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It began in the usual way. His eyes closed, asleep in his chair. Beside him sat a pile of used dishes. Ignoring the musty odour that had taken residence in the house many years ago, the man was the only one who lived there. Through the gap in the living room curtains, a shaft of midday sunlight illuminated the mans tired, worn face. The wrinkles which bored deeply into his skin rested in an expression of defeat and exhaustion. The world seemed no place for him. Time was the thief the man had always suspected it to be. It had stolen his wife, his friends. All had left now were his memories and even those were fading. Family memories hung from the walls in their weathered frames. He could he longer bring himself to look at them, they were …show more content…
Although it could be said that that in itself was not an entirely enjoyable experience. His hand was weak and shook vigorously. Gripping the handled pained his gnarled fingers. He was now accustomed to the frequent splashes of hot tea that fell on his lap every time he tried to take a sip. Today would be different he decided. Today he would leave his chair, leave his house. He made his way down driveway on his mobility scooter and approached the footpath in front of his house. His neighbours were in their front gardens. At the sight of the man they looked away and attempted to busy themselves. Neither of them wanted to engage in a conversation. This sadden him a little. As he drew closer to the harbour the sounds and smells of his childhood came flooding back to him. The jetty had changed dramatically over the many years since he had seen it last. The boards were weathered and lifting in places. He could tell by looking at it that it would be painful ride across. He inched across the jetty on the scooter, every gap sending a painful jolt through his old bones. At the end of the jetty he stopped, taking a moment to rest. His muscles were still tense from bracing the bumps. Now he was here it felt all too real. However, he was sure that today was
Sitting there, about to row towards the professors, a bead of sweat dripped into the wound. Not only did I realize that this tiny cut would be a bother until it scabbed, but the pain of a half a day’s rowing suddenly caught up. Then I realized that the “adventure” of walking through the tree island had felt more like a difficult mission than the fun time I had expected. This got me really upset.
...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.
Upon finally reaching his home, he is baffled that there are no lights on and the door is locked. When he peers through the windows, the house is empty. The finality of this fact reveals that he has progressed from the suburban life to the muddled old age and emptiness, his misfortunes are real and have caught up with him. No longer can he deny the painful memories of what has occurred in his life through his journey. The semi-surrealism of this journey can in theory be a progression of his life, his mind having gone from clarity of a midsummer's day to the darkness of approaching night and old age, with its frailties and troubles, his lapse of memories coming to clarity in the end.
The narrator describes his frightening and sad surroundings, which reflect his state of mind caused by the death of his dear friend. The narrator opens his sad tale with “Once upon a midnight dreary” and later offers, “it was in the bleak December.” He describes his chamber as containing “many quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore” and his fireplace as “each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.” With such images as the old musty books and the dying fire, a mood is set that represents the lonely and frightened state of mind of the narrator. Later, he sees curtains moving without a window open, and hears someone tapping on his chamber door. We begin to see that the narrator is losing touch with reality because he is deeply depressed by of the ...
The sun disappeared behind the trees in the west as we sat in sloped tan lawn chairs. The weathered wood of the house matched the brown and gray of the trees from which it came. A stream rushed through the trees behind the house, sounding off the mountain. We looked into the woods where his memories came to life so clearly.
The house was thickly made of mud brick and melded easily into the dirt around it. The only semblance of abandonment stems from personal knowledge of the house itself. We wasted no time entering, for the heat had become nearly intolerable. Nothing had changed since the previous visit so the exploring commenced immediately and naturally. The architecture was rounded like every other house in the town with archways leading to each room. Void of any furnishings, there was not much to look at or explore. The only thing left unknown was an old room with no lighting or windows that both of us were too afraid to
Like most old houses set atop old hills, weather had taken its toll. The bricks were worn and faded from their red, pink, black shades. The softened wooden door looked as if one more heavy night of rain could take it down. The bricks were oddly shaped; uneven almost-rectangles stacked upon each other in the haphazard pattern that bricks always seemed to be placed in.
In a time where time is no longer a given. In a town where knowledge is almost forbidden. There sat a house with a secretary and a cat both sleeping, restlessly.
My scarlet lips were losing its hue: the careful articulation of design was set upon my face, but too soon did it not last. I could hear the chiming of the clock nearby, only to signal a minute until twelve. It was dark. The dusk dawned upon me, but the street light above succeeded to glare the road ahead. No, this was not at all of significance to my own near yet potential future, but the act of its description seemed so beautiful at the time: leading its path for one who takes the road. No one else was in my presence. I was alone.
It was quarter till ten and the house was completely dark. Tory’s mind swam with the infinite possibilities of what terrors lay waiting in the bottom part of the house. She cried all the more and her brother and sisters watched from their doorways as she and Dad had their standoff in the hall.
He awoke to the sun's beam hitting his face, the yellow ray had snuck through a small hole in his drapes. He adjusted to the unconventional alarm, sliding slightly getting the ray off of him. He continued to lay in bed,staring at the ceiling a dull grey-stone color. His room remained quiet and dark, as it would always if he didn't wish it not. He let out a long sigh.
Thirty years later, my father’s eye’s still teared up perhaps from both his father’s sickness and the ending of his educational career. He had no choice but to drop out and start taking up all the responsibilities. His strongest statement at this moment was, son it was at this point I realized I was no longer a boy and had become a man, who had to take care of his parents and their farm that had been passed down from generation to generation.
Daniel disembarked from the train at Naga station, following a ten-hour journey from Manila. The sun pierced his bloodshot eyes, beneath his long dark hair, as he stumbled to the platform with a heavy leg, carrying his luggage and a knapsack. A cool morning welcomed him, but clueless what was in store for him. His heart throbbed as he contemplated on this summer break. After a quick dog walk, he hurried up to a calesa waiting for passengers. The driver whisked the horse, and the wheels of the carriage wriggled to a rutted road much narrower than he remembered. Four straight semesters and two summers of a full load of classes, subsisting on milk and ramen noodles, transformed him into a lean, but tall, young man. His calm demeanor projected a serious spirited student. The long absence made him a stranger to his hometown. Before the trotting enervated horse, the
With the car gone Brady set off to complete all the chores his parents had left him. He had big plans for the night and no boring chores were going to get in his way. Quickly he headed to the kitchen where he began washing the dishes, then on to the laundry machine, and then to make the beds. As he worked inside the tired old house, the sun outside slowly dipped below the horizon, darkening the countryside.
As I depart from the kitchen, I walk into the living room. There is a terrifying ugly brown couch with a crocheted throw draped over it. Two more Lazy-Boy chairs sit by it. On the opposite side of the room from me is a stone fireplace with shelves built on either side of it. These shelves are filled with books on every topic one can think of. Subjects range from the Civil War to cooking and mechanics. Above the fireplace rests an old, dependable clock. As it strikes the hour with its dings and dongs, I know I am where I belong. I am home.