It so happened that she must have got the bus home that night. The old, rusty buses, which have gum stuck to the seat, and cigarette burn marks in the back. The air was cold and icy and you could see your breath in front of you like a puff of smoke, as it hit the frosty air. The night was also dark. It seemed like no light was present as if there was just a massive black hole. The absence of light was incredible, the only source being that of a small flickering house light a mile or two away. A burned out car lay quietly in a nearby ditch silently watching the world go by. A rabbit scuttled past and smoothly glided into its burrow safe, and away from the rain and chill. She walked on, past the giant disused barn, and past the old post office whose large wooden sign creaked uneasily and moaned loudly in the wind. Last year's calendar still hung on the wall. Pictures from yesteryear were displayed crookedly in the window. The mystery man waited beside the house. An old house rotten with age, worn and battered looking. It had been mistreated for years, looking helplessly shameful standing in the cold, offering no protection to any one willing to live inside. He crouches in a puddle seemingly unaware of the dampness seeping trough the thin weaving of his faded and bleached overalls. He looks calm and steady. He had done thus before. It was clear by the state of his cloths that this was not his first killing. He held the knife is held firmly in his hand; sometimes a small flicker of the middle finger makes a rustling noise up against a dead leaf next to him. The gardens were elegant and overgrown, full of weeds and uncut grass. A reoccurring silhouette flitted between the bushes and shrubs. The face of the nameless man had an expression of fear and anxiousness as the figure continued to glide over the ground. A black cat appeared and crossed his path leaving the male with a face
There I was, stumbling watery-eyed through Minneapolis' whipping sub-zero winds. I'd lost feeling in my lower extremities. Frosted saliva dotted my cheeks as I gasped for air.
It began with the cold. Spots of cold. A moment of normal then cold, as if the heat were sucked into another dimension. These don’t bother me as much as the touch. A handless touch of nothing. Something grabbed by arm but no one was there.
In the novel, The Things They Carried, the chapter The Man I Killed tells the story of a main character Tim who killed a Viet Cong solider during the Vietnam War. The author Tim O’Brien, describes himself as feeling instantaneously remorseful and dealing with a sense of guilt. O’Brien continues to use various techniques, such as point of view, repetition, and setting, to delineate the abundant amount of guilt and remorse Tim is feeling.
of the boat, the men could sense if they were going to die or not. The
worth of cash. He emptied the cash into his bag and began to make his
cerebrations of being on the frozen dihydrogen monoxide. I didn't ken it at the time, but I could feel it
*a frosty drizzle on Orient and Kennedy, New Jersey* Bullets ring out into a distant fog. Every hood has stories. Fact for fantasy, the poet's license creates annals in time. Every stroke of the pen, another soul born. Universes surge through inter dimensional space, pulsating within microcosmic precision. I see the Earth. A human goes by. By focus of my mind, I glimpse his shadowy figure. Military tactical down to the kevlar vest, black cargo pants tucked loose into no tread combat boots, and google glass shades; decoding the entire street, he looks around to browse for witnesses. A shotgun barks in the distance. Snapping into his draw, the hooded assassin readies his sidearm. Laser sights thumb through fog with patience. Two surgical shots,
“Hey everybody has dirty laundry, no matter who you are. It’s just mine happens to be aired in public. But I think that’s part of my strength” (Rosner). Allen is one of the best one armed drummer around but also one of the best people around. Rick Allen is a chartable and inspiring example of how to overcome handicaps in life.
Like a ghost, he crept in her direction. The only light cast by the Miller Lite sign and a distant street lamp. The only lamp had been...
Young King Arthur is woken from sleep by dreams questioning his right to rule. On page
beneath his dignity (to have blood on his hands and clothes) and left this to
captive by a sheath of frost, as were the glacial branches that scraped at my windows, begging to get in. It is indeed the coldest year I can remember, with winds like barbs that caught and pulled at my skin. People ceaselessly searched for warmth, but my family found that this year, the warmth was searching for us.
I felt the cold arctic blast of cold air conditioning hit my face like a concrete wall. I walked forcefully down the long well lit hallway. I walked past the state
“I felt a cold sweat run down my back as I realized what it would have
We each take a huge breath as we step out onto the crispy snow that snaps