Trapped men seeing their mates through the dusty fog, recognizing them, their hopes rose: their mates wouldn’t let them die. But many couldn’t be reached until the fires had been put out, until steel had been cut away, until the emergency workers could stabilize the slab. They screamed and cried for what seemed like hours but even after they stopped the survivors kept hearing them. Most of the men who survived the collapse, who were not injured didn’t go home, instead they joined fireman and police, and men from neighbouring factories who’d raced down to the Bridge to help. Picking up shovels and crowbars, and sledgehammers, digging through rocks and rumble, cutting through steel beams with oxygen torches, they tried to untangle the mess. They went out on the police dinghies to search the river. They dived under the fallen concrete and iron. The sludge and mud clung to them, coating their skin, weighing them down, making it difficult for them to breathe, to keep their eyes open, to find the bodies of their mates and pull them out of the river. And then they carried the bodies onto the road, and the Salvos covered them in white sheets. On the site, commotion and noise, on the roa the bodies in a long line, silent and still. Antonello lost all …show more content…
I know. I have to go back, Sandy.’ He pulled away and she let go of his hand. As he made his way back towards the wreckage, he passed a crushed helmet and next to it a mangled red lunch box, one of those bright plastic things like the ones the school kids carried earlier that day, too small to hold lunch for a grown man working at a hard physical job. He imagined a little girl, like Molly, helping her mother to pack her father’s lunch, ‘Daddy’s lunch box is like mine’. Antonello kicked the lunch box out of his way, but it only moved a couple of inches. The ground was rubble and mud and oil and blood, the emergency workers were carrying in sacks of sand to cover the ground but there wouldn’t ever be enough
Everyone knew by then, if not before, that any chance of a reprieve was impossible. The young men would die, and the village would be saved. Only the sound of the loud, heavy truck starting its engine gave thought that perhaps this would not be the last carnage, the last sacrifice to this village, or the neighboring villages. Perhaps the big, lumbering truck would forever hold the watchful eyes of those evil enough to order the massacre of innocence.
The people who I look up to is my mom and my dad. Ever since I was born, they helped me with my problem that I have. Every day after school my mom would help me with my homework, because most of the time I don’t understand my assignment, that she knew how to do some math work, because I would forget how to answer my math, while my dad is at work. On his days off me and my dad would sometimes go fishing in the river or a lake, because he would like to spend time with. Other times we would go hunting for deer or bird, because it would be boring if we didn’t do
Anyone as brave as Thomas does not sit back and relax to watch one of his injured friends from being trapped outside as it is about to hit night time. An injured person outside of their safe haven almost equals imminent death. Thomas instinctively ran to his injured comrade in order to save him, to only find out that he himself is also trapped outside of the Glades. "For several seconds, Thomas felt like the world had frozen in place. A thick silence followed the thunderous rumble of the Door closing, and a ...
People around the city went to bed, everything seemed relatively normal. Smoke dwindling into the dark night sky, the faint smell of burning wood. All normal for Chicago. Fires were a daily part of life for this wooden city. Near the time of 2 a.m. the fire didn’t seem so normal and average anymore. A mean flame was being born, it was blazing to life.
After reading different articles and learning more about African American culture, it made me want to find out more about my own family culture. There are different traditions that are pasted down in generations, which could have been a part of African culture that we don’t realize such as parenting styles. I don’t remember hearing too many stories about my past relatives growing up, so I had to find out more on my family experiences in the south. Also, I wanted to see how spirituality played a roll in my family choices. My goal in this paper is to show how I got a better understanding of the reason my family could be structured the way it is now.
The Fire raged in the fearless dark, as the glowing eyes from the owls watched them as they slept. No sound besides the wind and the soft breathing from Montag and the rest of the group. The air was full of fog and smoke, to the point you couldn't see your hands. But the sun was rising and Montag awoke with fear running down his spine. “What am I supposed to do,” Montag jumped to his feet.
The corpses and the wounded we had piled all together, ready to burn. Flies were swarming around the mountain of corpses, some injured trying to get out. Some asking for water, I don’t know what it is with the dying wanting water, I find it strange as killing seems to give me a thirst. And that was Filner. Three hundred dead people heaped together with the weapons that they had, pitchforks, rakes and shovels.
Bang! Crack! Screech! Pop! These are the sounds that interrupted me from playing with my cousin. My mind raced to see what exactly had happened. I run out of the house and to the courtyard. My cousins want me to come back in, they said zombies were walking the streets and that the government sent troops to kill them. I denied it, so I ran out to the street to see what happened. My heart pounded and my stomach grew anxious as the aroma of bacon and engine oil filled the air. As I grew closer to the scene, men shed blood from their eyes alike the woman. As I walked closer and cut through the crowd, a cold and simple wind had ripped the thoughts out of my head. It was a grieving mother over her son's body. His body fresh and mutilated from the crash. Shattered ribs and guts exposed. His head had exploded and his
Boom. Breath. Boom. Breath. Each step sounded like a war drum banging in my ears. The harmonious rhythm of my steps consistent with my breath continued on and on as I made my way up the side of the cliff in the middle of these Colorado woods. The sweltering heat was hindering my vision, and I began to feel dizzy. The worst part is, I am all alone.
It is disturbing and horrific most of the time. Despite this, there is light in the dark. Two survivors wandering the road, a father and a son. They are some of the last “good guys” on the planet. They are able to survive, despite the horrendous conditions presented to them.
When he felt his feet touch the wooden porch he reached for the pack of matches in the window. If took a few tries before one finally caught he lifted his head at the doorway at his sleeping father and dropped it. Fire and smoke overwhelmed the small rooms while he closed the front door. His father lounged out of his chair and tried running to the door that was blocked by roaring flames his eyes franticly searched around for his boy. That was until he locked eyes with him from outside of the window, falling to his knees.
I never would have imagined feeling like an outsider in my own home. Unfortunately I wouldn’t even go as far as considering my current home as “my home.” I live in a house with eight people and two dogs and for some, that might not even be slightly overwhelming, but for me it is. I try to keep my heart open about the situation, but I always end up feeling like I don’t belong. Given the circumstances of my situation, I would say life definitely turned out better than what I initially expected, but I was left feeling like a “stranger in a village” having to live with a family that is nothing like my own.
The regular, stand-to was longer than it usually was. The night was cold and long we were on stand-to for most of the night without rest. The casualties grow higher by day, Yeatman and Johnson killed, alongside 81 killed and 34 wounded. I trust that may many be found alive and well, as one must always lose some in the dark. Inside the trench, crowded surrounded by other soldiers resting before dawn as usual until stand-to. Trenches, equipment, often blood soaked boots, corps guns, ammunition caps, laid everywhere along the wet flooding dirt ground. The loud but comforting rain, the only serene sound I hear here, we still have without break for the past four days, our small trench is starting to flood slowly day by day. The battle has seemingly taken a break, no firing from the other side.
This war-torn land shows nothing but death and the dying. The ground is muddy from the rain, it’s dank and sodden. Up above the trench line is barbed wire and … nothing else. No birds, no animals … no people. A few dead bodies of the brave men going to assassinate the enemy by night fall, but stopped dead in their tracks, they got picked off by the sharpshooters. No! No one ever makes it! Never! There is a constant sound of gun blasts and the sound of explosions from the grenades. The dark is lit up by the flashes of the guns against the silver clouded sky. Nobody dares to look up for more than a few seconds otherwise they will be taken out.
My brothers and sister are the best motivation to me. It is not every day that we get along but when we do then it is a good day. Every day they make me want do better, not only for myself but for my mom and them also. They encourage me to do better now so that my future is bright later on. Family is always the best to have on your team especially for their support because they genuinely mean it and you know that it is coming from their heart. I know I can count on all my brothers and sister to be there for me when no one else is because they are family. I hate that they are growing every day and getting older to experience the real life. I hope even later on they will all still support me and we will not drift apart like I know