Chasing Ghosts
A rather unnatural wind would blow through our town. We used to sit around the Sunday dinner table and recite prayers from the Bible after my mother had cleared the dishes. But first, in silence we would stare at the dark brown swirls of color in the wood, resting our chins on crossed arms. We could hear the grate and grind of metal forks and knives against plates as my mother soaped the dishes in the kitchen. The hiss of the faucet would stop, and after the sound of her cotton apron’s catching on the splintery wall, the apron left hung to dry, she would emerge from the swinging door, the kitchen light flashing like a strobe into the dining room with each swoop of the door’s swing, yawning open then snapping back shut, on and off, on and off.
She would seat herself back at the table, her chair complaining with a low creak and moan as she sat. My father, meanwhile, would be off staring into the cornfield, always inspecting those rows that stood at-the-ready, motionless for miles. Would you like to read tonight, Luke? I know this is one of your favorite stories. This was not a question, so much as a command disguised as thrilling proposition. With silent obedience I would thumb to the desired verse, flipping page by page in order to stall for as long as possible. The whole time she would watch me, her head clamped into rigid position as if her graying hair, having pulled itself into a tight bun, had also cinched itself around her neck muscles.
After an interminably long interval, she would utter words of salvation and great joy. Thank you Luke. That was wonderfully read. We would transfer ourselves onto the couch by the television. Father Morrissey would be on. Out the corners of my eyes, I would catch patches of light and color throbbing across the screen. I would stare out the window into the silent boredom that would drape itself over the town with every nightfall. My father would catch me, Luke, watch the television, you will not do this Christian family shame, but I knew that he was as indifferent as I was. From past the miles of drab houses and empty fields and speechless crops, I would wait for it, for anything, to come.
At night, while our parents slept, my brother and I would talk.
When he repeatedly refuses to talk to her, she exclaims, "Father, you come here," in a voice which booms with authority. Even her stance is as regal as her inflections, for she stands in the doorway holding her head as if she were wearing a crown. Despite her original intentions, this dignified behavior doesn't last long. As she expresses her feelings about her husband's new barn, her stance turns to that of a humble woman from Scripture. This sudden change in behavior represents her volatile, but complex character.... ...
His heart began to beat faster as Daisy's white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips' touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.
“Half-hanged mary” by Margaret Atwood is a poem about a woman named Mary whose circumstances causes her to redefine not only herself, but her beliefs. For several hours, Mary struggles to hang on to her life and her will, as she grapples with her faith in God. Atwood’s use of imagery, sound devices, diction and form, transform the poem into an extended metaphor that highlights the standards of religion which correspond closely to the downfall of society during that time period.
"I am a result," claims Markus Zusak's Death in his novel The Book Thief (Zusak 8). This state of being for the persona commonly seen as malicious and destructive provides a good view of the unique image of Death presented in the novel. Far from the scythe toting, black hooded robe wearing Death of culture's common perception, the Death here is amiable, affable, and agreeable (1). He poses to the readers wishing to find out what he truly looks like to "find [themselves] a mirror" while he continues to narrate the tale. The being here hold much more of a resemblance to a beleaguered old man with an exhaustible deep supply of dry gallows humor. He is not taking joy in the deaths of humanity, or even causing them. He is the result of our dying. Someone (not just something) to clean up the mess we leave behind. And after millenia of witnessing humans at their best and worst, Death has developed a special love for them.
As a child, Hazel Motes is indoctrinated in religious fundamentalism by his grandfather, “a circuit preacher, a waspish old man… with Jesus hidden in his head like a stinger” (9). Time after time young Haze hears the searing sermon of his Bible-thumping grandfather who, in front of a crowd, would point to his grandson, “that mean sinful unthinking boy,” and pronounced him “redeemed”: “That boy had been redeemed and Jesus was not going to leave him ever…. Jesus would have him in the end!” (10). Understanding Jesus as the “soul-hungry” devourer, as “something awful,” the boy very early comes to the conclusion that “the way to avoid Jesus was to avoid sin” and, at the age of twelve, decides to follow the preacher’s calling like his grandfather. Furthermore, Haze’s mother, with “a cross-shaped face” reinforces the fundament- alist piety in her son by equating the boy’s germination sexuality with sin. Her chilling question “what you seen?,” to the shame-faced boy who just had a peek at a naked w...
I stepped into the middle of the road and just stood there, the lights stretching in either direction, glowing in the deep chilly air. I could see my own breath, could feel my own warmth as it formed right there in front of me. Behind me, our house looked dark, faint lingering of I'd walk a million miles, and I wasn't even sure if it was really playing or if I was imagining the familiar, the same way a bright light remain when you close your eyelids, the way I imagine that the sight of an eclipse would burn its image into your eyes forever(pg.
Plot: Woman gets call at work from her father, telling her that her mother is dead. Father never got used to living alone and went into retirement home. Mother is described as very religious, Anglican, who had been saved at the age of 14. Father was also religious and had waited for the mother since he first met her. They did not have sex until marriage and the father was mildly dissapointed that the mother did not have money. Description of the house follows, very high ceilings, old mansion it seems, with chimney stains, it has been let go. Jumps in time to narrators ex-husband making fun of narrator fantasizing about stains. Next paragraph is the father in a retirement home, always referring to things: ‘The lord never intended.’, shows how old people have disdain for new things, the next generation appears to be more and more sacreligious. Shows streak of meanness when ‘spits’ out a reference to constant praying, narrator claims he does not know who he is talking to, but appears to be the very pious mother. Following paragraph jumps back in time to when narrator was a child, she asks her mother constant questions about her white hair and what color it was, mother says she was glad when it wasn’t brown like her fathers anymore, shows high distaste towards her father, the narrators grandfather.
“It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They jeered and sounded mourning notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro, down its whole length, without stopping, without resting. She carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying there she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the glittering circlet.
... call to be His servant. Embedded in Mary’s decision was the full awareness that she would suffer ridicule, contempt, and loneliness.
The Nelly Butler hauntings is referred to as the first recorded ghost story in American history (LiBrizzi 5), and possibly the most exciting hauntings to date as there are still many unsolved mysteries. The apparition appeared on more than 30 separate occasions to over 100 witnesses in Sullivan, Maine, just over fifteen years after the American Revolution (5-6). Although the Nelly Butler apparition is one of the most convincing ghosts of all time, it was subject to suspicions of fraud. These claims turn out to be groundless as the evidence reveals the ghost to be genuine.
At last I arrived, unmolested except for the rain, at the hefty decaying doors of the church. I pushed the door and it obediently opened, then I slid inside closing it surreptitiously behind me. No point in alerting others to my presence. As I turned my shoulder, my gaze was held by the magnificence of the architecture. It never fails to move me. My eyes begin by looking at the ceiling, and then they roam from side to side and finally along the walls drinking in the beauty of the stained glass windows which glowed in the candle light, finally coming to rest on the altar. I slipped into the nearest pew with the intention of saying a few prayers when I noticed him. His eyes were fixated upon me. I stared at the floor, but it was too late, because I was already aware that he wasn’t one of the priests, his clothes were all wrong and his face! It seemed lifeless. I felt so heavy. My eyes didn’t want to obey me. Neither did my legs. Too late I realised the danger! Mesmerised, I fell asleep.
For many years, people have debated whether or not spirits are real. Some people get scared at the fact that there might be something unknown lurking in their house in the middle of the night making their footsteps known to everyone in it. Maybe that person feels watched upon or feel some kind of presence in their home, or even sees shadows moving their way through rooms. Different people around the world have their own opinions based on religion and experiences when talking about angels, demons, and the spirits that have life after death. New technology is getting closer to detecting these energies happening in the world today. The history of haunting dates back many years, and more people want to get involved because of the new technology.
a dull grey colour as if it had lost the will to live and stopped
It felt so dragged out because all I wanted was to see him and tell him the news. Our connection felt different, phone calls were made shorter and they weren’t as frequent. I missed him. Two nights had gone by without a phone call or even a message. This wasn’t typical of Luke. I was becoming increasingly worried. I tried to distract myself from the situation and went to Atlanta to visit my parent’s for the weekend. This provided a distraction from my despair. When I arrived home, the flat fell silent. I sat aimlessly on the sofa, starring at the telephone, hoping that maybe it would ring. I tried turning my television on but I was oblivious to anything around me. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I knew something was wrong. Fifty-five minutes passed, as I stared at the phone. That was when I heard it
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.