The Sun is slowly sinking. Birds are ceasing to sing. You should be asleep, but instead, you’re wondering if you will. There’s no way to earn money, you are going to have to find another way to help yourself. Forget about sleeping in a house, the cold ground is your bed. All of your “friends” have vanished, your canteen is dry, and if you go into town, you will surely be shot. Once you go wrong, you can’t go back, because you’re wanted. Dead or alive. Sam Bass was born to Daniel and Elizabeth Jane Sheeks Bass on July 21, 1851 near a small town called Mitchell, Indiana. He had a normal early childhood, if you exclude the fact that he did not attend school. This was normal for children in the mid-1800’s, because school was not yet a required endeavor, and most children were like Sam, accustomed to tending the fields and animals of their parents’ farms. His childhood diverged from normality when he was only ten years old. His mother passed away during the birth of her tenth child, and three years later, in 1864, Sam’s father died. Being an orphan, he and his siblings went to live at the home of an uncle, and in 1869, before he turned 18, he ran away from home. He was in search of a new way of life. For a while, he worked in Mississippi for a local sawmill, and upon finding this was a fruitless task, decided to move on again. So he packed up and headed west with no specific destination, and during the summer of 1870, he found himself in Denton, Texas. Here he met a man by the name of Robert Carruth, and became a ranch hand on his farm just out of Denton. He soon found that this was not the type of career he wanted to be known for, and wound up back in Denton, with a newfound interest in racing horses. While Sam was ... ... middle of paper ... ...gle.com/search?q=sam+bass&hl=en&biw=1024&bih=608&prmd=ivnsb o=&tbs=tl:l&tbo=u&ei=76CtTcTjDYv2gAez--ySDA&sa=X&oi=timeline_result&ct=title &resnum=18&ved=0CIIBEOcCMBE> Egan, Clifford L. World Book. Chicago, IL: World Book Inc., 2006. Perez, Joan Jenkins. Peak, Junius W. Texas State Historical Association. April 20, 2011. Harrell Archives. Ancestry.com. June 4, 2008. RootsWeb. April 20 2011 Gard, Wayne. Sam Bass. Google. 1964. Google. April 20 2011. +parents&source=bl&ots=KRMXRbRhX&sig=myYOAzmtmZSGWkR5XoergJ11sqg& hl=en&ei=1vCuTf-3OMjtgHvPDeAw&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=6&ve d=0CDwQ6AEwBQ#v=onepage&q=sam%20bass%20parents&f=false>
his young upbringing in the Ku Klux Klan. Sam's background as a Klansman is told
Sam Bass was born in India two miles from Mitchell on July 21, 1851 and died July 21, 1878 now that’s just brutal he died on his birthday. Sam Bass liked to rob banks and trains. He most likely didn’t realize that because of his lack of education with no schooling when he was a child. Sam Bass started the first train robbery in Texas. In fact it was in Allen the train contained $60,000 worth of gold and was split between the bandits at the robbery.
I. Intro. - Imagine you are sitting home one night with nothing to do. Your parents have gone away for the weekend and there is absolutely no one around. So you sit around that night watching TV for awhile but find nothing on worth watching. You go on upstairs to your room and get ready for bed. Turn off the lights, lay down, and close your eyes. All of a sudden you here a crash of glass in your kitchen. You rush to your feet and put your ear to the door listening to what’s going on downstairs. You begin to hear the voice of two men as they start going through the living room, making their way to the stairs, right outside your room. What do you do? You aren’t going to confront them since its just you—remember you thought you heard two of them right? Well you are really stuck in your room and all you can do is sit there hoping that they leave soon and don’t harm you. Now if it were at my house things would be a little bit different. For starters I would get out my shotgun from my closet and begin to see what is gin on down stairs.
The novel focuses on one man, Ivan Denisovich Shukhov, as he tries to survive another day in the Soviet Union with dignity and compassion. The action takes place at a prison camp in Russia in the northeastern region called Ekibastuz. The location is pounded by snow, ice and winds of appalling and shocking force during winter and lasted for many weeks. The camp is very isolated as it consists double rows of barbed wire fencing around the entire area, making sure it is fully concealed and private, so that no prisoners can escape. The conditions of the camp are very harsh. It is a union where camp prisoners have to earn their food by working hard in their inadequate clothing during the extremely cold weather. Living conditions are almost unbearable; heavy mattresses do not include sheets, as an alternative it is stuffed with sawdust, prisoners only eat two hundred grams of bread per meal and guards would force prisoners to remove their clothing for body searches at temperatures of forty below zero. The building walls are covered in dull and monotonous white paint and it was untidy and unpleasant. “It’s constant chaos, constant crowds and constant confusion” shows that ceilings are most likely coated with frost and men at the tables are packed as tight and it was always crowded. Rats would diddle around the food store, because of the incredibly unhygienic and filthy environment the camp is and it was so insanitary that some men would die from horrible diseases. “Men trying to barge their way through with full trays” suggests that the living conditions are very harsh indeed and mealtimes would be chaotic, as every famished men would be rushing to receive food. However, not only did the place cause the prisoners to suffer and lose their...
Political prisoners and criminals alike were subject to brutal conditions in the Soviet gulags at Kolyma in the 20th century. In Varlam Shalamov’s Kolyma Tales, the stories of many different prisoners are told and much is revealed about how humans react under these pressures, both naturally and socially. Being in an extreme environment not only takes a toll on one’s physical well-being, but on one’s mental and emotional state as well. The stories show that humans can be reduced to a fragile, animalistic state while in the Kolyma work camps because the extreme conditions force many men to focus solely on self-preservation.
The beginnings of that life were sufficiently unpromising. The family was a good one, of old Virginia and Kentucky stock, but its circumstances were reduced, its environment meager and disheartening. The father, John Marshall Clemens--a lawyer by profession, a merchant by vocation--had brought his household to Florida from Jamestown, Tennessee, somewhat after the manner of judge Hawkins as pictured in The Gilded Age. Florida was a small town then, a mere village of twenty-one houses located on Salt River, but judge Clemens, as he was usually called, optimistic and speculative in his temperament, believed in its future. Salt River would be made navigable; Florida would become a metropolis. He established a small business there, and located his family in the humble frame cottage where, five months later, was born a baby boy to whom they gave the name of Samuel--a family name--and added Langhorne, after an old Virginia friend of his father.
Hundreds of faceless people; you've seen them all before. Murmurs of broken languages no one cares to use anymore. You are carried along the worn-down flagstones until a towering office building comes into view. You push your way out of the human river and onto the deserted curb. A broken window at the rear of the skyscraper becomes your makeshift entrance. A looted atrium greets you. You welcome the break from the automatons. This has been your haven since you swam into the Atlantic, searching for your cure, and got revived in Plymouth, Britain by accident. Hundreds of deep gouges in the wall represent your resentment. Puddles of blood from various attempts, some you don’t even remember. A few nooses, some knives, one degraded nine-millimetre. Everything is corroded; the alloys in steel gave out years ago. Rust rules this once-polished world. You withdraw your diary once more and, flicking to a page further into the book, read another entry. 31st December 2167 I gave in and sent my application today. Maybe they will process me quickly. No one has been deleted in the last few months; I wonder what the clog up is? A new church has opened down the road, “The
People look at you like you’re the one to blame. They see your tattered sneakers and tangled, greasy hair, and they think they know you. But how could they? You amble down the sidewalk, keep your head down, your eyes averted. You don’t want any trouble. People are quick to assume that's what you're looking for. Your lips are chapped and your face is dirty. You cannot remember the last time you brushed your teeth, let alone took a shower. The thought makes you laugh almost as much as the thought of your old bedroom walls, the shadows cast by the ceiling fan as you stared up from your bed. You had to leave home. It was taken from you. The adults in your life shifted as you grew older, or perhaps you just grew aware. They took pills or tipped glasses or screamed at you for no particular reason. They kicked you out when you got pregnant, when you got mouthy, when you weren't all they wanted you to be. They got sadistic. They crossed unspeakable lines. You had to leave home. You are barely more than a child. At least, you were before. Now, you are homeless.
The only thing I can think about is food. I don’t think I can remember the feeling of having a full stomach, or my thirst quenched. Even the feeling of strength, of movement has left me. There’s no getting those feelings back until the war is over. The only thing that can be truly felt is the burn of the cold, and the fear. The fear is everything, consuming my thoughts, vision, and blurring the days together. It’s almost strong enough to overpower the hunger and thirst. I fear for my family’s safety, their sanity. My mother has started to go mad from the stress of taking care of my two younger sisters and myself. The war has stolen many things from my family; my father, brothers, home, everything. Even the sky is crying for us as it smudges my writing and blurs my vision even more.
As I inched my way toward the cliff, my legs were shaking uncontrollably. I could feel the coldness of the rock beneath my feet when my toes curled around the edge in one last futile attempt at survival. My heart was racing like a trapped bird, desperate to escape. Gazing down the sheer drop, I nearly fainted; my entire life flashed before my eyes. I could hear stones breaking free and fiercely tumbling down the hillside, plummeting into the dark abyss of the forbidding black water. The trees began to rapidly close in around me in a suffocating clench, and the piercing screams from my friends did little to ease the pain. The cool breeze felt like needles upon my bare skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps. The threatening mountains surrounding me seemed to grow more sinister with each passing moment, I felt myself fighting for air. The hot summer sun began to blacken while misty clouds loomed overhead. Trembling with anxiety, I shut my eyes, murmuring one last pathetic prayer. I gathered my last breath, hoping it would last a lifetime, took a step back and plun...
Saul Bass, a graphic designer and filmmaker, was acclaimed for his film posters’ and title sequences’ designs. His career was 40 years old and in that tenure, he worked with Hollywood’s best filmmakers like Otto Preminger, Martin Scorsese, Alfred Hitchcock, Stanley Kubrick and Billy Wilder. Although the work with Otto Preminger was what got to be best known in the film industry The Man with the Golden Arm in 1955.
A cold desolate landscape is sprawling out in front of you, the wind is whipping over the ice at speeds up to 200 miles per hour. The thermometer is showing you its well below zero on the Fahrenheit scale. Mountains can me seen in the far distance breaking the horizon, the only thing beside flat fields of ice that changes this sterile landscape for miles. Who have ventured here in the past you begin to wonder, why would they have some to such location with nothing seemingly to offer. You become aware of a chill creeping into your body and realize its well past the time to get indoors, you turn and head for your base camp in the world’s second largest country Antarctica.
Dorothy Johnson in “A Man Called Horse” writes about a young man who was born and raised in Boston. He lives in a gracious home under his grandmothers and grandfather’s loving care. For some reason, he is discontent. He leaves home to try to find out the reason for his discontent. Upon leaving he undergoes a change in status and opinion of himself and others. He begins a wealthy young man arrogant and spoiled, becomes a captive of Crow Indians- docile and humble, and emerges a man equal to all.
This war-torn land shows nothing but death and the dying. The ground is muddy from the rain, it’s dank and sodden. Up above the trench line is barbed wire and … nothing else. No birds, no animals … no people. A few dead bodies of the brave men going to assassinate the enemy by night fall, but stopped dead in their tracks, they got picked off by the sharpshooters. No! No one ever makes it! Never! There is a constant sound of gun blasts and the sound of explosions from the grenades. The dark is lit up by the flashes of the guns against the silver clouded sky. Nobody dares to look up for more than a few seconds otherwise they will be taken out.