It’s a street like every other street in the world but somehow it’s different, it’s kind of creepy and this feeling of horror is in the air. Darkness is hanging from the houses and lying on the floor, the light of the lanterns is shining fiercely red and the clouds are darkened and grey. All the trees lost their leaves a long time ago and they get older, the fields are blank and the flowers are dead. The colors of the houses got dirty and they lost their beauty, rats are running from house to house to find something to eat, flies assemble around rooted food that they find in the house. The only thing you can hear is the wind blowing through the dying trees and from time to time the sound of crushing windows or doors. Even the sun or the moon never shine here anymore, the clouds never leave. The life went out of this street. …show more content…
His eyes are empty, his mind is blank, his clothes got dark, his face looks scared and his body is shaking from time to time. The smell of death creeps along and the feeling of terror is stuck in his head. He knows that something is wrong with this place and that he won’t survive here any longer, but somehow he can’t leave, this place doesn't want to give him away. His feelings, maybe just imagined because of mess in his head and the histories he heard before, tell him that there’s something else than him. He hopes it’s just somebody else, who got stuck at this place, too, but somehow his wish for that seems more and more irrational for
Zero awoke to find himself standing, it was not something he was familiar with and he searched his memory for any recollection of it happening before. Quickly he discovered that large parts of his memory were missing, gone were the seemingly endless data bases of information. Quickly he sent out feelers trying for a connection of some sort but he drew a blank. It seemed that where ever he was now, had limited connection capacity. Instead he used his visual feed to survey his surrounding, it appeared he was in some kind of desert of discarded parts.
The previous week they had performed the spell successfully. After contacting Mordred, Merlin and Morgana had arranged to meet him and Aglain, the leader of the druid camp, in the woods near a small waterfall, halfway between Camelot and the grave of Gorlois. Morgana always went on her annual pilgrimage to her father's tomb at this time of the year, at the end of spring.
...ome the dream of attainment slowly became a nightmare. His house has been abandoned, it is empty and dark, the entryway or doors are locked. The sign of age, rust comes off in his hands. His body is cold, and he has deteriorated physically & emotionally. He is weathered just like his house and life. He is damaged poor, homeless, and the abandoned one.
I was a little hesitant about taking this class because I do not see myself as creative. However, I enjoyed taking this class and have learned so much and discovered I can be creative if I put my mind to it. I thought creative meant that you had to be able to draw, paint, and just have an eye for art. I also felt these skills had to be done perfectly because it would be more appealing to others. That was not the case in this class I learned that art should be open ended. This is the best way for children to learn. Children need to be exposed to the materials and not limited. They should be able to create what they want instead of something adult oriented. This is new for me because I thought parents would enjoy perfectly put together projects because they would be able to identify what the children was making and learning. However, they need to be educated on opened ended art through a newsletter or pamphlet. Explaining that we are coming away from doing traditional art but child center art where children art work is original because they are using their own mi...
A thick plume of black smoke and ash hung in the air in a heavy haze, almost completely obscuring the lurid red glow of the waning sun. Below, a cloud of grey plaster dust twisted and writhed amid the sea of debris as intermittent eddies of wind gusted by.
The fog rolls slowly down the dark, shadowy street. She is the only soul around…or so she thinks. The snap of a branch startles her. She turns terrified, but no one is there. Perhaps it was just her imagination. She creeps as the wind howls around her, creeping into her bones. She turns a corner and hears someone whisper her name in the dark.
she always used to wish for a way to escape her life. She saw memories
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.
As I saunter onto the school field, I survey the premises to behold people in coats, shielding themselves from winter's blues. The sun isn't out yet, but the place bursting with life and exuberance, with people gliding across the ice covered floor almost cat-like. The field is effervescent and despite the dire conditions, the field seems to have taken on a life of its own. The weather is bad and the ice seems to burn the skin if touched, yet the mood is still euphoric. The bare shrubs and plants about the place look like they've been whipped by Winter himself. The air is frosty and at every breath the sight of steam seems to be present. A cold, cruel northerly wind blows across the playground and creates unrest amongst some. Crack! The crisp sound of leaves is heard, as if of ice splitting and hissing. Squirrels are seen trying to find a point of safety, scurrying about the bare trees that lie around the playground. Mystery and enigma clouds the playing field, providing a sense of anticipation about the place. Who is going to be the person to spoil the moment? To kill the conversation?
There are many factors that can rapidly change the chances of harvesting a whitetail deer: the moon, precipitation, time of day, or wind to name a few. When all of these variables fall into place, the likelihood of getting that shot is dramatically increased. There is one other influence that can greatly change a hunt--patience. I have always struggled with grasping the discipline it takes; if you can find such discipline, it alters the entire game. There is one story in particular that stands out in regards to patience. There is a buck that that has interested me for over 3 years; he has eluded me on many occasions, causing an exceeding amount of frustration and anger. I call him Albert. Albert is a 6 year old mature
The Creature That Opened My Eyes Sympathy, anger, hate, and empathy, these are just a few of the emotions that came over me while getting to know and trying to understand the creature created by victor frankenstein in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. For the first time I became completely enthralled in a novel and learned to appreciate literature not only for the great stories they tell but also for the affect it could have on someones life as cliché as that might sound, if that weren’t enough it also gave me a greater appreciation and understanding of the idiom “never judge a book by its cover.” As a pimply faced, insecure, loner, and at most times self absorbed sophomore in high school I was never one to put anytime or focus when it came time
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.
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
It was a frosty night. The ground was soft, but dry. The sun had almost set, and thick grey clouds moved slowly and silently through the sky. The air smelt damp, the only sound anyone could have heard was their own breathing, and the occasional chirping of a bird above.
In the late afternoon, under a clear light blue sky on the busy streets. When the school bells ring and the clock strike 6.00pm, all the student running out of their class, some are happy and some aren’t. The student just have an exciting day at school and they are very please, they also have something to tell their parents about this school day. But some of them are sad because they have to say goodbye to their friends. John have just finish his hard-working day at school and ready to go home and enjoy a wonderful, delicious dinner with his family. Enthusiastically, John runs to the car-park to get his bicycle, wear his helmet and ready to go home.