips, and I found myself laughing at the position I was …show more content…
There was dark brown carpet from the 80’s on the floor with some spots that had been worn down to sand colored carpet backing by feet and furniture, and there was this peculiar area near the window that stood out where the carpet had been turned a shade of moss green due to sunlight exposure. A TV stand with bookshelves flanking each side took up the wall to the left of the bed. My sister was an avid reader, so, the shelves were filled with books she’d checked out from the nearest library. I would tip-toe into her room when she was gone to pull books from the shelves and leaf through the pages; I’d jump at every noise out of fear of someone catching me. Movement near the door caught my attention and took me from the memory. My father was leaning against the door’s frame motioning with one hand for me to pull the headphones from my ears and listen. I pulled one earbud out apprehensively while pressing the other more snuggly into my ear in hopes I’d be able to drown out his words with the song’s lyrics if he started chastising
Ever since she has been entrapped in her room, the narrator’s vivid imagination has crafted fictional explanations for the presence of inconsistencies in the wallpaper. She explains them by saying “The front pattern does move! And no wonder! The woman behind shakes it” (Gilman 9). In the story, the narrator explains the woman mentioned creeps in and about the old house she and her husband reside in. Venturing towards the conclusion, the narrator becomes hysterical when thinking about the wallpaper, explaining to her husband’s sister Jennie how she would very much like to tear the wallpaper down. Jennie offers to do it herself, but the narrator is persistent in her desire-”But I am here, and nobody touches that paper but me-not ALIVE”(Gilman 10)! The narrator has realized the apex of her mental instability as the story
Trapped in the upstairs of an old mansion with barred windows and disturbing yellow colored wallpaper, the main character is ordered by her husband, a physician, to stay in bed and isolate her mind from any outside wandering thoughts. “The Yellow Wallpaper”, written by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, describes the digression of the narrator’s mental state as she suffers from a form of depression. As the story progresses, the hatred she gains for the wallpaper amplifies and her thoughts begin to alter her perception of the room around her. The wallpaper serves as a symbol that mimics the narrator’s trapped and suffering mental state while she slips away from sanity reinforcing the argument that something as simple as wallpaper can completely deteriorate an entire identity.
After the call I had put my phone back on its charge, and in doing so received a nasty, little shock of static electricity that made me swear out loud. I then sat on my bed looking out my balcony windows at the storm which had come ever closer, and just now beginning to let rip after it had crested over the hills and forest atop Mt. Harrison.
From the “gouged and splintered” floor to the chewed bedstead, each mentioned object contributes to the story’s eerie setting as well as to the narrator’s confinement (229). Objects such as the bolted bed and the bars on the window symbolize the narrator’s inability to do as she pleases, yet another factor which constrains her. At the center of it all is the yellow wallpaper. While the narrator at first regards the yellow wallpaper as “repellant” and “revolting,” she slowly becomes more and more entranced by it and, more specifically, that which lies behind it (227). She begins to imagine a woman inside the wallpaper, looking for escape behind the pattern which entraps her. Under close scrutiny, it is easy to see that the woman inside the wallpaper is a reflection of the narrator, while the wallpaper acts as yet another theoretical cage to entrap her. Just as with the setting, the author uses everyday objects to demonstrate the muddled emotions that the narrator subconsciously feels due to the pressures laden upon
She would study the wall paper day in and day out, and even at night also. She would look at the wall paper how the sun would shine on it during the day and how the moonlight lit the wall paper up coming through the window at night. At first when she would study the wall paper she would not like it one bit. The woman would begin to think that she wished her husband, John, would take her away from this house. The woman began to go crazy about the wall paper, it was the strangest yellow and would make her think of bad yellow things. The odor of the paper began to reek and it would creep all over the house. It even got in the woman's hair, the smell of the paper, every time she turned she would smell the wall paper even when she was not at the house. It drove her crazy so she decided to completely rip all the wall paper down. Her constantly having to stay in that room and study the wall paper drove her insane and to a breaking point. Her ripping the wall paper down gave her freedom to do what ever she wanted so she was not refined to that room to look at the yellow wall paper any
It begins nine in the years past, I sit on my bed stricken with fear of what hides beneath me, as I shriek for my parents, tears drip down my face, and hairs erect from my limbs. In horror, I hide behind my parents’ baggy pajamas with a hope of having protection from the unknown monster. “Honey, there is nobody in your closet or under the bed. Let mommy and
11:14 p.m.-I slowly ascend from my small wooden chair, and throw another blank sheet of paper on the already covered desk as I make my way to the door. Almost instantaneously I feel wiped of all energy and for a brief second that small bed, which I often complain of, looks homey and very welcoming. I shrug off the tiredness and sluggishly drag my feet behind me those few brief steps. Eyes blurry from weariness, I focus on a now bare area of my door which had previously been covered by a picture of something that was once funny or memorable, but now I can't seem to remember what it was. Either way, it's gone now and with pathetic intentions of finishing my homework I go to close the door. I take a peek down the hall just to assure myself one final time that there is nothing I would rather be doing and when there is nothing worth investigating, aside from a few laughs a couple rooms down, I continue to shut the door.
Ow. My head hurts. It has been lying against this wall for at least an hour now. I scratched the back of my head to move around my dark, curly hair. It was beginning to feel plastered against my scalp. It was a bit tangled from not brushing it for a day and my fingers did not run through it with ease; nevertheless, it felt good to keep the blood flowing. I was lying on a thin, light blue mat on the floor. My head was propped up against the cold wall as if it were a concrete pillow. My chin dug into my chest and I could feel the soft, warm material from my sleeveless sweater cushioning my jaw. I looked down. I could see the ends of my hair cascading over my shoulders. The red highlights matched quite nicely with my maroon sweater. My arms were folded over my belly and they appeared more pale than usual. My knees were bent, shooting upward like two cliffs. My baggy blue jeans covered the backs of my fake brown leather shoes. ("Christy, let me borrow your pants, the baggy ones with the big pockets. I can hide more stuff in those.")
Time ticks by slowly as I tap the worn eraser of my pencil on my notepad. Only three more hours to go. One hour each. Each hour consists of three sets of twenty minutes. If I can just make it through nine sets of twenty minutes, I will be alright.
For my first piece of original writing I intend to create a piece primarily written for entertainment however, I also want to portray an interest into historical and political persuasions. I aim to write this piece for an audience of teenagers to young adult who are aged from around fifteen to twenty-five and are male, I also wish to identify with those interested in political thrillers within this age range. The genre of which shall be a short fiction story consisting chiefly of narrative and written in the third person. I picture this piece as being one of a collection of short stories concerned with the political-thriller fiction sub-genre. Despite being a fiction text I aim to tie in real world non-fiction.
The top of his sleek brown pressed down hair disappeared as people filed in the path he left. I ran over to the furthest table so no one would see me cry. My fluffy pink dress fell into the way of my feet, and I almost tripped not only myself but other people. I fell on to the table; hands pressed to my face so no one would be able to see it. As I was weeping quietly someone sat down next to me, I didn’t dare to look up.
I woke up with the feeling of a velvet seat under me. The smell of fancy perfumes and aged wood filled the air. Where was I? I opened my eyes to come face-to-face with a long window in a longer hallway. The sound of classical music played on a piano filled my ears as I sat up from my dark red velvet, cushioned bench.
As I opened the door to the creepy old haunted house on my street, I started to think that maybe this wasn't such a brilliant idea. I scolded myself for wanting to turn back, and hesitantly stepped inside to explore. My brown hair and dark brown eyes made me practically camouflaged in the wood-paneled foyer, except for my old purple hooded sweatshirt and comfortable gray sweatpants. I was the average height for a sixteen year old, but I was still going to have to look up to check for cobwebs and the dust in every crevice. My hair already needed to be washed because so much dust has fallen onto me. I finally got enough nerve to begin walking through the house.
Habits of the Creative Minds is a simple textbook with a particular twist. I began reading the book thinking it was going to be a basic textbook, but the author,Richard E. Miller and Ann Jurecic, changed the tone of the book and put it into a metaphor. This metaphor was about the reader in your writing, or for anyone reading should feel like Alice in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The reader should be reading, and figuratively fall into the reading, by this the authors means the reader should not want to put that book down. They should be engulfed in the book and read from cover to cover. The attention must be maintained and the best way to do this is by making the writing unique. The authors of this book puts
The house phone started to ring. “We have a house phone?” I questioned myself rubbing my eyes giving off a weary sigh. When did I fall asleep? I headed downstairs and it stopped. Again it rang and I guessed it was on the bottom shelf hence lack of usage. Pulling off the dusty cloth I grasped the telephone and answered.