The first bell of the morning rings, shaking the stone of the underground city. I tug on a clean, ash-gray tunic, complete with golden embroideries to mark my status as a leader, with a yawn, climbing out of the niche I claim as a bed. Finger-combing my hair, I wrestle it into a braid and survey the Golden Hall.
The rest of the Hall begins to stir around me. Someone adds fuel to the near-dead fire in the corner of the room; someone else puts dagger to sharpening-stone. Tired faces poke out of the sleeping-holes in the wall. The sizzle of frying meat – a rare luxury – mingles with the scent of spices winding through the air. I pause. Spices. Taking a deep breath, I sift through the smells in the air. The stink of unwashed bodies and the metallic tang of blood mingles with the scent of herbs, but doesn’t cover it.
One of the boys near me sniffs the air, and I can tell he smells the mixture too. I am on my feet before I even know what I’m doing. The quiet murmur of the waking city stills as the foreboding scent makes its way into everyone’s nose. I stride quickly into the center of the city and falter as the crackle of flames meets my ears.
Fear creeps over me as I walk into the Red Hall. A statue of Erith, Lord of Death and Flame, dominates the cavernous room. At his feet lay the dead, wrapped in red cloths and sprinkled with the herbs I smell. A group of people in dark red robes stands next to them, giving the fallen their last ceremony. Their chant is ominous but peaceful, calling the god down, sending the dead away.
The prayer finishes. I step forward, an ash-and-sun outsider in this room of blood. The group of people turns as one, alerted by the fall of my foot. When they see me, they step back, away from the carefully-laid bo...
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... evidence is used up. I spread my hands, inviting comment, and sit down.
The table erupts in fierce conversation. I have spoken already, though, and am barred by ritual from speaking again until asked to.
Eventually, Kaenin’s leader stands up. “I am the voice of Wisdom, representative of Moon, herald of the Scholar. I speak for the leaders of our people and for the people themselves.” She pauses, draws a deep breath in, and says in a strong voice, “We have agreed that the prophecy is come. We have agreed that the gods draw upon hosts. And so we must agree that the gods are soon to return.”
The next line is mine – the closing of the council. “We vow to spread our news among the people. We vow to make our actions today known. I am the voice of War, representative of Sun, herald of the Warrior. Speak so none doubt you. Represent your chosen god. Herald their return!”
The deathly ringing of the clock resonated throughout the chambers and faded away like they always had. But this time, the festivities did not flare back to life, for the new figure had control over the attention of everyone. This unique figure was shrouded in a robe as black as a void that covered all of his body except for his face, which was concealed by a peculiar mask. Contrary to the darkness of the robes, the lean mask was a pure, ghostly white with two blood red, curved lines, thicker at the top of the mask and thinner towards the bottom, through the eyes which were void holes. The air around him was cold and stale, like death lingered around him, waiting for its next victim. From the outskirts of the crowd, he moved in closer to the revelers, with each step echoing unnaturally loud. People shuffled away from him, afraid some terrible fate may befall them if they get close in proximity to him, as he strolled toward some unknown destination.
It was as if a spell had been cast. All was silent. In the center of the crowd, a boy lay in a pool of blood. It was the dead man?s sixteen-year-old son, who, with his brothers and half-brothers, had been dancing the traditional farewell to their father.
Throughout the short story “The Masque of the Red Death,” Edgar Allan Poe uses vivid symbolism, structure, and reoccurring details to paint a powerful image regarding the finality and inescapable reaches of death itself. “The ‘Red Death’ has long devastated the country,” yet the Prince Prospero continues to hold extravagant parties for his fellow elite members of society. Rather than merely telling a series of events, Poe carries his readers throughout the many rooms and scenes that hold the Prince’s masquerade, up until the clock strikes midnight and the partygoers can no longer hide behind their façade, and death comes in to take those that thought themselves invincible (Poe 438-442).
The unpleasant scent of rust and salt hung in the unbalance of the fiery air. The wet metal was an aroma of metallic; a melting copper penny. Though it smelt more intense than a bucket of bleach, it bespeaks a merciless event. The potent mixture of the
Imagine my trepidation, then, when I walked into this church, with its high, vaulted ceilings and an enormous, emaciated, and slightly malicious-looking Christ figure suspended thirty feet among my head. As I came through the entrance, the prelude began. It sounded like nothing less than the soundtrack to a horror movie, as the slasher is about to leap out and dice an innocent schoolgirl. The organ wailed in threatening, building minor chords and did nothing to allay my trepidation.
“The Masque of The Red Death”, is a wonderful illustrator of life, death, and small bits of joy in between. It uses good symbolism through the uses of a clock, seven rooms, the revelers, and a masked figure to represent the whole story. In the end, the story is a the embodiment of everyone's fear, death. The fear can come and of, but will one day seek it vengeance. It is as unavoidable as drinking water and breathing. Death is coming for us all and Edgar Allen Poe captured it
they pledged. “He was more than a High Priest of the religion; he was its most vocal
that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain - that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom – and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
My mind drifts from my worship, as the tentacles of my dark concerns refuse to be pried free. How foolish I was as a girl to think a prayer could repair any disgrace! How foolish I was as a grown woman to believe the same! My trembling, skeletal fingers trace the lettering on my leather-bound Bible as I recall my countless pleas to the Lord to rid me of its evil relative. All through the night, my sallow frame knelt at my bedside in endless prayer.
be bright with freedoms holy light; protect us by thy might, Great God our King.”
When he arrived at the home the servant who took his hoarse and directed him to the room that Mr. Usher was in greeted him. Inside the house was also very ornate, but it to had also been left alone for to long. The entire house had a gloomy atmosphere that would put a chill down most people’s spines. When he entered the room his friend was staying in he was warmly welcomed. He could not believe the changes that his dear childhood friend had endured.
The smell over whelming in the air. The brunt flesh cast a shadow with the dark smoke
“Foundly do we hope-fervently do we pray- that this might scourge of war may speedily pass away… With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan - to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations”
What is the smell that permeates the office building? This essay will argue that the smell in the office is a physical manifestation of the attitudes and emotions of its inhabitants. The reactions of different characters to the smell in the office building will be examined from cognitive and anthropological viewpoints. For the purpose of this essay “cognitive” will refer to the emotional associations that the characters make with the physical smell and the function of memory in its relation to smell. From the “anthropological” aspect, this essay will focus on the cultural representations of scent appraisal within the narrative. The reader learns about many of the static characters by their reported reactions to the smell: their persistent complaints are contrasted by Singlebury and his alleged understanding of its origin. In this way, the smell in the office building acts as a foil for the Manager, Singlebury and their colleagues. The smell lurks antagonistically throughout the story, growing stronger, highlighting crucial ...
Trilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before. So now, still in the beating of my heart, I stood repeating. " 'T is some visitor entering my chamber door --- Some late visitors entering my chamber door ;--- This is nothing more."