Leaky Faucet
Dink — dink — dink — dink.
The faucet in my kitchen was leaking water and stopping it was growing more difficult. The drips first came in thirty-second intervals, then faster, until the water became a steady stream of drips. When sitting on the sofa, my favorite spot to watch TV, I could hear the sound of the water hitting the steel sink. As the frequency of the drops increased, so did my frustration.
Each time I used the faucet there was a battle to stop the drip. Once I stopped the leak, I would declared myself the victor. I thought I conquered my foe. Gone was the noise, no longer would it torture my nerves. Or so I thought. Like cancer, the noise would return, tiny droplets crashing down upon the sink like boulders.
This interminable
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When the night was as silent as death and my wife and children slept in peace, the sound returned again. Teasing at first, soft and distant, muffled, increasing in volume and clarity, taunting me. Dink — dink — dink — dink. Is there no peace? Will it ever stop? As hard as I tried, the dripping sound always returned, faster, stronger, LOUDER! Peace was proving to be ephemeral. The next morning, I walked down the street to my landlord’s house and asked if she would send her handyman around. Every other time we needed him, he showed up within an hour or two, problem solved. Alas, it was the Thai New Year and he was on a hard whiskey ride and would not return for several days. I would need to fix the leaky faucet myself or wait for the landlord’s backup handyman. He too was on the whiskey. The sound grew sharper and more distinct. I could take it no longer. I cursed the sink the faucet, the house, and everything inside it. Then I walked outside to the front of my house, sat on a chair, propped my feet up and began contemplating the meaning of life. April is a stupid time for a new year. Thailand should have their new year in January, like most other …show more content…
Had she informed me she was going up on the roof to do a repair, I would have handled the matter my way, I would have paid someone to patch the hole. For weeks after repairing the roof, she felt the need to remind me not to shirk my household duties. As head lion and the man of the house, I was under the impression I had none. She climbed out from under the sink, mumbling under her breath as she walked away. I seized the opportunity and opened the cabinet beneath the sink to look for the shutoff valve. No luck. I followed the hose under the sink out through the side of the cabinet and lo and behold, right next to our refrigerator and up against the wall, was a goo-covered, red plastic shutoff valve. The thick gunk had dried and locked the valve in place. Not wanting to break the valve and cause a flood, I sent the wife out front to shut off the main water valve. Using my trusty Swiss Army knife, I sliced through the crud and peeled it away until the valve moved. I cut through the thick, plastic packaging, removed the faucet and placed it on the counter. Mrs. Fix-it came back with her rusty needle-nose pliers and a determined look on her face. “Move,” she said. Before I could say a word, she grabbed the faucet and was pushing it up through the hole in the counter. I took hold of the faucet and attempted to pull it into place. It didn’t fit. Without first removing the nut, the faucet would never fit. I heard a grunt and my wife rose from
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.
So far this year, I felt pretty satisfied with my progress this semester. I feel like I am slowly adapting to the new way papers and assignments are handled. All my college work depends solely on me now. No one is going to baby me anymore and whether I succeed or fail depends on how much effort I put into something. For the first time in my life I wrote a paper. Not just a five paragraph essay but actual pages, which is extremely challenging. It’s also been my first time studying for five hours straight so I can pass an actual test. I didn’t know I possessed this level of dedication, it’s probably because it isn’t free.
My relationship with writing has been much like roller coaster.Some experiences I had no control over. Other experiences were more influential. Ultimately it wasn’t until I started reading not because I had to read but because I wanted to, that's when my relationship reached change. I would have probably never cared about writing as I do today if it weren't for the critics in my family. When I was a child, my aunts and uncles always been in competition with who's child is better in school. I have always hated reading and writing because of the pressure to prove my family wrong was overwhelming for me. I had to prove them wrong and show them that I was capable of being "smart" which according to them was getting straight A's in all your classes.
Today was one more of those average days. Saving the world, climbing big ben and snooping around Buckingham Palace. I don’t understand why everyone underestimates me. For all they know I could be putting myself in mortal danger. My headquarters is on the corner of Clapham Junction. I
My literacy journey began long before I had actually learned how to read or write. While recently going through baby pictures with my mother, we came across a photo of my father and I book shopping on the Logos boat, a boat that would come to my island every year that was filled with books for our purchasing. Upon looking at this picture, my mother was quite nostalgic and explained how they began my journey to literacy through experiences like this. My earliest memory of experiencing literature was as a small child. My parents would read bedtime stories to me each night before I went to bed. I vividly remember us sitting on the bed together with this big book of “365 bedtime stories for 365 days” and we read one story each day until we had
Late December 2015 was, at the time, the worst month for me. It was around 8'o clock in the evening, the sun had set and the moon has risen to its’ fullest. I could smell the sweet aroma from the kitchen. I walked passed and into the living room, which was messy from all of our christmas decor. My mom yelled down the hall to my brothers.
Writing has incessantly been a struggle throughout my short life. Within writing, everyone possesses the entirety of tools needed to produce greatness, but many lack in the manufacturing of the product. You may have the greatest ideas for novels and short stories, though be unable to truly express yourself within the confines of only words. This precise issue faces me on a daily basis. All these exceptional visions spinning in my mind, yet I have not been able to master the art of putting these visions onto paper. However, I do admit I have grown as a writer over this single semester, and have major goals set for myself, not only as a writer but also in my career field.
All begin with the title and the first paragraph. I have to make sure that my first paragraph and title are not generic, this is a key factor to understand what my essay is about. I had to improve my writing style to be eye-catching, to make it easy to understand. The introduction of the thesis is the clickbait of my assignment; it has to be clear and focus and reach the reader.
You sneeze. Geez! This place is getting on your nerves, that is, if they won’t freeze. Sans was walking next to you, helping you out as you go. There’s been monsters coming at you left and right, and he’s always seemed so nervous about how you ‘FIGHT’ or rather ‘ACT’. It’s kinda weird. Like he was expecting you to do something else. He’s been really weird about everything, actually. He even keeps calling you ‘Frisk’ by accident. You would correct him, but now you’ve learned to respond to the name. All in all, he tries to hide everything with a pun or two, but there’s something off about him, and you dare say that you were going to get to the bottom of it.
I really haven't been writing this years at all but i've been writing on some journal entries that ask me all different questions on different stuff. Only reason why is because i haven't really been there for the writing because i came to the school almost beginning of april and since then we haven't really wrote anything and i just got suspended like 2 weeks ago and so ya i really haven't been there for nothing.
I am not the kind of person who talks or writes much. Putting my thoughts on papers is something I have always struggled with doing. I believe this class will help me improve on transferring my thoughts to paper, in an organized fashion. I look forward to becoming a better writer because of this class.
This course has taught me many things about writing and also a lot about confidence in my own skill as a writer. I was not looking forward to this class in the beginning of this semester, but I am really glad that I took it. It has been a great learning experience to take this class.
I step into the hall of my home in Chicago, Illinois, and into the kitchen. Rain cascades down the windowpane, such has been the case for much of Novmber. There is a plate of spaghetti Bolognese waiting right on the counter for me. I heat it up, and take it to my study, letting the aroma waft right past my nose. Turning on the stereo, I settle back in my leather, over-cushioned armchair with a long, relaxed sigh. The stereo always starts on Classic Rock radio station. Hard rock, that’s what I love best. I open the Wall Street Journal, sub-consciously listening to the music in the background. Bliss.
Reading and writing have been and always will be a part of my life. At a very young age I used to love the both of them. I would write stories about monsters and fantasy worlds and I would read about them too. Slowly as I grew older my ability to write so creatively just withered away. Writing soon became only for school purposes. My love for reading continued, but I was no longer reading about the fantasy worlds with unicorns and fairies, instead I became keen to reading crime fiction. Although I had a love for it, it no longer became something I would do daily, it is now done whenever I have the chance to.
It was a beautiful sunny morning; you could hear the birds singing in the background. I just woke up after a long sleep. It was now 11am and everyone was awake whizzing all around the house and I wondered what all the havoc was about. I came across my mum and asked, “What was going on”. I got no reply. It was like my mum didn’t even see me if I was invisible. After that I could not be bothered to ask because it looked like another busy Sunday morning.