Short Story The ancient house sat astride the cliff's rugged shoulders. Sections of rendering had fallen away into the tangled vegetation far below, revealing thick stone slabs underneath: toothless gaps, the dark smile of an old bearded gunrunner, and the oblivion of a whisky drunk, Brazilian whore. The house was four stories tall and had almost been reclaimed by the jungle; this ornate Churrigueresque fortress had been smashed and peppered for centuries by tropical elements intent on a gradual stripping away of its baroque stone carvings. Something -a shadow - slid from the jungle. A figure shrouded by darkness, protected by the night and its moon suffocating clouds. It climbed easily, fluidly up the cliff and carved stone and landed lightly on the walkway's tiles, mosaics that shone dully in what little light penetrated the gloom. The figure emerged from the shadows and moved lightly across the tiles. Then it paused, listening, a static outline against the night, before sliding again into the darkness and vanishing, a ghost mist a grey dream. A deep oppressive silence filled the corridor at one end of which squatted a riveted steel door, the single portal for the protected sanctum. Seated, two heavy set bearded guards deeply tanned, their hair grease -smeared, were armed with 9mm Walther CP99 and shoulder slung AK47's. They were playing cards across a small, scratched table by the warm light of a oil burning lantern, their brutal scarred features softened by the amber glow, a bottle of cheap vodka their only shared release from the boredom of duty. There was a soft clatter, muffled, from back along the shadowed ... ... middle of paper ... ...illion combinations or something." "Hey, look here." They lumbered towards the gaping window, saw the footprints in congealed blood and glanced down into the sprawling jungle. Within the damp, dripping cellar, deep beneath and within the cliff top house, something barely visible dropped to a crouch. There was a scrape-of metal on stone. Then a single red light came on, glowing faintly, an omen of death and destruction. The bomb detonated. Fire and hell-fury screamed white-hot through the building, wrenching it apart with the force of unleashed chemical savagery. In the jungle below, there was a pattering of pebbles, followed by heavy thuds as chunks of stone and plaster dropped through the foliage and tropical morning mist. Black smoke rolled up towards the sky, blocking out the newly risen sun.
At 3:32 P.M. the armada launched. They flew from the coastal airport into the city of Mogadishu. Above the city the men could see the destructions the city had experienced during civil war. Many buildings were demolished and the streets were crumbling. The Black Hawks were down low over the city, and the Little Birds were closing in on the target. Tires burning on the street near the target set alarm. It was a way Somalis signaled trouble and summoned militia.
Have you ever dreamt of your dream house? Have you ever wanted to invest in the stock market? Have you ever dreamt of winning a large sum of money in a short time? If so, I strongly advise you to read the short story ‘Paper’. In the story, Tay Soon and his wife dreamt of owning a big house so they tried their best to collect their money to buy it. As the stock market was growing interest at that time, they decided to invest some money in the market so as to pay their house. Luckily, they won the money for their house in the market. However, they were so greedy that they continued investing in the market. The market crash came and they lost all their money. Because Tay Soon could not accept it, he went mad. Finally, the madness drove him to death and his mother decided to build a paper house which he had dreamt before. In ‘Paper’, Catherine Lim uses irony to admonish people not to be greedy; otherwise, a person may lose his life and family.
The short stories “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” and “The Short Happy Life of Francis Mocomber” were both written by world renowned author Ernest Hemingway. The two stories are written completely unrelated to each other; however, both stories have vast similarities in the time and place in which they take place. Hemingway is a writer that is very methodical in his word choices. When reading these two stories a second time the reader finds considerable differences in the writing style the author uses in each story. To demonstrate, three sentences from each story will be compared and contrasted to show the differences in word usage, word connotation, and to find which story is written better. The initial pair of these sentences to be looked at are, “A fourth planed down, to run quick-legged and then waddle slowly toward the others,” from the short story “The Snows of Kilimanjaro,” and “On the far bank of the stream Macomber could see, above the trees, vultures circling and plummeting down,” from the story “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.” The subsequent couple of sentences are “’You Bitch,’ he said,” from the “Snows of Kilimanjaro” and “’Why not let up on the bitchery just a little, Margot,’ Macomber said, cutting the eland steak and putting some mashed potato, gravy and carrot on the down-turned fork that tined through the piece of meat.” Finally, the third set of sentences are “She shot very well this good, rich bitch, this kindly destroyer of his talent,” from the story “Snows of Kilimanjaro” and “’That was a good shot,’ Wilson said,” from the story, “A Short Happy Life.”
At last I arrived, unmolested except for the rain, at the hefty decaying doors of the church. I pushed the door and it obediently opened, then I slid inside closing it surreptitiously behind me. No point in alerting others to my presence. As I turned my shoulder, my gaze was held by the magnificence of the architecture. It never fails to move me. My eyes begin by looking at the ceiling, and then they roam from side to side and finally along the walls drinking in the beauty of the stained glass windows which glowed in the candle light, finally coming to rest on the altar. I slipped into the nearest pew with the intention of saying a few prayers when I noticed him. His eyes were fixated upon me. I stared at the floor, but it was too late, because I was already aware that he wasn’t one of the priests, his clothes were all wrong and his face! It seemed lifeless. I felt so heavy. My eyes didn’t want to obey me. Neither did my legs. Too late I realised the danger! Mesmerised, I fell asleep.
"And then I woke up."Thus goes the kind of "trick ending" that every first year writing student is told to avoid, a mark of cheap theatrics and poor craftsmanship.Historically, this kind of ending is often associated with Guy de Maupassant, the prolific French writer of the 19th century, or his 20th century American heir apparent, O. Henry (William S. Porter).In this well researched and at moments insightful book, Richard Fusco argues that Maupassant's bad rap as first and foremost the inventor and disseminator of the "trick ending" is undeserved.What Fusco feels Maupassant does deserve is recognition as perhaps the single most important influence on American short story writers of the late 19th and early 20th century, particularly Ambrose Bierce, Kate Chopin, Henry James, and of course O. Henry.However, even as Fusco's readings of these writers are laudable in their thoroughness (with the exception of his treatment of O. Henry), his overall argument seems finally too dependent on an understanding of "trick ending" which does not make necessary distinctions, and is therefore superficial enough to accommodate nearly any writer one cares to name.
Damn it! Samantha is starting to cry, but I don’t want to say that I’m sorry even though I probably should. I am sorry. Sort of sorry. Like so many things, I really don’t care. Sometimes, I think about going to see someone, sorting all of this shit out. There will always be a need for those people. People you pay hundreds of dollars to, just to tell you that you have abandonment issues and describe how you can’t really feel anything. Thanks, I know. Just the thought of going to one of those big looking offices and sitting in a waiting room with a bunch of other people with a bunch of other problems, pretending not to look at each other. And then it’s my turn to sit in front of a complete stranger and bitch and moan
In The Cask of Amontillado, Poe describes the picture on the crest as a golden foot crushing a serpent, which has its fangs imbedded in the heel of the foot. Poe also mentions the motto “Nemo me impune lacessit (no one provokes me with impunity)” told by Montresor to Fortunato, which signifies the analysis of this profound picture on the crest. According to the plot of the story, the foot represents not only Montresor but also his status-consciousness and cruelty towards Fortunato. As image of the picture demonstrates, not only will the Montresors punish anyone whom they feel harms or insults them, but they will also administer that punishment with a sense of authority. The serpent, however, depicts Fortunato and his actions that insult Montresor. Poe specifically used serpent here to emphasize upon Fortunato’s role play because it signifies death and destruction with a combination of strength which in this story foreshadows Fortunato’s death due to the strong impact of insult on Montresor’s life. Serpent is also the symbol wisdom and blind passion. The serpent biting the heel embod...
I hug her knowing that this will be our last. Tears are streaming uncontrollably down my cheeks, staining her shirt. I'm not ready to say goodbye. I don't understand why this is happening. Out all of the 7.28 billion people in this world, why did it have to be her?
Tim peered through his ratty dread, fallen over his eyes like a rat tail. He looked blurry-eyed at the wet LA boulevard. Rain streaked his face as he took in the long, dark road ahead. The blacktop glistened in the traffic signals’ light. The only yellow light shimmered from the rare passing headlights. Few and far between, puke puddles lined the sidewalks. His tears were indecipherable amidst rain drops.
Point of view is defined as the viewpoint a story is told from. In other words, it is who tells the story. Is it the main character, God, a third party (limited or all-knowing)? Each of the types of point of view is quite different, and each impacts the way a story is told.
A short story is a fictional piece of writing that can range from 1,000 to 20,000 words. Unlike a novel, he reader should be able to read a short story within a short amount of time. Because the length of a short story is shorter than a novel, it usually has one main character (minor characters can be added in limited amounts) and focuses on one plot, setting, and central theme.
'Compare/contrast Faulkner's 'Dry September' with 'A rose for Emily' in terms of writing style and character presentation.';
The short story, “The Yellow Wallpaper,” written by Charlotte Perkins Gilman focuses on a young woman’s psychological downfall and her fascination with the wallpaper within the house she and her husband are living in. The woman begins to believe that the wallpaper is coming alive, which leads her to become confused with reality and fantasy. Gilman selects the crazed woman as the narrator of the story. Furthermore, Gilman uses first person point of view to effectively convey the woman’s emotions and feelings during her mental decline.
There was a girl named Kandy, she was 15 years old. Her life was extremely boring, all she ever did was go to school, go on her computer, eat and sleep. She spent all summer on her computer. She was really good with HTML and spent her free time making web sites. Kandy didn't have many friends and rarely talked to guys because she was shy and unconfident about her looks. That's why she went into chat rooms. She made a web site with pictures of herself on it and told people in chat rooms to go there. A lot of people would tell her how pretty she was and some would say she was ugly. That made her feel awful. When anyone would say anything nice to her, she wouldn't believe them and think that they were just making fun of her. She only had one real friend that she could talk to, her name was Ang.
The traditional short story is a genre of a prose. It is a fiction work that presents a world in the moment of an unexpected change. The traditional short story obeys some rules, such as the unexpected change and major events with detail. The modern short story is a revolution which is based on the traditional short story. In other words, if the traditional short story is in the first floor, the modern short story is in the second floor. Therefore, the modern short story still obeys some rules that the traditional short story obeys, and breaks some rules that the traditional short story obeys. One rule that the modern short story still uses is the unexpected change. The rules broken by the modern short story are that the major events are not detailed, and that the border between the real world and the fiction world. This paper first talks about the unexcepted change and uses the examples of “Eveline” and “The Open Window.” Then, this paper talks about major events with detail, and uses the examples of “Lottery,” “The Open Window” and “Hills Like White Elephants.” Finally, this paper talks about the meta-literary and the border between the real world and the fiction