Revenge. Desire. Death. These first three words entered into me the instant the man grabbed me inside his pocket. His thumb rubbed against my ornately designed handle. His body felt tense as he crept forward. Although I had no eyes I could sense we were in a large building. The man, a thief, slowly pulled me out of his pocket as he entered a dimly lit, but largely furnished room. I felt excited and nervous, the man’s energy pouring into me. The only other person in the room was a richly dressed man who loafed on a red velvet couch. The man gripped me tighter, began a conversation with the rich man, and then arguing. Finally the thief lunged at the man and thrust my sharp blade into his chest, while he screamed in agony. Scared, the robber flew out of the house, and left me in the room. Soon the authorities arrived. They inspected, poked, and snooped, and filed me into an evidence bag. It was constricting, uncomfortable, and confining. The police continued to search the building while they drove me away to a lab. During the night I detected someone in the room, rustling around. The noise became louder and louder, and eventually it was right next to me. Annoyingly, the plastic obstructed my senses, so I couldn’t identify the person. Then my bag was unfastened. It was my owner! The thief. He slipped me out of the bag and exited the lab through a window. It was dark and murky outside; I felt the chilly air rush on me as my owner rushed away from the building. I was once again filled with excitement. What would my owner accomplish next? I hoped it would be something just as thrilling. The man slowed down as we reached the edge of a cliff heading off into the sea. There was no one else around but us. What was my owner planning? He... ... middle of paper ... ...ged him. The thief saw me on the ground, and grabbed me, standing defensively. The thief lunged at my owner and they wrestled on the ground. My owner’s wife and daughters crowded in a corner, watching with horror. The thief lashed at my owner’s throat, but he grabbed the thief’s hand right before I cut him. I desperately tried to go the other direction, I screamed in my body with all my might. Then, I felt the thief’s strength slackening, my owner’s becoming stronger. And suddenly my blade swerved the other direction and stabbed the man in the belly. My owner’s family rushed over, hugged him, and cried. Two men rushed in, alerted by the noise. They helped lift the body of the thief and carried him outside. My master came back and picked me up, wiped the blood of my blade, then placed me back on the table. He patted my handle and whispered, “Thank you my friend.”
First came the pride, an overwhelming sense of achievement, an accomplishment due to great ambition, but slowly and enduringly surged a world of guilt and confusion, the conscience which I once thought diminished, began to grow, soon defeating the title and its rewards. Slowly the unforgotten memories from that merciless night overcame me and I succumbed to the incessant and horrific images, the bloody dagger, a lifeless corpse. I wash, I scrub, I tear at the flesh on my hands, trying desperately to cleanse myself of the blood. But the filthy witness remains, stained, never to be removed.
Book Review of The Subtle Knife by Phillip Pullman This week I chose to read the novel 'The Subtle Knife' written by Phillip Pullman. Philip Pullman was born in Norwich on 19th October 1946. The early part of his life was spent travelling all over the world, because his father and then his step father were both in the Royal Air Force. He spent part of his childhood in Australia, where he first met the wonders of comics, and grew to love Superman and Batman in particular. From the age of 11, he lived in North Wales, having moved back to Britain.
Ours is a violent world where even the most common folk can find themselves faced with unspeakable horror through little or no intention. In Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” the characters find themselves at the mercy of armed men because of a faulty memory and a few wrong turns. In Tobias Wolff’s “Hunters in the Snow,” a young man winds up shooting his friend in an apparent accident which culminates in a debate between saving that friend or whether it is more important to preserve the self. The stories work together to explore what humans will do when faced with terrible violence.
Roman Polanski uses the camera throughout his film Knife in the Water to represent the numerous differences between the characters and specifically how he wanted them to be portrayed. Polanski uses the camera to bring the audience directly into the tense, energetic, and insightful nature of his scenes. Through these characteristics he is able to display these characters as dysfunctional, maybe even touching on similarities to many humans in society. Because of this, Polanski found great success in his specific uses of camera techniques and depictions of his characters. The detailed scenes found throughout Knife in the Water help illustrate the prevailing obsession, intensity, and discomfort hovering over the three characters.
I was interupted by a man who cleared his throat. I turned around to see what was going on, he growled so I turned back around. I was now terrified. I noticed that my father had fallen to the back of the pack I was curious as to why he did such a thing. I was finding the trip very difficult as my legs hurt when I took a step. I heard the same man clear his throat I looked behind me and I saw his machete unsheathed and raised in the air, I knew this was not going to end well for me. The man slashed at me with his machete. The pot I was holding fell and broke. I was running to my father and while I was doing so I cried, “My father, they have killed me!” as approached him Okonkow, my father slashed at me with his machete.
Old Mother Hubbard is the most innocent person on the block. But one early morning she was robbed! Who would do such a thing to an innocent person. Luckily the local detective was in town. His name was Davis a black 30 year old male. By the time he got to the scene he had his stuff ready to go. First he finds the only people that were in the house at the time. The suspects are Johnny her grandson, Drew her husband and Kesha which is her helper around the house. “Once the suspects are gathered I will start the questioning them if they know who stole the dog bones,” Davis said.
as he is enraged by his crime. As his terror leads him to his rage he
Revenge is a dish best served as cold as the air in the vaults for wine connoisseurs from Edgar A. Poe’s short story “Cask of Amontillado”, the story of successfully implemented murder during the carnival days in the gloomy caves of a city in Europe. The story told by the narrator after “half of a century [while] no human hand has touched [the place of murder]” illustrates that the desire for revenge can darken human’s mind, leading to the crimes that people do not regret about many years after.
I push myself off of the wall when the agony in my leg slaps me across the cheek with the force of a runaway freight train. Looking down, I realize that the handsome man’s blade still cheerfully roosts just millimeters to the right of my sternum. Silly collector, I think to myself as I carelessly draw out the flayed cobalt sheet from my torso, spewing clot and gore onto my hands. The heart is on the LEFT side. I giggle blissfully as I lick my viscera off of the blade. I turn towards my front door and see the other collector staring at me in lamented horror, unsure of whether to finish me off with the assault rifle she held in her shaking hands or to simply run away. “Oh, sorry, did you want some?” I inquire as I hold out the blade towards her. She fixes her gaze on the blade, then back to my face. “N-N…” she attempts, but resorts to just shaking her head. “More for me, then!” I state as I feebly limp past her and out of my destroyed room. I head for the elevator and bulldoze the “up” button with my fist. When the corrugated iron doors lazily shriek apart, an elderly woman and her husband look up at my face, then down to my wounds as I board the trembling
...Once more the odious courtesies began, the first handed the knife across K. to the second, who handed it across K. back again to the first. K. now perceived clearly that he was supposed to seize the knife himself, as it traveled from hand to hand above him, and plunge it into his own breast. But he did not do so, he merely turned his head, which was still free to move, and gazed around him. He could not completely rise to the occasion, he could not relieve the officials of all their tasks; the responsibility for this last failure of his lay with him who had not left him the remnant of strength necessary for the deed....
It is a truth universally acknowledged that weird things happen at hospitals. From the moment the automatic doors open, you are enveloped in a different world. A world of beeps, beepers, humming radiators, humming nurses, ID badges, IV bags, gift shops, shift stops, PNs, PAs, MDs, and RNs. Simply being in a hospital usually means you are experiencing a crisis of some sort. Naturally, this association makes people wary. However, I have had the unusual experience of being in a hospital without being sick.
The story of “Killings” by Andre Dubus looked into the themes of crime, revenge and morality. The crime committed in the story depicted the father’s love for his son and the desire to avenge his son’s death. However, his own crime led to his own destruction as he was faced with questions of morality. The character found himself in a difficult position after taking his revenge. He failed to anticipate the guilt associated with the crime he committed. Feelings of anger and righteousness are illustrated by the character throughout the story.
“No!” I protested. “It’s very light.” I said lifting it up. “Let’s fight!” I yelled and he charged at me. We both struck with the swords and met in an “X” in the middle and they had made a loud crack sound, like a piece of broken glass scratching against a blackboard. My arms shivered and sent multiple shocks of sharp stabbing pain up my arms.
I made up my mind. I decided to hide the body. I dragged the body by the legs and put it in to the trunk of my car.
He just threw his advise and vanished as if he was an illusion leaving behind one single evidence of his subsistence - the dried goat’s blood over my face. The short man stayed there longer canvassing the blade in his hand by his eyes covered with alternating glimpse of hesitation and clouds of tenaciousness. I stayed on obnubilating in my shelter until he commenced moving away. Subconsciously, I found me propelling myself up and over with the world around me turning upside down. I felt so weak but my enthusiasm kept me persuading this deep wish of following him.