I awakened to the echoes of a million bullets hitting the ground. Fascinated and enchanted, I stood as the cold drops danced in the air and the fog covered the nearby buildings. It complemented the faint, city noise. I walked to my opened window as the crisp October air welcomed me with a grin. Raindrops fell from the dreary sky. It hadn’t rained in Lourdes for one hundred years. The drops of water tickled my nose for the first time as the golden sun threatened to tear into the gloomy, pillow-like clouds. Why would the government keep us from this? The weather control prevented rain, snow, or any weather without fail for one hundred years. For some reason, the rain help me feel at peace. I marched downstairs and out the door in my government issued night clothes toward my best friend, Wren’s, house. On the way there I heard a muffled cry near the bushes, behind her house. The leaves cracked and rattled as Wren threw a ball of paper at me.
“I thought that if I forgot about it, it would just go away,” Wren cried. “I guess I was wrong,” I uncrumpled the thick, letter and read it. The letter from Governor Cinder stated that Wren had been chosen to be part of the The Cure. The same operation my brother, Dante, died from two years ago. The Cure is a vaccine designed to help people live longer and be healthier. Those who recently turned
…show more content…
Then, they deleted my records. Aspyn Birch: deceased. I thought there was a ninety percent death rate. Why are they saying I’m dead? A machine then directed me to a cube-like cell with completely white walls and tiles. Suddenly, a medic wearing a green scrub walked in carrying a single syringe on a metal tray. The needle that could end my life. The medic saw me eyeing the needle, my hands shaking. “Don’t worry, you’ll be okay. I promise,” he assured me as he injected the needle into my arm. I felt my consciousness fading away and my mind shut down. Am I
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
As though their adulterous tryst were timed with the weather, their forbidden lust filled afternoon was over just as the storm was moving on. Although basking in the after-glow, neither dared to sleep. “The rain was over; and the sun was turning the glistening green world into a palace of gems.” Their passion was as fierce as the crashing torrents of the rain outside and then the after-glow from both being mutually satiated was like the sun coming back out.
Baym, Nina, Arnold Krupat, Robert S. Levine, and Jeanne Campbell Reesman. "The Storm." The Norton Anthology of American Literature. 8th ed. Vol. C. New York, NY: Norton, 2012. 557-61. Print.
In May of 1931, black clouds the size of the Rockie Mountains pondered over our farm house. We have had storms before, but nothing like this. I began getting worried, so I asked Mother, “Do you think this will pass over?”
If the storm had lulled at little at sunset, it made up now for lost time. Strong and horizontal thundered the current of the wind from north-west to south-east; it brought rain like spray, and sometimes, a sharp hail like shot; it was cold and pierced me to the vitals. I bent my head to meet it, but it beat me back. My heart did not fail at all in this conflict, I only wished that I had wings and could ascend the gale, spread and repose my pinions on
Throughout the story, the mood becomes more suspenseful. As Janet walks out of the strong spring storm and enters her cold damp house, she is overcome by feelings of isolation and loneliness. Her husband is not there; there are dead plants around her house as if nobody has been there for a lo...
I was surprised when I was in the cafe, and suddenly the weather changed from a sunny afternoon to a stormy dark afternoon. I had seen many rain showers, but this one seemed different. This seemed different, because I had a different view and perspective of the storm. A storm like this had never left an impact on me.
The silhouettes of blossoms are menacing shadows against the luminous falls. I tiptoe further down the twisting vine of pale red blooms emerging, unfurling their rosy petals to the fluorescent streaks of lightening that extend their crooked arms through the sky and down into the swamp’s abyss. The brisk breeze carries scents of moss and mist. The magnificent falls tower above my head, breaking through the clouds, stretching up into space, like a daylily reaching up to swallow the sun. Water surges to the ground, crashing, the sodden earth crumbling away in its presence. An overwhelming sound of water rushing, as though it is a massive radio set malfunctioning, penetrates my ears. I slink through the canopy of vines, slithering, watching intensely,
Rain had begun to fall again. Thick drops of water fell slowly and then all at once, hitting the tin roof of Susan Mallard's Seattle home. Once again, she was sitting in her armchair reading whatever book she had plucked from her shelf without looking, turning the pages absently as the rain poured harder around her. Despite, this being a nightly routine, she never actually read the books, she would sit for hours looking at what might as well have been empty pages. Written words contained no essence for her anymore, she had pondered over them for years and had bled them dry of any meaning they had. Presently, they were only empty carapaces, open outlets for Susan to exist inside her own head. Consequently, this was always difficult on nights
The night ebbed in the darkness brUGHT t about the memory of the most tragic event in the history of the small town of Greenville. Not knowing the tragedy that would unfold the citizens rested quietly in the slumber of that hot August night. Storm clouds loomed on the horizon with blazes of light that speckled the sky. In the distance the soft rumble of thunder brought no alarm to this quiet little town. Jenny and Blade lived in the rural area of green pine forests on the outskirts of this sleepy little town. Nowhere in the history of Greenville had such a tragedy happens, and no one was aware of the destruction that loomed on the horizon. As the night closed near the midnight hour, the wind seemed to awaken the lifeless living things in
There were soft noises—sweet, like quiet steps against gravel; soft like the sound sand makes as the breeze pushes it back a little. Natural sounds were all around me, and they were thinking too. I got chills, and they were not from the wind. The soft sounds reminded me of fall and how coloured leaves silently fall to their slow death. The sounds reminded me of peace.
I was the first person to ski off of the chairlift that day; arriving at the summit of the Blackcomb Mountain, nestled in the heart of Whistler, Canada. It was the type of day when the clouds seemed to blanket the sky, leaving no clue that the sun, with its powerful light, even existed anymore. It was not snowing, but judging by the moist, musty, stale scent in the air, I realized it would be only a short time before the white flakes overtook the mountain. As I prepared myself to make the first run, I took a moment to appreciate my surroundings. Somehow things seemed much different up here. The wind, nonexistent at the bottom, began to gust. Its cold bite found my nose and froze my toes. Its quick and sudden swirling movement kicked loose snow into my face, forcing me to zip my jacket over my chin. It is strange how the gray clouds, which seemed so far above me at the bottom, really did not appear that high anymore. As I gazed out over the landscape, the city below seemed unrecognizable. The enormous buildings which I had driven past earlier looked like dollhouses a child migh...
I could wait no longer. He wasn’t coming. I pulled my wool coat over my body to ensure my mental health and weather protection awareness and stumbled on the rocky stone steps up to the clinic, pushed my way inside, only to meet the fresh rush of the blasted heater and the hearty sound of bells as I entered. The worker was pale-faced yet well-built, only to mask his face with an unenthusiastic smirk and an extremely voracious grunt.
Drip, drop, drip, drop; it’s the sound of light rain on the window of my small, cramped hotel room in New York City. I pray that the sound will just drift away to nothingness and bring back the heavy sounds of the city. I wait patiently in the early morning darkness, which the rain has brought to my window waiting for some kind of sign of a hot New York day. Of all the days to rain, why did it have to be this day? The one full day I have to spend in New York and get to know the city. The plans of walking, sightseeing, and browsing the many stores have come to an end due to the loud sounds of big fat rain drops hitting the pavement. The rain, which only moments before was small with a promise of stopping soon, was now coming down hard and fast, drenching everything in its path. As my husband and I walk towards the entrance of the hotel, all we saw was a wave of umbrellas blocking out the site of the streets, but leaving an intricate pattern of color in its place.
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.