The brisk winter air bit at my ankles as I trudged through the light snowfall on the train platforms. I heard the scrapes of harsh metal stopping, the clicking of women’s heels, the harsh Czech dialects, and the muffled sound of tears. Then, I passed under a cloud of clove smoke shot up by a blonde woman with deep crimson lips. Only the red color was visible under her thick smoke, a tattered blue shawl draped over her skeletal shoulders, and a yellow shirtwaist dress that was worn. The smoke settled and piercing blue eyes met mine. She opened her mouth and a thick German accent said, “Hello.” “Oh, are you speaking to me?” I inquired. “Well, I am looking at you.” “That is very true.” “So what brings you to the Prague.” “Family.” “On vacation?” “No. I’m seeking residency.” “To be closer to your family?” “The exact opposite.” …show more content…
She shuffled her body under her shawl and wrapped it tighter around her. She held out her blue box of East German clove cigarettes and I shook my head to deny her gesture. I wasn’t much of a smoker, I always viewed it as a filthy habit. A vice for those who just needed a vice; an escape for people who claimed they needed some sort of escape. However, I didn’t judge her for smoking for some reason, she almost made the cigarette seem erotic. The sensation of her twisting a dangerous object between her deep soft lips was arousing to even the most stoic of
“I’d Rather Smoke than Kiss.” is Florence King’s very astute retort to anti-smokers. In this writing she advocates for smoking as a simple enjoyable thing to do. To emphasize this she recalls her first smoking experience, which is for the most part very normal and unexciting. However, this inconsequential account is not indicative of the rest of the story. King quickly switches gears as she goes on the attack. In the first section she labels hatred of smokers as a form of misanthropy which she goes on to say is “the most popular form of closet misanthropy in America today” (King 32). This perspective is further augmented by the fact that she considers second-hand smoke an invention; a means for the “Passive Americans” (King 32), to justify prejudice towards smokers.
I also don't own the idea, it was requested to me by the wonderful Amanda. Thank you so much! I hope I did this idea justice.
At the same time: Snap-Whoosh-Growl-Snap-Whoosh-Growl! Return with a fierceness, causing the rest of the men to separate into two groups with some moving to the left in search of the origin of the beastly sounds and the others moving to the right, combining their numbers with those searching for their missing brethren, while Gottlieb stays behind.
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...
This scene takes place at the end of the conversation between Ellebry, Eric, and Dale. It would occur in this part of the story because this is one of the few times that Eric sees Dale not counting flashbacks. While Eric and Ellebry are there Eric asks Dale a personal question.
She wanted to store paper clips in the packs. This part of the story lends itself toward her pro-smoking stance because it debunks the anti-smoker’s commonly embraced belief that all smokers started smoking simply to look
Life isn't fair, it isn't kind, nor just. In my opinion, many people don't get what they deserve and many people don't deserve what they get. Like me, I don't deserve to be rotting in Azkaban for a crime I didn't commit but here I am. Wasting away, never to have a happy thought again. I'm only twenty and been here since I was 18, I had only been out of school 3 months before I was thrown in here. Sometimes I wish I had died, it's better than living here. I had no trial, no nothing they just assumed I did it and threw me in here to die. I may not notice everything, but I know something is going on. Almost every day some Aurors march past my cell and are taking someone with them. Then 2 days later they come back and return the person and they take someone else and the pattern continues. I have noticed that judging by their steps they go to the far back and are working their way towards the door. My cell is right in front of the door so, whatever they're doing I will be the last to know. Almost everyone comes back except Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy were never brought back. They weren't here long anyway.
The man walks towards me, looks at me again and he says quite friendly: “Come with me.”. I looked up to the man and wondered why someone say something friendly to me. “Come with me.” This time it doesn’t sound so friendly. I whispered: “Who are you?
Locked. Locked in my own city. Mosquitoes fly past, like they want to tell me something important. I, Waldo Ping, feel trapped in this dreadful building people call the orphanage. I can just remember the day they left me, the sun was up
It was a cool December evening. She looked up at the sound of the train’s horn, chugging in the distance, signaling its arrival. The KN Express pulled up to her platform, the sun’s rays reflecting off it's still wet surface from the rains that had just passed a little while ago. She gave way for the alighting crowd before she hoisted herself up the stairs to her compartment. Pulling her little bag on wheels behind her, she found the train almost deserted.
As I pace around the room like a toddler just waiting for reply. My nerves on edge just wondering if my mom found out I literally would be dead. There would actually be blood spewing out of my body somewhere and not anywhere pleasant. Which makes me re-think my decision. Beeeep beeeep, I get sidetracked from a high pitched screech from my fone and it says only a half hour left…
We were in the stage where we couldn’t make serious eye contact for fear of implying we were too invested. We used euphemisms like “I miss you” and “I like you” and smiled every time our noses got too close. I was staying over at his place two or three nights a week and met his parents at an awkward brunch in Burlington. A lot of time was spent being consciously romantic: making sushi, walking places, waiting too long before responding to texts. I fluctuated between adding songs to his playlist and wondering if I should stop hooking up with people I was eighty per cent into and finally spend some time alone.
On my way back to the kitchen, I folded the pizza box and tossed it in the trash can. After I turned off the lights, I walked into the bedroom. Immediately, I smelled a sweet fragrance that wasn’t familiar at all. Candles were lit all around the bathroom, and the tub was filled with bubbles, I couldn’t wait to get in. “Take your clothes off,” he whispered as soon as I stepped across the threshold of the bathroom.
German accent “vat do you vant?” I softly then said to him in a calm voice “what is your plan, what do you want at this school?” He came closer. He whispers in my ear with his melting voice “my plan? I felt so rotten m...
When discussing the poetic form of dramatic monologue it is rare that it is not associated with and its usage attributed to the poet Robert Browning. Robert Browning has been considered the master of the dramatic monologue. Although some critics are skeptical of his invention of the form, for dramatic monologue is evidenced in poetry preceding Browning, it is believed that his extensive and varied use of the dramatic monologue has significantly contributed to the form and has had an enormous impact on modern poetry. "The dramatic monologues of Robert Browning represent the most significant use of the form in postromantic poetry" (Preminger and Brogan 799). The dramatic monologue as we understand it today "is a lyric poem in which the speaker addresses a silent listener, revealing himself in the context of a dramatic situation" (Murfin 97). "The character is speaking to an identifiable but silent listener at a dramatic moment in the speaker's life. The circumstances surrounding the conversation, one side which we "hear" as the dramatic monologue, are made by clear implication, and an insight into the character of the speaker may result" (Holman and Harmon 152).