She smiled and looked at me for the first time still holding my hand. She stepped down from the ledge and hugged me tightly; I hugged back. We stood there for a minute not saying anything. After a bit We started walking slowly over to the stairs that led back into the building. I had my hand on the small of her back just slightly guiding her back towards the steps.
“Wait.” Annabel said stopping short at the top of the stair case.
“What is it?”
“I have something for you.” she reached into the pocket of her jeans and handed me a folded piece of paper. “I wrote this last night.”
“Oh okay.” I took the paper and started unfolding it.
“Thanks.” she said and quickly sprinted back towards the ledge that we’d just come from earlier.
I couldn’t get to her in time. She didn’t hesitate this time. She didn’t linger. She didn’t wait. She jumped from the fourth story of Redwood Recovery Center. I watched her small frame float to the ground below. In some horrible, terribly heinous way, she looked free. When Annabel’s body hit the pavement looked as if it would not have wanted to be anywhere else. This was not her fourth attempt to kill herself, this was the first and and time she succeeded. I screamed, I cried, I shook as I watched her body hurl to the earth by it’s own doing. Part of me, the part that so often keeps me up at night, wanted to join it, but part of me couldn’t. The blood curdling sound of a human body hitting pavement that hard will forever ring in my ears. It goes past hearing bones crack and break, it is as if you hear the soul leave the body through the newly found cracks that no metaphorical band-aid can cover. Annabel died that day. She died because it was the only way for her to feel the freedom that she had withhe...
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...nfinite expanse that only you and I could conquer. You made we want to explore, to dream of something, and to feel. I cannot explain how much more time I wanted for us, but God, I know that I wanted more than we got. You are truly the first person that I loved, and I would not have had it any other way. James, my love, I cannot tell you how thankful I am for you, nor can I express how sorry I am for me. You will go on to do amazing things, you will fall in love and explore and write and make art and make people happy and do the things that you have always dreamed of, I just ask that you do not forget me, because I know that in the very depths of my soul I won’t forget you. The world is waiting for you, so go see it up close, go write your book, go paint your canvas, and go play your music. It’s what I’ve loved about you since the beginning. See you around.
––Annabel
Diane Urban, for instance, was one of the many people who were trapped inside this horror. She “was comforting a woman propped against a wall, her legs virtually amputated” (96). Flynn and Dwyer appeal to the reader’s ethical conscience and emotions by providing a story of a victim who went through many tragedies. Causing readers to feel empathy for the victims. In addition, you began to put yourself in their shoes and wonder what you would do.
In her article, Quindlen delivers her position to the massive mixed audience of the New York Times, drawing in readers with an emotional and humanizing lure; opening up about her family life and the deaths she endured. Later presenting the loss of her brother's wife and motherless children, Quindlen use this moment to start the engine of her position. Quindlen uses her experiences coupled with other authority figures, such as, the poet Emily Dickenson, Sherwin Nuland, doctor and professor from Yale, author Hope Edelman, and the President. These testimonies all connect to the lasting effects of death on the living, grief. She comes full circle, returning to her recently deceased sister-in-law; begging t...
In Amy Hempel’s Short Story “Going,” we take part in a journey with the narrator through loss, coping, memory, experience, and the duality of life. Throughout the story we see the narrator’s struggle through coping with the loss of his mother, and how he moves from a mixture of depression, denial, and anger, to a form of acceptance and revelation. The narrator has lost his mother to a fire three states away, and goes on a reckless journey through the desert, when he crashes his car and ends up hospitalized. Only his thoughts and the occasional nurse to keep him company. He then reaches a point of discovery and realizations that lead to a higher understanding of mortality, and all of the experiences that come with being alive.
The short stories “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” and “The Short Happy Life of Francis Mocomber” were both written by world renowned author Ernest Hemingway. The two stories are written completely unrelated to each other; however, both stories have vast similarities in the time and place in which they take place. Hemingway is a writer that is very methodical in his word choices. When reading these two stories a second time the reader finds considerable differences in the writing style the author uses in each story. To demonstrate, three sentences from each story will be compared and contrasted to show the differences in word usage, word connotation, and to find which story is written better. The initial pair of these sentences to be looked at are, “A fourth planed down, to run quick-legged and then waddle slowly toward the others,” from the short story “The Snows of Kilimanjaro,” and “On the far bank of the stream Macomber could see, above the trees, vultures circling and plummeting down,” from the story “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.” The subsequent couple of sentences are “’You Bitch,’ he said,” from the “Snows of Kilimanjaro” and “’Why not let up on the bitchery just a little, Margot,’ Macomber said, cutting the eland steak and putting some mashed potato, gravy and carrot on the down-turned fork that tined through the piece of meat.” Finally, the third set of sentences are “She shot very well this good, rich bitch, this kindly destroyer of his talent,” from the story “Snows of Kilimanjaro” and “’That was a good shot,’ Wilson said,” from the story, “A Short Happy Life.”
In The Cask of Amontillado, Poe describes the picture on the crest as a golden foot crushing a serpent, which has its fangs imbedded in the heel of the foot. Poe also mentions the motto “Nemo me impune lacessit (no one provokes me with impunity)” told by Montresor to Fortunato, which signifies the analysis of this profound picture on the crest. According to the plot of the story, the foot represents not only Montresor but also his status-consciousness and cruelty towards Fortunato. As image of the picture demonstrates, not only will the Montresors punish anyone whom they feel harms or insults them, but they will also administer that punishment with a sense of authority. The serpent, however, depicts Fortunato and his actions that insult Montresor. Poe specifically used serpent here to emphasize upon Fortunato’s role play because it signifies death and destruction with a combination of strength which in this story foreshadows Fortunato’s death due to the strong impact of insult on Montresor’s life. Serpent is also the symbol wisdom and blind passion. The serpent biting the heel embod...
I gave her another quick look of confusion. before she started to open the envelope. I tried to read the back since I had no idea what it was since I had just grabbed the mail this morning and threw it in my bag which I had planned to read later. I watched as she pulled the letter out of the envelope. She cleared her throat and started to read.
When you got sick and the doctors told me I should hold you back you taught me it was more important to feel and grow like any other child than to have me hide you under my wing. It was more important to live. And that you did. You danced so beautifully, for years. And then your greatest joy, cheerleading. You made me so proud. You have always been my greatest pride and joy. I'm not sure how I can live this life without you. Remember when you would cry and tell me you were so afraid because you didn't want me to die before you. And I would tell you I wasn't going to die. And remember me saying you couldn't die before me, so we agreed, we had to go at the same time because neither of us could live without the other.
Point of view is defined as the viewpoint a story is told from. In other words, it is who tells the story. Is it the main character, God, a third party (limited or all-knowing)? Each of the types of point of view is quite different, and each impacts the way a story is told.
My feet planted firm on the ground as I bit the inside of my cheeks to feel something. My pigtails and gray uniform forgotten along with my surroundings as I just watched death do his work. I didn’t feel like a kid anymore. The once peaceful scene turned into a mass of chaotic moments as soon as metal clashed on metal, and the remains of glass littered the floor of the street in front of the fenced gates of my school. My peers screamed loudly but the sound of the crash replayed in my head, but worst of all is that I saw the blond hair of the woman cover her face like a veil tainted red. My teacher ushered us to wait inside yet my mind was numb and my thoughts blurred as I heard the cries of the adults.
'Compare/contrast Faulkner's 'Dry September' with 'A rose for Emily' in terms of writing style and character presentation.';
The short story, “The Yellow Wallpaper,” written by Charlotte Perkins Gilman focuses on a young woman’s psychological downfall and her fascination with the wallpaper within the house she and her husband are living in. The woman begins to believe that the wallpaper is coming alive, which leads her to become confused with reality and fantasy. Gilman selects the crazed woman as the narrator of the story. Furthermore, Gilman uses first person point of view to effectively convey the woman’s emotions and feelings during her mental decline.
It was about one-thirty in the morning in the town of Homestead Michigan. The almost florescent light of the moon bouncing off the fresh puddles that covered the ground. The grass and trees were covered in a thin layer of water causing every little beam of light to reflect back up. Anyone who may have been outside at this time would have without double, smelled the mix of fresh dirt and night crawlers. As the moonlight started to fade away through the cloud cover, three buses made there way through the streets and parked in front of HHS, the local high school.
There was a girl named Kandy, she was 15 years old. Her life was extremely boring, all she ever did was go to school, go on her computer, eat and sleep. She spent all summer on her computer. She was really good with HTML and spent her free time making web sites. Kandy didn't have many friends and rarely talked to guys because she was shy and unconfident about her looks. That's why she went into chat rooms. She made a web site with pictures of herself on it and told people in chat rooms to go there. A lot of people would tell her how pretty she was and some would say she was ugly. That made her feel awful. When anyone would say anything nice to her, she wouldn't believe them and think that they were just making fun of her. She only had one real friend that she could talk to, her name was Ang.
The reckless driver hit us straight on, then “Bang!” a loud noise resonated through the air, and abruptly my body flew out and hit the pavement of the road. Everything around me was simply a white haze for a few seconds after the impact. My body felt extremely heavy and the sharp pain throbbed throughout my face and body. Lying there on the rough asphalt, I faintly heard my mom and Carrie call out to me, “Sydney! Sydney! Are you okay? Answer me! Sydney!” I wanted I speak up and answer them, nonetheless, it was useless, my voice just wouldn’t make a sound. The desperation in Carrie’s and my mom’s voices reverberated to me across from where I was lying. My mom frantically ran up to my side and hugged me tightly in her arms. Blood was squirting out of her pinky, where the top of her finger had been severed. The places where my mom’s tears fell, stung my wounds, nevertheless, it was nothing compared to each little movements that caused the pains to electrify through my body severely. Every second was hell, the pain was just utterly agonizing and tormenting. Whether it was due to the pain or the exhaustion my body suffered, my mind slowly drifted off and I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. As my eyes gradually closed, the blazing siren seemed to have grown louder little by
The traditional short story is a genre of a prose. It is a fiction work that presents a world in the moment of an unexpected change. The traditional short story obeys some rules, such as the unexpected change and major events with detail. The modern short story is a revolution which is based on the traditional short story. In other words, if the traditional short story is in the first floor, the modern short story is in the second floor. Therefore, the modern short story still obeys some rules that the traditional short story obeys, and breaks some rules that the traditional short story obeys. One rule that the modern short story still uses is the unexpected change. The rules broken by the modern short story are that the major events are not detailed, and that the border between the real world and the fiction world. This paper first talks about the unexcepted change and uses the examples of “Eveline” and “The Open Window.” Then, this paper talks about major events with detail, and uses the examples of “Lottery,” “The Open Window” and “Hills Like White Elephants.” Finally, this paper talks about the meta-literary and the border between the real world and the fiction