I heard the patter of the water droplets hitting the fibreglass roof as I pirouetted across the polished wooden floorboards, where I felt I was instantly home. The dance studio had become as much a sanctuary to me as the confined classrooms at the local high school. Ever since my mother had died and I had been forced to live with my father; I had simply thrown myself, body and soul into my work and my dancing; my sole reasons for life. As I spun around I shut off all feeling except the chill on my neck from the cool air brushing rapidly past. I was brought back to reality with a sudden crash, upon hearing a clang of metal just outside the walls of my private heaven. I had forgotten that there was to be more refurbishment to the outside of …show more content…
I looked around me at the mirrors, for they had become my very best friends. I did not see myself as vain and yet the mirrors were able to speculate on my dances and show me steps and movements I was failing to achieve perfection on. The mirrors seemed like people to me now; simply giving me much needed, constructive criticism in all weak aspects of my solo performances. As I stared into the mirror I thought I saw what looked like a shaded figure behind me however when I spun round on my heels I found the whole place empty. I heard a chuckle and wondered for the first time ever; if possibly my father was right; maybe I did spent too much time here for my own good, maybe it was having the opposite effect than the calming one I had always thought. I had to get my way out of the shadowed hall, the room that had always been my stage of life and I found myself running not towards my sanctuary but instead, away from it, away from the new unleashed horror I had revealed inside …show more content…
The arches were actually acquiring some cobwebs, the shadows however now seemed harmless and yet as I entered the main room of the studio I felt my heart flutter as I saw my dreams and hopes shattered around me on the floor much like the mirrors, lying in shards everywhere. No one had been here; I had managed to find that much out from the grounds keeper the next day. No one had entered through the boundaries of the walls since the builders had left on the same Sunday night that I had gone fleeing from that very same room. The enclosed space held some kind of secret, a secret I was meant to unravel, and unravel alone. This was exactly what I would achieve over the next few weeks; full understanding of the mystery in the room. I refused to let my refuge, my sanctuary become little more than the image of a hell for anyone or anything. It could not be the way I pictured it; I would not allow that to happen. Not now, not ever, as long as I danced across these polished wooden floorboards that I knew so well. I had always thought of them as familiar, however now I knew I could not be so sure of that, nor of anything else surrounding me here. Capturing me and holding me hostage it seemed, I would not be set free until the spirit held within these rooms was released and the rooms themselves were at
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.
Kate's family had rented out a ballroom in a neighborhood country club, and we intended to dance the night away. As I approached the scene, disco lights streamed through the large windows and ran all over the lawn. Music enveloped the parking lot as my adrenaline began to elevate. I sauntered in, waving to my friend...
?The tenement was a long passageway of ruined houses, all exactly the same; small impoverished dwellings built of cement, each with a single door and two windows. They were painted in drab colors and their peeling walls were linked across the narrow passageway by wires hung from side to side. [She] walked deeper into the neighborhood, avoiding puddles of dirty water that overflowed from the gutters and dodging piles of garbage in which cats were digging like silent shadows. In the center of the little...
'Daylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past four o'clock and the beclouded afternoon was tending to drear twilight. I heard the rain still beating continuously on the staircase window, and the wind howling in the grove behind the hall; I grew by degrees cold as stone, and then my courage sank'1
I didn’t know where exactly I was going. But I didn’t care. I walked aimlessly in search of shelter, a place where I could seek refuge. Hours went by, and I was losing hope. When out of the corner of my eye, through the distant, dense foliage. I noticed what could have been salvation. I was fatigued and in a feeble state, was I hallucinating? Or was this real? I stumbled through the valley, my eyes fixated on the dwelling ahead. Much to my delight it was very real. I arrived at the cabin and surveyed the surroundings. The shack itself was isolated, old and tattered, as if unattended to for an eternity. I knocked on the door, and suddenly became overwhelmed by a supernatural feeling. I could hear frantic rumbling and murmuring inside, evidently the occupant wasn’t expecting a visitor. I waited a while longer, and finally the door creaked open and I was greeted by three of the utmost repulsive looking creatures I had ever had the displeasure of laying my eyes on. As disgusted as I was, I was in no position to turn away, I needed their help. They welcomed me into their abode and provided me with nourishment and directions on how to return
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 house was quiet and peaceful on a pebbled street, the moving trucks pulled up as Clara followed. She stepped out of her car and looked at the house thinking of how this is a fresh start in her life. “Its perfect” she said with a smile on her face. As the movers pushed open the trailer door Clara walked through the white picket fence gate on to the pebbled path and felt the feeling that she was safe, she whispered to herself “Home”.
Apprehension and curiosity enveloped me as I walked down Keeter hill to my new home for the year, Memorial Room 201. As I attempted to navigate the unfamiliar hallways filled with unfamiliar scents and faces, one thought consumed my brain, “When can I escape and go back home?” Unlocking the door to my new home, I stepped inside, instantly dropping my luggage in shock. The room seemed equal in size to a parking space. I had yet to figure out how I would share a room this size with another person, who I had yet to meet.
Allison Vandemore looked back one last time at the dilapidated weekly rental as she pulled a dark strand of hair behind her round ear. How it looked even less livable than what it had ten short months before, she wasn’t sure. Still, she was certain a small part of her would cherish the time spent in the duplex style apartment. Although she was ecstatic this chapter of her life was finally over. The rotten siding, broken window panes, as well as the sagging roof with patches of missing shingles, felt like home. It’s the only real home I’ve known, she thought pressing her lips thin and nodding to herself.
The night before, I didn’t practice my English so I knew what to say. By now, I knew most of the words, so I would just let my heart guide me. Besides, my cramped old house, which is actually just a junky garage in an abandoned alley, is too small to let out my feelings. Once I got to school after a cold walk in the snow, I placed myself by her locker and waited. Fourteen minutes had gone by, and still no sign of Lily. I only had a minute to get to class now, so I hurriedly collected myself and ran to my locker. I was disappointed, knowing that without Lily here, it would be the hardest day of school. I opened my locker and to my surprise a note fell to the floor. I quickly picked it up and gazed at the neat handwriting that clearly spelled my name.
The teenagers were mesmerized as they sat and watched the Harlem dancer move her body provocatively to the sound of the music. Her voice was like the sound of a blended harmony being played by flutes. They were captivated and speechless by her naked form shielded by a thin piece of cloth that hung so graciously from her body. The Harlem dancer moved her body in a way that told a story one’s mind could only imagine. She moved from side to side waving her hands as her bouncy glorious hair swayed with her body and the music. She was in a timeless zone and era that only she knew of. As she danced, the audience showed their approval by throwing money at her feet. They could tell that the Harlem dancer was in a place in her mind that took her away from the present to a different place.
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.
As a child I've always loved ballet from afar; there was just a grace about ballerinas that I too wanted to have. It took me a while to understand that dancing makes me feel amazing. Dancing would prove to be my pinnacle form of expression and the ultimate way to embrace freedom with all of me. Thus, taking this ballet class seemed like the smartest way to pleasantly incorporate dance into my busy economics ruled schedule. I thought I would be nervous on the first day, but I would find myself excited and eager.
Just like painters use different kinds of strokes or poets different rhythms, choreographers use various types of movements to embody different emotions, feelings, ideas or images. “The ballet’s function is ‘symbolic’; each step is ‘a metaphor’, (...) Only our poetic instinct can decipher [a ballerina’s] ‘writing of the body’. Her dance is a ‘poem freed of all the apparatus of writing’.” Due to the fact that the Wilis were spirits, the ballerinas wanted to give the impression of floating. Thus, the romantic fragile, ethereal, supernatural, ghost-like figure was exceptionally achieved through pointe work which introduced a whole new arena of movement that enhanced the qualities of grace and lightness so desired by the choreographers. Now one of the basic elements of ballet, dancing on pointe embodied the romantic ballerina’s pursuit for the ethereal as a romantic ideal of feminine perfection. One of the choreographers, Perro...
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’