The piercing blare of the alarm clock was enough to wake the dead. Nicholas jolts out of his slumber, his face inches away from the source of the noise. Groggily, he lifts a hand to smack the snooze button, but in doing so misses, the clock tumbling off the nightstand. It clatters to the hardwood floor, skidding a few feet before it is stopped by its own power cord. That it was still intact after its fall was a testament to the sadism of the person who'd created it. The slap earlier had turned off the alarm, but unfortunately, had turned on the radio instead. " - still baffled by the seismic activity, calling it unprecedented, officials are warning everyone to st-" "Turn that thing off!" A muffled, feminine cry comes from the other side of …show more content…
"If you're late, don't beg me to take you to school, brat." Finally left alone, Nicholas shuffles into his bathroom, still trying to wake up. Turning on the water inside, he simply climbs into the shower, the cold water immediately snapping him fully conscious. He shudders and leans in to move the water temperature higher, hoping it'll make the water warmer faster. It does the trick, but the temperature quickly rises to boiling lava hot. With a startled yelp, he quickly regulates it to something that won't feel like he's melting his skin from his bones. Once done showering, he jumps out and wraps himself in a towel, walking back into his bedroom. Nicholas's room isn't particularly large, but it's big enough that he has some privacy. A twin bed, a desk with a single chair, and a dresser take up most of the floor space, with the only other doors linked to his bathroom and his closet. The walls, painted a sky blue, are the leftovers from his childhood. If one were to look closely, they could see the remnants of what used to be fluffy white clouds painted over. A single window looks out over the backyard. Through it, Nicholas can see the nearby retention pond, just in view of a sign buried in the ground that warns people not to swim in
All of a sudden a sharp, loud noise woke up the dead. He unsteadily reached out and stuck the sleep button. As he dozed back off into his sleepy bliss. He rolled over gently pulling the blanket back over his head, drowning out the morning light.
The window was cold to the touch. The glass shimmered as the specks of sunlight danced, and Blake stood, peering out. As God put his head to the window, at once, he felt light shining through his soul. Six years old. Age ceased to define him and time ceased to exist. Silence seeped into every crevice of the room, and slowly, as the awe of the vision engulfed him, he felt the gates slowly open. His thoughts grew fluid, unrestrained, and almost chaotic. An untouched imagination had been liberated, and soon, the world around him transformed into one of magnificence and wonder. His childish naivety cloaked the flaws and turbulence of London, and the imagination became, to Blake, the body of God. The darkness lingering in the corners of London slowly became light. Years passed by, slowly fading into wisps of the past, and the blanket of innocence deteriorated as reality blurred the clarity of childhood.
Nicholas had come up with a plan. Nicholas told Alison to tell John that he was ill and lay in his room until the carpenter sent his slave to check on Nicholas’s health. The slave saw Nicholas’s eyes gaping upward as if possessed and called the carpenter, who panicked and attributed Nicholas’ state to his profession in astrology. John thought Nicholas had seen the secrets of God and gone mad. John ordered his slave to wake Nicholas from his trance.
The clock serves as more than just a decorative element, it “is the relentlessly paralyzing reminder of ‘the Time that flies…’” (Freedman 238). Poe’s repeated mention of the clock and its chimes creates a level of anticipation and anxiety that must mirror what the partygoers are feeling as they are left unable to ignore the fact that time is passing and death is growing nearer. No matter how much wealth or luck these people may have had, they are not above dying. While the partygoers may try to “avoid the black and blood-tinted chamber, the echoes of the clock resound throughout the abbey” and leave each of them with a feeling of uneasiness as they are pulled back to reality (Freedman 238). While the prospect of people dying beyond the walls seemed not to weigh heavily among the party guests, “the chimes of the clock” made even the “giddiest [grow] pale” (Poe 439). The inclusion and repetition of such details as the partygoers’ reactions towards each of the clock’s hourly chimes show that they are finally, though unwillingly, beginning to acknowledge the finality of the death that awaits them. However, whenever the clock’s “sound fades, [the partygoers]
You spy with your possibly (or-possibly-not-so) little eye, a YOUNG MAN who happens to be asleep at the moment. The CLOCK that stands next to this man’s bed has just struck twelve, though whether it’s the night or the afternoon, the clock doesn’t bother with. It’s job is simply to tell the time and it feels that it’s doing that just fine enough for now. But the beams of sunlight shining through the window solve this problem for you. This young man should’ve been awake hours ago, it seems.
“At this time in my life I lived in a very old town house, where I often heard unexplainable noises in the attic. One night, when I was about 11, my parents went out to a party, leaving me all alone. The night was stormy, with crashes of lightening and thunder outside. Having nothing to do, I fell asleep after eating too much ice cream. All of a sudden, my alarm clock goes off in the middle of the night, reading 3 o’clock. I’m wondering why ...
On a cold windy night, the sound of bombs dropping echoed not too far away. Ahmad was laying down thinking about his life. He contemplated his existence by asking himself questions. Is his life worth it? Is staying in the country worth risking his life?
“Are you sure I can’t just transfer schools?”. A question I had asked a billion times over. “100%. I promise you, you will be okay”. My mom rubbed my back as my head dropped onto the cold kitchen counter. I didn’t want to hear that I would be okay. I wanted them to let me have my way. “You’re in your last year what difference would it make”. My brother joined the conversation as if someone had asked. I rolled my eyes, letting him know his opinion was being recognized and very neatly filed in the trash bin in my brain. I made my way to my bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, burying my face into the pillow. My parents were right, I could handle it. I just didn’t want to.
"Time to get up, time to get up, let’s go let’s go,” yelled my nine-year-old cousin Kevin as he pulls off my warm blanket. The harsh cold of the Wisconsin Cabin wakes my 10 year old body up instantly. On any other day I would unleashed a fury of strikes to his chest that would leave him gasping for air, but on this occasion I gave him a pass. I leapt off of the top bunk bed with a grace and agility that is second only to members of the cat family. The cabin’s filled with radiant hues of red and orange from the dawning sun. The savory smell of honey glazed ham filled my lungs and my mouth began to water. Food is the last thing on my mind. My job was to assist my cousins with the daunting task of waking every single person in our 9 room cabin rental. It’s Christmas, but it won’t officially begin until EVERYONE’S present.
It was six in the morning on a summer Sunday and Percival woke. No matter how much he wanted to sleep in, it never happened. Like clockwork, his eyes opened at the same time every morning, rain or shine, summer or winter, regardless of what time he’d gone to bed the previous night. He had grown used to it, and tried his best to get to bed early.
Similar to any other day, the decaying, dark town of Bodie silently stood still, muted of any kind of significant sound but the powerful winds that violently shook from day till dusk. Thick, foggy, clouds lurked over the impoverished lands, and ever so slowly made their way to the dull skies. Somehow, all of what was once here, was lost. This deserted town had no hope left. Murky pathways, deprived of water, cracked and broke, as they would slowly rot away as all the remaining moisture in the broad, burning air evaporated, swallowed by the wandering clouds above.
But, it's so tempting, why get a little when I could get a lot? I weave back and forth picking up speed need to go one direction or the other. Left lane. Right lane. Left lane.
“Oh my! I’ll call the exterminator first thing in the morning, dear. How awful that that happened to you!” Mrs. Ketchens stood on her stoop and made a sour face at her visitor. “It’s really, OK, Mrs. Ketchens.
There I was sitting at the coffee shop on the corner of First Street and Washington. It was a rainy and gloomy day, but I was beyond excited to get the inside scoop as to what began the Sunday at Noon journey. As I was sitting there with two coffees on the table a man approached me. To me he looked in his twenties but when he spoke I was taken back the man exclaimed, “Is that for me?” drawn back, I didn’t recognize him but the comical man that approached me was Jack Vanderpol!
Creative Writing Draft: The constant and persistent tapping of my thumbs making contact with the glass, became the only sound that I could register, as my mind was slowly falling into the digital world of virtual reality and social media. My thoughts were occupied with the heavy task of figuring out a likeable, socially acceptable caption for my latest Instagram picture. My fingers smoothly and naturally glided across the screen, like it was second nature. My eyebrows were stiffly drawn together, over the slits of my eyes that were zoned in on the device in front of me.