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Story writing English essay
Story writing essay
Stories we tell analysis
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Story - Original Writing
He lay there, like the devil upon his very own torture rack. Scared
and confused, unaware of what evil may be unleashed on to him .Despite
being the one whose sinister hand, had hammered the nail of punishment
in to the hearts of others through this exact routine. He couldn’t
understand, how what he had created would bring him to his bloody
demise; for a short moment he had selfish regrets for what he’d done ,
but a quick thought about the pain he’d caused to the innocent,
vulnerable people, brought back his sadistic joy. Suddenly, a shrill
piercing sound shot into his ear like a wailing banshee, warning of
death.
Jenny awoke from her sleepless slumber and, although aching
throughout, managed to slowly put on her leather, chafing gown. She
walked slowly towards where her clock lay, and realised something
strangely disturbing. Her golden timepiece, carefully cherished for
reasons kept only to herself, was turned to face the brick wall,
covered in hideous yet intricately designed wallpaper. Jenny, being
her philosophical self, pondered over this fault, being up all night,
she knew she hadn’t altered the positioning of the clock, and as she
lived on her own, no resident of the house could have interfered. She
didn’t want to think about this matter any longer, and , too scared
even to touch the clock, Jenny just left it and began to walk down
her, sometimes mesmerizing spiral staircase. Each lift of her foot
followed with a creak as she descended the steps, she took another
step and felt a sharp stabbing pain in her left foot. Jenny slowly
looked down, and saw that she had stood on her beloved clock - stil...
... middle of paper ...
...abody still drove on. He stopped
the car in the middle of a road, got out and went up to the door of 45
ashdown street – opened it as if knowing it would be open and
uninhabited. He saw blood all over the carpet, and smeared along the
wall, his heart then stopped, he felt a pain as if being stabbed by
his perished sister. Daniel saw his mothers clock, on the staircase,
with glass shattered everywhere, and blood staining the gold. This to
him was the worst thing that could possibly happen, he walked over to
the clock, fell to his knees and cried “My mothers soul is now gone,
it is time for me to go with her.” He grasped the clock in both hands
and smashed it over his head, then bathed in the glass. “Marcus dean,
you are responsible for this, you led me to corruption, you made me
feel like I was to blame. And now, I am.”
one door is a car; behind the others, goats. You pick a door, say No. 1, and the host, who
pass a door and Enfield starts to tell a story about this door and how
She heard a car coming up thru the driveway, a car she did not recall at the moment. “It w...
In 2009 Chimamanda Adichie gave a TED talk about the ‘danger of a single story’. A single story meaning, one thought or one example of a person becoming what we think about all people that fit that description, a stereotype if you will. In today’s America, I believe that we have all felt the wave of stereotypical views at some point or another. Adichie gives many relatable examples throughout her life of how she has been affected by the single story. Her story brings about an issue that all humans, from every inch of the earth, have come to understand on some level. A young child reading only foreign books, a domestic helper that she only perceived as poor. Her college roommates single story about Africans and her own formation of a single
The young man moved away from his parents to attend college. This gave him time to mature and learn what was important in life. He did well in school, and was becoming successful. Even his father was proud of him. This time the tables were turned, the father wanted to spend time with his son. Only to be told, he had places to go and people to see, and can I borrow the car.
knock at the door and Mr. White answered it to let the man in. His name was
As my brother, sister, dad, and I pull up to the house, I look at it with uncertainty, not knowing what to expect. It was a small blue house and had flowers planted around it. We walked up to the house with me in the lead. That didn't last long though. I was too nervous, so I stood still and turned around, waiting for my dad to get ahead of me.
surprise, I noticed an old, rotten car parked on the shoulder of the road and a
“Yes, Stephanie. I will get to work right away.” She scrambled to the kitchen and getting all the cleaning supplies and her chorus list. She was finishing all her work and the only...
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.
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.
My stomach retched, my throat dry, had I got myself into this mess? A distant thud echoed across the cold, hard floor, ricocheting into my ear. Someone was coming.
Finally it passed through the other side followed by an eerie screeching sound. The dreadful sound was emanating from the dry rotted tires that were rubbing against the rails. After the car emerged from the exit of the car wash, it was then wiped dry by the co-workers of the car wash. Watching the employee’s wipe the car I could hear the boy my age say, “I feel bad for who ever owns that car”. The car was fully washed and ready to go as one of the staff members approached the benched and asked which one of us the owner of the vehicle. Again the muttered another comment, “sure isn’t mine”. The comment from the boy made me hesitant, but for a moment I realized the only person I was fooling was myself. So I picked myself up and as I was about to leave, the man in his mid forties stated to me “it could have been worse, my first car barely ran”. With that comment I was a little more encouraged to get into the car and leave with some dignity.
Chuck then leaves and while stopped at a crossroads down the road, a woman driving by in a truck stops to tell Chuck where each road leads to. As she drives away, Chuck notices the picture on the back of her truck is the exact same as the one on the parcel. Chuck is left peering down every road and then in the direction of the woman leaving the truck.