A violent shiver convulsed me back to life as I was dragged back from the perilous gates of the invisible choir. All that time, I wanted a better life. I screamed, but to no avail. Just awoken, I felt inclined to sleep…like my legs and arms were fastened to the hospital bed with ligatures restraining me. (I conjectured) My breathing spasm finally came to a cessation the moment my consciousness began to take shine. I saw blurred images which I perceived it to be the fan spinning at terminal velocity but in the posture that I laid, I could only conjecture that it must have cause the shiver. In great uneasiness, I cried out in a shrill voice something incomprehensible just to see if I’m still dreaming. That was when I realize I was as dependable …show more content…
The gleaming glass grilling at the door was dripping with water. It hung on the few threads of hinges, groaning with pain at every sway. As I pushed the door open, I braced myself for the worst of humanity; the area was too wet; not even the sun’s enigmatic smile could keep me from the haunting fear of solidity and sinister loneliness. Water droplets vaguely sang a tune on the roofs and puddles all around me like the aftermath of a dreadfire with invisible multitude. The windows were sprinkled with moist grass and sand. The droll dead voice of the dying wind cried out an admonishing tone as though its mocking spirit within has lost its assurance. The streets outside were damped in all manners possible; the only pavements left were the trail that I blazed. Clouds of drifting rubbles glide above buildings in the suburbs turning it into ravaging images served to me in a silver platter and devouring my thoughts into a stupor. The final raindrops ignite powerfully on my face. As I made my way up the road to a more habitable area, I saw the ubiquitous unfurling of the Malaysian flag telegraphing anguish and resolve; raised by the wreckage of WWII and all the old glories liberated by the wind and the building’s statues saluting as virtues of patriot. Weeds socialize across the cracking asphalt of every road. It was a city that will never falter by nature, yield with strength and fail to amuse. The tormented brown earth below me were ripped apart and secreted the acrid scent of a shattered soul piercing into the very recesses of my conscience. I came across a wretched hometown. There was a blunt adenoidal voice that emitted nothing but throbbing silence in between her disdaining and discontent words. They were pouring out of her mouth like a gushing current in the ocean; the notions of her being present was like indulging in false hopping because we both know that there isn’t any life
The night was tempestuous and my emotions were subtle, like the flame upon a torch. They blew out at the same time that my sense of tranquility dispersed, as if the winds had simply come and gone. The shrill scream of a young girl ricocheted off the walls and for a few brief seconds, it was the only sound that I could hear. It was then that the waves of turmoil commenced to crash upon me. It seemed as though every last one of my senses were succumbed to disperse from my reach completely. As everything blurred, I could just barely make out the slam of a door from somewhere alongside me and soon, the only thing that was left in its place was an ominous silence.
The warmth of the sheer rays from the sun wake Montag. His eyes slowly open and it takes his body a minute to get adjusted to his surroundings. He can feel the coarse grass on his face as he lies motionless in an unfamiliar place. His muscles begin to contract and he moves around in the grass. As he becomes more consciously aware, the peace and serenity that he was feeling fades away, and reality sinks in. The memories of the murder of Beatty, the friendship with Faber, the nonexistent love with Mildred, and the obliteration of his city all flood his brain. There he lies fully aware but motionless and numb to the world. His memories
It was a dream fall, my body languid and fastidious as to where to land, until the floor became impatient and smashed up to meet me. A moment later I came to. An hypnotic voice said FIVE emphatically. And I lay there, hazily watching a dark red spot of my own blood shaping itself into a butterfly, glistening and soaking into the soiled gray world of the canvas” (Ellison 25).
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
The hot, sticky May air wrapped its grimy hands around my neck and choked me as I ran towards the nurse’s house. My bare feet were sanded down with every slap against the pavement. The neighborhood I’ve lived in for years was suddenly a Kafkaesque maze: every house stretched in and out of proportion, the driveways led to no homes, the welcome mats portrayed a foreboding message- and yet I kept running under the direction of some unseen marionettist who pulled my strings at his whim. He yanked, and my arm jerked up to rap on the door.
Dew still dripped from the grass and from the rising sun, long shadows radiated a calming feeling through my room. I rose and began preparing for school, but before long a shrill, harsh voice broke the peace of the tranquil morning. I rushed to my window and gently pressed my ear to it. The voices became clearer. “What.
Under a green sea I saw him drowning.” The death and distress is shown and the harsh actuality of war uncovered. The sand is uncovered. It is almost as though you are reliving the agony of the man. is suffering.
As I traverse the overgrown meadow, the impressible soil sticks to my worn shoes. It is dark, chalky, and alluvial. From it, life has flourished, unhindered by barriers of concrete and asphalt. The grass is coarse, and high reaching; the spruce trees tower solemnly. They are sentinels, guarding the ravine from the commotion of the city. They offer protection from any unwelcome reminders of the pandemonium and instability that await me upon my return to civilization. Beyond the ravine is an endless mixture of harsh, discordant noise. There is a steady sprawl of vehicles, construction sites, and sirens. Cement and rebar dominate the landscape. Everywhere, people hurry frantically, impatiently, overwhelmingly – all in an attempt to fulfill their
I peered around through the rain, desperately searching for some shelter, I was drowning out here. The trouble was, I wasn’t in the best part of town, and in fact it was more than a little dodgy. I know this is my home turf but even I had to be careful. At least I seemed to be the only one out here on such an awful night. The rain was so powerfully loud I couldn’t hear should anyone try and creep up on me. I also couldn’t see very far with the rain so heavy and of course there were no street lights, they’d been broken long ago. The one place I knew I could safely enter was the church, so I dashed.
The Prince had become even more infatuated, and Cinderella in turn became so enchanted by him she lost track of time and left only at the final stroke of midnight, losing one of her glass slippers on the steps of the palace in her haste. Sweeping the floor, the Victor the castle janitor saw the glass slipper and quickly grabbed it before the prince came down the stairs. '' Maybe I could tell the prince about this glass slipper and tell him that the glass slipper was to that very young beautiful lady that just transformed her self into a country girl, very weird'' he thought. ''
Blurs of trees, bleached by a dash of December’s flurries, rush past my window at 74 miles per hour on Carroll road; Harsh late-day sun refracts off of the condensation, packed into down pillows cradled by asphalt. I am being smothered by the whiteness. “Can we go home, Mom?” This isn’t my voice. In fact, it’s a whimper that squirmed its way past my consciousness, belonging to maybe a nine or ten year old self.
During the intensely hot summer of 1825, I experienced an attack of this affliction. Immediately after dining, I threw myself on my back upon a sofa, and, before I was aware was seized with difficult respiration, extreme dread, and the utter incapability of motion or speech. I could neither move nor cry, while the breath came from my chest in broken and suffocating paroxysms. During all this time I was perfectly awake; I saw the light glaring in the windows in broad sultry streams; I felt the intense heat of the day pervading my frame; and heard distinctly the different noises in the street, and even the ticking of my own watch, which I had placed on the cushion beside me; I had at the same time, the consciousness of flie...
“How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts? And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our account, to reminds us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others but – mainly – to ourselves” (Barnes 100). This excerpt from The Sense of an Ending serves as a mirror for Tony as he reflects on his augmented memories.
My childhood was a playground for imagination. Joyous nights were spent surrounded by family at my home in Brooklyn, NY. The constantly shaded red bricks of my family’s unattached town house located on West Street in Gravesend, a mere hop away from the beach and a short walk to the commotion of Brooklyn’s various commercial areas. In the winter, all the houses looked alike, rigid and militant, like red-faced old generals with icicles hanging from their moustaches. One townhouse after the other lined the streets in strict parallel formation, block after block, interrupted only by my home, whose fortunate zoning provided for a uniquely situa...
Suddenly I awake at the noise of sirens and people yelling my name. Where am I? Those words radiate out my thoughts but never touching my lips. Panic engulfs me, but I am restricted to the stretcher. “Are you ok?” said the paramedic. I am dazed, confused, and barely aware of my surroundings. Again “Yes, I am fine” races from my thoughts down to my mouth, but nothing was heard. Then, there was darkness.