I was recently reminiscing whilst I had a few minutes for my mind to wander around dreaming up thoughts and memories. I came across a mementos day I recalled from not so long ago. Just as I was to finish my thought, the telephone rang like a baby shrieking in its cradle. As my sisters voice came blaring through the receiver, she was clearly in no mood for recalling past fun. Her questions came all at once about washing powder. Something clearly a student studying medicine couldn’t make sense of. After she’d abruptly finished ‘her’ conversation I was back to thinking of the sights and smells of London city.
The particular event I was recollecting was that of the past summer. The OXO tower South bank London, its not that well known amongst others so when I recalled the lavish event, my friends looked, stared and I’d wondered if in a hurry to get it all out I’d said completely the wrong thing? The weekend was to be celebrating my sisters birthday and it was more of a nonchalant couple of days than usual; my weekends are typically somewhat industrious with toing’s and froing’s between league hockey and work, as John Lennon once said “Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans”. As the event of turning 18 was that of a rarity it was going to have to be celebrated in style. From the OXO tower one would expect no less than perfection so to no surprise yet all delight we were served champagne and canapés upon arrival, and shown to our table. Secrets was the main theme as later my auntie and uncle arrived to join the celebrations and too see family really made the day what it was and what I think made me remember it. The food flavoursome and if I think hard the main course I can still taste now!
The sun was glorio...
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...ctly shaped spheres of lemon sorbet with a base of crumbled digestives. The lemons so yellow and the bowl as white as a sheet of paper reminded me of a perfect daisy shining forth from the bland backdrop. The perfect taste and outstanding presentation just reassured me of the chefs excellent artistic style, and culinary skills. The fabulous food brought back memories of visiting Ray MtBlancs restaurant when the food was similar in presentation, yet completely different in taste but no less incredible.
We left late at night with the lights of London twinkling almost ablaze with fluorescent flashes all around. The night was warm and glowing with eerie shadows with details unknown. As I sliped away from the main streets the air grew cold and damp with a cooling breeze. As I made my way home I was left to reflect on the thoughts of the memorable day that had just past.
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.
Where are the memories of our pasts held? In scrapbooks full of photographs, or perhaps written on the pages of a locked diary? Picture though, something as simple and ordinary as a closet full of clothes. Think about its contents, where they have been worn, what they have been through, the stories attached to each item. The nameless protagonist of Diane Schoemperlen’s short story Red Plaid Shirt does this as she recalls a snippet of her past life with each article of clothing she picks up. Red plaid shirt, blue sweatshirt, brown cashmere sweater, yellow evening gown, black leather jacket…each item has a tale of its very own, and when combined they reveal the full story of the main character’s life.
When the day came to leave I was woken at the crack of dawn. I was keen to get to Blackpool as swiftly as possible, not only for the football that was ahead of us but also for the famous Pleasure Beach. The coach picked us up at around 8 am and in we crammed into an already full coach. The journey down was full of laughter and friendly joking from the parents. That day, it was particularly hot and inside the coach a number of people were becoming uncomfortable. I was unaffected by the warmth inside the coach, with my earphones in I relaxed and paid more attention to the vast countryside we were passing through. The vivid scenery blew me away, with colossal hills to calm rivers that we met on the journey.
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.
this morning. Conan Doyle creates a mysterious atmosphere. London is a perfect... ... middle of paper ... ...helps to create the sense of another presence on the Moor.
As I walked through the door of the funeral home, the floral arrangements blurred into a sea of vivid colors. Wiping away my tears, I headed over to the collage of photographs of my grandfather. His smile seemed to transcend the image on the pictures, and for a moment, I could almost hear his laughter and see his eyes dancing as they tended to do when he told one of his famous jokes. My eyes scanned the old photographs, searching for myself amidst the images. They came to rest on a photo of Grandpa holding me in his lap when I was probably no more than four years old. The flowers surrounding me once again blended into an array of hues as I let my mind wander……
The story of my history as a writer is a very long one. My writing has come full circle. I have changed very much throughout the years, both as I grew older and as I discovered more aspects of my own personality. The growth that I see when I look back is incredible, and it all seems to revolve around my emotions. I have always been a very emotional girl who feels things keenly. All of my truly memorable writing, looking back, has come from experiences that struck a chord with my developing self. This assignment has opened my eyes, despite my initial difficulty in writing it. When I was asked to write down my earliest memory of writing, at first I drew a blank. All of a sudden, it became very clear to me, probably because it had some childhood trauma associated with it.
Standing on the balcony, I gazed at the darkened and starry sky above. Silence surrounded me as I took a glimpse at the deserted park before me. Memories bombarded my mind. As a young girl, the park was my favourite place to go. One cold winter’s night just like tonight as I looked upon the dark sky, I had decided to go for a walk. Wrapped up in my elegant scarlet red winter coat with gleaming black buttons descending down the front keeping away the winter chill. Wearing thick leggings as black as coal, leather boots lined with fur which kept my feet cozy.
We all remember these grey gloomy days filled with a feeling of despair that saddens the heart from top to bottom. Even though, there may be joy in one’s heart, the atmosphere turns the soul cold and inert. Autumn is the nest of this particular type of days despite its hidden beauty. The sun seems foreign, and the nights are darker than usual enveloped by a thrill that generates chills to travel through the spine leaving you with a feeling of insecurity. Nevertheless, the thinnest of light will always shine through the deepest darkness; in fact, darkness amplifies the beauty and intensity of a sparkle. There I found myself trapped within the four walls of my house, all alone, surrounded by the viscosity of this type of day. I could hear some horrifying voices going through my mind led by unappealing suicidal thought. Boredom had me encaged, completely at its mercy. I needed to go far away, and escape from this morbid house which was wearing me down to the grave. Hope was purely what I was seeking in the middle of the city. Outside, the air was heavy. No beautifully rounded clouds, nor sunrays where available to be admired through the thick grey coat formed by the mist embedded in the streets. Though, I felt quite relieved to notice that I was not alone to feel that emptiness inside myself as I was trying to engage merchant who shown similar “symptoms” of my condition. The atmosphere definitely had a contagious effect spreading through the hearts of every pedestrian that day. Very quickly, what seemed to be comforting me at first, turned out to be deepening me in solitude. In the city park, walking ahead of me, I saw a little boy who had long hair attached with a black bandana.
The poems ‘lines composed on Westminster Bridge’ and ‘London’ are created by William Wordsworth and William Blake respectively. Wordsworth’s work originated in the eighteenth century and he himself lived in the countryside, and rarely visited large cities such as London. This is reflected on his poem, making it personal to his experience in London, however William Blake on the other hand had a vast knowledge of London and was actually a London poet, which allowed him to express his views of London from a Londoner’s point of view. I therefore will be examining comparisons in both poems, as well as their contrasting views of London and the poetic devices used to express their opinions.
The shrill cries of my alarm echo across vermilion painted walls, stirring my consciousness into an aware state. It is precisely eight o’clock on a warm summer Monday; the distant cries of mockingbirds can be heard above the soft whirring of cars passing our genteel residential street. My ears scan the house; it is quiet – barely a sound other than the tinkling of tags as our pets navigate the living room. The still morning air brought realization, with no children running around Mother must have already left for work. Never leaving my lax position I stretch and sigh, it is nice to not have to baby-sit my sister’s kids – my nieces and nephew – but I do miss the mornings where my mother would still kiss me goodbye.
It was a day of eager anticipation. It was a day of last-minute planning. It was the day before my fourteenth birthday. I had been looking forward to the party for at least two months. Everything was accounted for: balloons, Super Soakers, and music. There would be a barbeque of magnificent proportions. Miraculously, everyone had read the RSVP deadline and called in a week ahead of schedule. An enormous ice cream cake was to be delivered with eight large pepperoni pizzas. Needless to say, I was excited. It was to be my first party at our new house. I helped cook the enormous array of snack foods. I eventually surrendered to the temptation and stole a few strips of marinated steak when my mom wasn't looking. I had gone to bed that night with dreams of family, friends, and possibly a new stereo system.
...ernoon sun. London could be seen far o ff in the distance, reminding me that it would soon be time for me to return to the busy, crowded city. I made my way to a paved road which led from High Beech to State, and then caught a ride with a pickup to Harrisburg. The time had come for me to leave this quiet and peaceful place.
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.
During this specific night, an army of mysterious, murky clouds seized control of divine sky, devouring the sun. Favored by the troops, the moon, displaying its glorious luminescence upon a shadowy city, wins a triumphant victory over the sun. A ferocious leader of the army activates the withdrawal then leads dedicated soldiers to west as if they are tracking down a wild dog. On the other hand, the city transmits its vivid and righteous illuminations back to the sky to let people in the “second floor” know that “era of tranquility” began. Imagine the astonishing night, rigid and bright buildings lie elegantly on the moonlight sky, bring lights gaze from the thousands of bulbs. It is beautiful, yet no one knows what beauty is upon them.