The Isolate Passenger
It was a Saturday the day he cried. Early and bitter, the tears were warm and moved in spurts down his face, his whiskers aiding in the formation of tributaries. Cloaked in an afghan and the capitulation of his loneliness, he sat, legs forming a peak, hands clasped loosely in front. Rocking forward and slightly back, he attempted to shake the burden of his inconsiderations. They had mounted and surmounted and he felt ill. He appeared ill, his affect manic as he trembled from an appearance of indignation to trepidation to apathy. Before rising from the chair he felt warm and resolute, lucid. But that was before, and only briefly. He snapped his legs forward and to the floor with the precision of a samurai, composed. The uncoreographed motions that followed were spastic, his fists and arms and palms striking the sky with malice. Such a fit had resulted in a broken hand 5 years earlier. Four months prior to that, such a fit had pinnacled with pieces of a convenient end table mottling the carpet. This most recent occurrence ended where it started and he dressed, with little consideration for hygiene or otherwise.
Exiting, he snatched a back pack and swung the door towards him, managing to forge a distance of 6 feet between himself and the house before it latched precisely behind him. His house was in the residential district of a typical college town, approximately ten blocks removed from campus. Oak trees lined the block, squandering the rain they had collected from the previous evening’s shower; above average sized drops fell randomly on and around him. He had only within the last year begun to enjoy the rain. Before it had been significant only as an agent of somnolence, but now the ominous gray skies and consequential downpours were almost preferred. That Saturday the sky was opaque. It paralleled his mood. Walking a half-step behind what would have been determination, he crossed the paths of seventeen night crawlers and one stray cat before reaching a tunnel that ducked under and around a stream that ran perpendicular to his mood. His eyes were level with the ground, his hands dangling from his thumbs, his thumbs hooked to the backpack straps. Within sight was the opulent green of a park littered with picnic tables and grills, surrounded on three sides by looming Oak and Maple
Tom Robinson's powerful shoulders rippled under his thin shirt. He rose to his feet and stood with his right hand on the back of his chair. He looked oddly off balance, but it was not from the way he was standing. His left arm was fully twelve inches shorter than his right, and hung dead at his side. It ended in a small shriveled han...
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...
...s have even used special equipment to detect certain electrical activity in haunted areas. Adding to that, there are also several stories of hauntings all around the world, and although these claims are based on hearsay, we should come to understand that even though hearsay isn't always reliable, it doesn't necessarily mean that it is unreliable and is considered evidence in societal factors depending on various factors. “The amount of anecdotal evidence is also relevant because the higher the number and the more credible the witnesses, the stronger the evidence.” (Wu)
...r lived in the house experienced some type of paranormal activity. The information was concluded was doubtful in many ways. The evidence about the woman hanging from the tree behind the house would be doubtful. Anything could have happened behind the house on the tree. The person could have just be seeing things or having a flashback about something that happened previous years ago.
I had been for some Hours extremely pressed by the Necessities of Nature; which was no Wonder, it being almost two Days since I had last disburthened myself. I was under great Difficulties between Urgency and Shame. The best Expedient I could think on, was to creep into my House, which I accordingly did; and shutting the Gate after me, I went as far as the Length of my Chain would suffer, and discharged my Body of that uneasy Load.
The essay begins as the author describes the February morning when he was working on his daughter’s wall and banged his thumb with a hammer. The author immediately got frustrated but then thought
A man sprints through a dense forest, escaping an unknown terror pursuing him through the darkness from the treetops. As he keeps looking back, he cannot see what is chasing him, but he assumes it must be close behind him. Suddenly, his foot is snared by a protruding tree trunk and he lands face first on the tiled floor of his mental-care facility. His nurse helps him up and regrets mentioning to the man that she just recently adopted a child from Vietnam, which caused him to lash out. Obviously, the man suffered through a hallucination of his past in the Vietnam War, triggered through the nurse’s mere comment. He has done this and will continue to do this for years to come. This is because society forces the individual, through the aid of
During the intensely hot summer of 1825, I experienced an attack of this affliction. Immediately after dining, I threw myself on my back upon a sofa, and, before I was aware was seized with difficult respiration, extreme dread, and the utter incapability of motion or speech. I could neither move nor cry, while the breath came from my chest in broken and suffocating paroxysms. During all this time I was perfectly awake; I saw the light glaring in the windows in broad sultry streams; I felt the intense heat of the day pervading my frame; and heard distinctly the different noises in the street, and even the ticking of my own watch, which I had placed on the cushion beside me; I had at the same time, the consciousness of flie...
With stress on my mind and a cookie in my hand, I headed towards the wooded area behind her home. At the beginning of the trail, there was an old rotting tire swing barely hanging onto a low-hanging branch. The extensive amount of muddy puddles and the surrounding damp grass made me hesitant to follow through with my grandmother’s suggestion; the mountain of homework that waited for me back at home convinced me to continue. Trees towered over me, adding to the existing weight of stress that sat upon my shoulders, as I carefully maneuvered around the biggest puddles, beginning to become frustrated. Today was a terrible day to go for a walk, so why would my grandmother suggest this? Shaking my head in frustration, I pushed forward. The trail was slightly overgrown. Sharp weeds stabbed my sides every few steps, and I nearly tripped over a fallen tree branch. As the creek barely came into view, I could feel the humidity making my hair curly and stick to the sides of my face. After stopping to roll up the ends of my worn blue jeans, I neared the end of the trail. Bright sunlight peeked through the branches and reflected off the water. The sun must have come out from behind a cloud, seeing as it now blinded me as I neared the water. A few minutes passed by before I could clearly see
Standing on the balcony, I gazed at the darkened and starry sky above. Silence surrounded me as I took a glimpse at the deserted park before me. Memories bombarded my mind. As a young girl, the park was my favourite place to go. One cold winter’s night just like tonight as I looked upon the dark sky, I had decided to go for a walk. Wrapped up in my elegant scarlet red winter coat with gleaming black buttons descending down the front keeping away the winter chill. Wearing thick leggings as black as coal, leather boots lined with fur which kept my feet cozy.
With both hands resting lightly on the table to each side of his white foam cup, Otis stared into its deep abyss of emptiness with his head bowed as if willing it to fill again, giving him a reason to enjoy the shelter that the indoors provided. I could almost touch the conflict going on inside of him, a battle of wills as if he was negotiating with an imaginary devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. I sensed a cramp of discomfort seizing his insides, compelling him to flee, then a silent resolve, as if a moment of clarity had graced his consciousness.
I slowly trudged up the road towards the farm. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against the gate. On it, a big black and white cow stood over the words “Bent Rail Farm”. The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken. Suddenly, the distant roar of an engine shattered the stillness of that Friday afternoon. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. The truck stopped in front of the red-brick farmhouse with the green door and shutters. It was the large milking truck that stopped by every Friday afternoon. I leisurely passed by fields of corn, wheat, barley, and strawberries. The fields stretched from the gradient hills to the snowy mountains. The blasting wind blew like a bellowing blizzard. A river cut through the hilly panorama. The river ubiquitously flowed from tranquil to tempestuous water. Raging river rapids rushed recklessly into rocks ricocheting and rebounding relentlessly through this rigorous river. Leaves danced with the wind as I looked around the valley. The sun was trapped by smoky, and soggy clouds.
The fleeting changes that often accompany seasonal transition are especially exasperated in a child’s mind, most notably when the cool crisp winds of fall signal the summer’s end approaching. The lazy routine I had adopted over several months spent frolicking in the cool blue chlorine soaked waters of my family’s bungalow colony pool gave way to changes far beyond the weather and textbooks. As the surrounding foliage changed in anticipation of colder months, so did my family. My mother’s stomach grew larger as she approached the final days of her pregnancy and in the closing hours of my eight’ summer my mother gently awoke me from the uncomfortable sleep of a long car ride to inform of a wonderful surprise. No longer would we be returning to the four-story walk up I inhabited for the majority of my young life. Instead of the pavement surrounding my former building, the final turn of our seemingly endless journey revealed the sprawling grass expanse of a baseball field directly across from an unfamiliar driveway sloping in front of the red brick walls that eventually came to be know as home.
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
Paranormal Activity is any activity that scientific evidence cannot prove (Svedholm, M. L., 2012). Svedholm (2012) stated that “Paranormal consists of two words: para and normal.” “Para” means against or outside. Therefore, paranormal activities are events that are outside normal activities. Svedholm’s (2012) provided a few examples of paranormal activities that consist of ghosts, extraterrestrial life, UFOs, and Cryptids.