In the grey morning, he heard singing. The melodies and harmonies woke him up from his deep slumber, creeping into the small cottage through the bedroom window. He rose to his elbows and listened intently; it wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t soft, either. It was like a missed lover come home, calling to him, missing him. His thoughts flew to the girl that occupied his bed with him the night before, and called out her name. He waited for an answer and got none. Sighing, he rose from the bed and put on his day’s clothes: a faded cotton shirt, dark pants, and boots. A lowly underpaid fisherman, he was, and he lamented the moment he opened his blue eyes to the dreary morning that came each day. It was a dank job, with no purpose at all, barely enough wages to keep his pathetic little dwelling up to par with the rest. It caused a riff in his life: the girl he loved was barely there, snaking around bars as a maid, scraping up a few pennies here and there. [i]Just to help[/i], she insisted time and time again as she kissed his lips in the morning, when he was actually awake, and ducked out. The singing grew more insistent at that moment, and a great urge to follow it and find the source was gnawing at his gut. He finished up, running a hand through his flaxen hair as he shut the door behind him. And it continued, the singing, as it brought him down to the bluffs that the cottage overlooked, where small caves lingered. It was frosty out and he shivered as he trekked down, wetting his boots and the knees of his pants in the small water ways that dotted the seaside and leaked into the caves. He cursed his rotten luck momentarily. And suddenly, the singing was right in front of him, in the cave. Cautiously, he went in, afraid of what h... ... middle of paper ... ...ough…I must ask something of you, Nicholas.” He worried about what she might ask of him, but curious and skeptical, he said, “Go on.” “Meet me in the caves by the bluffs in three days,” she said, giving him another grin before reaching up to kiss him again. This time he let her, and he was disappointed when she pulled back. She put her cold, wet hand to his cheek again and whispered, “Don’t make me wait.” With that, she turned and swam off. Suddenly, he snapped out of his momentary trance and began to holler after her, “Wait! Natasha, why—“ Then he stopped. In the grey light, glittering in the overcast sun, Nicholas watched, astonished, as Natasha stopped in the vast ocean and, from behind her, a pink tail rose from the water. It was as if she felt his shock and blew him a kiss; then she dove deep into the water and didn’t rise again, leaving him in the cold.
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It was a warm sunny day in the summer of the nineteen nighties nine, at the Jersey Shore. Sally stood outside her grandparents ' house with hesitation. Should Juan and I have come? Sally thinks to herself. Sally then begins to gaze out at the ocean 's shorelines. As if time had stood still and the world faded away. She closed her eyes and took it all in. It made her think of all the wonderful childhood memories that they had achieved there. Sally remembered playing in the sand, swimming in the ocean, the bright sun gazing down upon her and a boy. This place had memories that Sally would never forget and treasure forever, for that kid now a man was always in her heart and her life.
It is a typical Saturday morning. The sunlight shines brightly through my window, reflecting a piece of light onto my adorable white quilt. The piece of light danced around and morphed into different shapes which decorate my white quilt. It is this quilt which opens its arms to protect me from the cold every night. The sizzling sound of sausages accompanied by the clinking of glasses from the kitchen plays a lovely melody into my ears, telling me mum is cooking breakfast.
I knew I had messed up. I had never seen Tamaki so angry with me, and it was because I was so blinded by resentment to see what was really going on. He was in the wrong, too, though. He shouldn’t have gone behind my back. I refused to apologize until he realized he was just as wrong as me.
The journey begins on the heels of “Wind,” which lays the foundation for this spirit to rise, really, from the routine activity of a night at dinner—akin to the way an idea just hits the writer, and lingers until it has been completed. On this foundation, the spirit begins to move, with the driving vowel sounds of, “This evening rough winds blow the surface of the river,” and, “...all that answered / the water’s slow passing was the swish of wildflowers / in the long prairie grasses.”
Imagining, my mind wandering from thought to thought. Sleep was more descending when a sound, a whispering hiss woke me from my trance. A gust of air drifted by, blowing a wisp of hair across my face, and the door creaked. Watching, I expected the door to close, as it always does. It opened, at a steady slow rate. A shadow lay across the floor, broken by the branches against the moonlight
There were soft noises—sweet, like quiet steps against gravel; soft like the sound sand makes as the breeze pushes it back a little. Natural sounds were all around me, and they were thinking too. I got chills, and they were not from the wind. The soft sounds reminded me of fall and how coloured leaves silently fall to their slow death. The sounds reminded me of peace.
The next morning, Lilly woke before the sun. She sat in bed next to her mother willing her to wake up. Eager to swim, she eventually removed the blankets from Tara’s face and poked her cheek with a chubby finger. Each poke became a little harder until Tara lifted her head. “What’s going on?”
Waking up on Johnny’s chest with his arms around her felt amazing. She remembered last night, the way they cried and apologized and when he got on one knee. She sat up trying not to wake him but it didn’t work. His eyes fluttered open and he smiled up at her. She couldn’t help but smile and lean down to give him a kiss.
“You’re going to be late for school Brian” Shona called from the bottom of the stairs. “God what is it with this boy and his sleep” she mumbled to herself as she walked back to the kitchen. The wallpaper was beginning to peel off and the cupboard doors were uneven, all the mechanical devices had gone rusty and wouldn’t work unless you hit it or something. “This kitchen needs to be changed from head to toe” she groaned while trying to stick the bread in the toast machine, “I know love, but you know how things are at work right now” he said as he lifted his head from the Monday paper. “At the moment? For Christ sake Artemis, things have always been like this at your work, can’t you ask for a pay rise? You work a lot you know.” She suggested. It was true he did work hard, harder than all of the other workers actually. “You know I can’t, I asked for one last month, I can’t ask again that would just be down right rude.”
The sun rises behind the backdrop of the trees. Shining through the window with a blinding glare. The birds are chirping. The crows are cawing. A man in his mid-20’s lays in his bed in a mystical gaze at a woman in which he doesn’t know her name. But in his mind she is the most beautiful woman alive.
My subject reported that she had been writing stories since early childhood. When she lived in South Korea, she created short stories in English. After moving back to Russia in 2003, she joined a literature club where a university Creative Writing teacher assisted her and other children to compose stories in Russian. The participants were given two weeks to write a story, which they later discussed with their peers in class and made some suggestions for improvement. The story could be on any topic. After the in-class discussion, the teacher collected their writings, commented on them, and returned them back to the participants for revision. There were no grades in this class since its purpose was to help young writers to find their own voices and styles in writing rather than to assess their work. Anastasia enjoyed these meetings and wrote prolifically. Her writing in English at that time was represented by fanfiction based on Harry Potter series.
A scream passing through an open window at the edge of town rattles the settled sounds of a night tucked in, the filtering whispers of leaves outside in the breeze interrupted, yielding to the call of a helpless exater protected by sound walls; only the nearby creek persists. Call of crickets resign under full moon, and hill-riding wind halts for a moment following the cry. Slowly, the leaves begin to whisper again, though slightly muffled, offset by the impression of a scream when it was the last thing on the night’s mind.