The journey to the meeting was hasty, the tattered wool coat lent little for warmth against the biting arctic wind that numbed any exposed skin . Sounds of the crunching snow, struggling to stay warm in the harsh temperatures, contemplating how the silence hanging in the air added to a sense of seclusion. The black asphalt glistened as the dazzling light from the winter’s sun leapt off a fresh coating of ice. Tecumseh was frozen as the icy wind pounded angrily on the fragile glass doors of the buildings daring them to shatter beneath the strain. Evans Street wasn't far. Searching eagerly for the brilliant yellow house that lay nestled behind a barrier of colossal of unkempt shrubs that blocked the view from the sidewalk. Empty vines outlining the nearby tresses had once hung heavy with blue and purplish Morning Glories, but now droop frozen and dormant for the winter. Screeching loudly, the ice-covered metal gate only opened wide enough to squeeze a child thru. Rays of blinding light reflected off the polished historical buildings, vigilantly preserved through the fleeting years. Softly rapping on the decaying wooden door, someone peeked out the window as the door swung open to display the delightfully crisp new pumpkin color that overpowered the walls of foyer. Glancing into the beautiful lit living room filled with exceptional antique furniture and becoming consciously aware of how appropriate the familiar faces of the elegantly clad women blended perfectly with the furnishings, as though stepping thru a wormhole into yesteryear.
Time stood still in this small community we call home that is obviously cherished by the way the historical structures line the streets, the ongoing events of the city demonstrated by community an...
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...try again. The group’s anxieties are real, yet the growing need of the homeless, the hungry, the lonely and sick are also horribly real. As we sifted through the outdated information, the group has come to realization that our present efforts are not helping much to convey our message of urgency for our cause. Learning that if we do not have an internet site, the only people benefiting are only the less fortunate within our community. My goals and ambitions are for today and the future. I am holding the hands of our team of supporters, and educating them(and myself) how (until they throw me out) to be a successful nonprofit charity worldwide, to serve and assist as many deprived people as we conceivably can. Together as we move forward we are learning how education and desire are our greatest tools to grow and modernize our charity. A web presence is an asset.
The setting takes place in April at a funeral. There was a “gardenia on the smooth brown wood” (Holczer 1). They have been “wandering across the great state of California” (2). The setting moves to Grace's grandma’s house. It was “two stories with attic windows”, “sky-blue paint with white trim”, “ and a wood porch” (19). There were “two chairs covered in yellowed plastic and pine needles” (19). There was a gently sloped driveway. Inside the house there were “piles of Tupperware and glass dishes” (19). Outside there was a shed, garden, trees, and
Connected to the somber image of the town, The house is described with harsh diction such as “streaked with rust”, depicting the years of neglect. Affected by abuse, Petry describes the house as stained with “blood” in the form of rust. Despite the harsh outer layer, Lutie is drawn to it as her figurative and literal “sign”of refuge. A town that had been nothing but cold to her is finally seen as warm from the words on the sign; describing the house as “Reasonable” and open to “respectable tenants”.
After hearing of her diagnosis, the narrator travels from his residence in “California to New York” where his mother lives (3). Staring out of his airplane window, he noticed a change in the scenery. The “mountains giving away to flatlands” is used to not only describe the scenery, but how his life is changing (3). He will no longer be living a lavish life in California, but a depressing one that would “bring tears to his eyes” (22-23). He got a “sense of slippage” at the thought of losing his mother (3). When he finally arrived to his parent’s residence, the narrator was greeted with “brittleness and frost” (4). The author uses these two words with a cold denotation to describe more than just the weather on Long Island (4). Brittleness and frost are utilized to display the narrator’s feeling, as well as the theme of the book. The weather wasn’t the only thing the narrator noticed when he entered his parent’s town. His mother's actions caught his attention as well. When she held his hand, he again felt a sense of slippage (9). It mirrored the sensation he experienced on the airplane. His mom is slipping out of his hands, while life
Perhaps the vast array of seasons and weather patterns hold the town to a unique appeal. In the fall, the crisp and cool breeze wafts through the fallen leaves, blanketing the lawns and streets in a warm, orange hue. In the winter, icy gusts chill the terrain, followed by the gentle fall of snowflakes. With time, the town is coated in
The arrival of winter was well on its way. Colorful leaves had turned to brown and fallen from the branches of the trees. The sky opened to a new brightness with the disappearance of the leaves. As John drove down the country road he was much more aware of all his surroundings. He grew up in this small town and knew he would live there forever. He knew every landmark in this area. This place is where he grew up and experienced many adventures. The new journey of his life was exciting, but then he also had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach of something not right.
This organization needs to change its way of thinking and think on a larger scale. The values of the organization are strong dedication to servicing youth and families in need.
Many features of the setting, a winter's day at a home for elderly women, suggests coldness, neglect, and dehumanization. Instead of evergreens or other vegetation that might lend softness or beauty to the place, the city has landscaped it with "prickly dark shrubs."1 Behind the shrubs the whitewashed walls of the Old Ladies' Home reflect "the winter sunlight like a block of ice."2 Welty also implies that the cold appearance of the nurse is due to the coolness in the building as well as to the stark, impersonal, white uniform she is wearing. In the inner parts of the building, the "loose, bulging linoleum on the floor"3 indicates that the place is cheaply built and poorly cared for. The halls that "smell like the interior of a clock"4 suggest a used, unfeeling machine. Perhaps the clearest evidence of dehumanization is the small, crowded rooms, each inhabited by two older women. The room that Marian visits is dark,...
The snow floats down from the heavens on to earth painting it glistening white. Just like the named implies whitechapel is covered in a blanket of white snow. Catherine Eddowes walks home then she spots the local newspaper boy “Hey Missus, care for this morning's paper?” “Yes, boy, how many pounds will this be?” ”Just one pound, Missus.” “Thank you, boy,” she throws a coin to the young boy. The boy hides the coin in his hat and scurries off into the shadows of a dark alleyway. Catherine sits down on a bench nearby. One of the articles state that a woman’s body has been found on Bucks Row in Whitechapel. Her throat had been slit twice from left to right, her abdomen mutilated with one deep wound. A chill runs down Catherine's spine, she is not sure if it is from the cold or from the article she just read. She puts down the newspaper and rushes off to her quarters. She takes out a bottle of whiskey when she gets home to calm herself from the stressful day at work and the article she just read. She sits down at the counter taking out a glass to pour the whiskey in she drinks glass after glass. Her hands start to shake rapidly she taps the table repeatedly the melody of her fingernail hitting the wood echos throughout the house like a ticking clock. Tick, tick, tick the sound echos until it finally stops. The whiskey is starting to take effect on her. She feels dizzy. She decides to take her medication to stop the throbbing pain in her head. Catherine makes haste towards the restroom but, upon opening the medicine cabinet she finds that her pill bottle is lacking the pills. Clutching her head and moaning in pain she decides to go to the pharmacy. She walks through the crowd of people swaying side to side through the waves of pedestr...
As I walked into the family room, I could feel the gentle heat of the crackling fire begin to sooth my frostbitten cheeks. I plopped myself down on the sofa. The soft cushions felt like heaven to my muscles, sore from building snowmen, riding sleds, and throwing snowballs from behind the impenetrable fort.
All that could be heard was the distant wail of an ambulance siren, which rent the bitter evening air like a butcher’s knife through a carcass. It would’ve been hard to believe that only minutes ago the place had been alive with crowds and commotion and excitement; for now it stood empty. It seemed that time itself had stopped: that every clock, timepiece, wristwatch in the world had ceased to tick.
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...
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.
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.
Inside the nicely decorated room with taupe walls just the perfect hint of beige, lie colorful accessories with incredible stories waiting to be told. A spotless, uninteresting window hangs at the end of the room. Like a silent watchman observing all the mysterious characteristics of the area. The sheer white curtains cascade silently in the dim lethargic room. In the presence of this commotion, a sleepy, dormant, charming room sits waiting to be discovered. Just beyond the slightly pollen and dust laden screens, the sun struggles to peak around the edges of the darkness to cast a bright, enthusiastic beam of light into the world that lies beyond the spotless double panes of glass. Daylight casts a dazzling light on the various trees and flowers in the woods. The leaves of fall, showcasing colors of orange, red, and mustard radiate from the gold inviting sunshine on a cool fall day. A wonderful world comes to life outside the porthole. Colossal colors littered with, abundant number of birds preparing themselves for the long awaited venture south, and an old toad in search of the perfect log to fall asleep in for the winter.
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