“Bloody door bell!” I lift my head and look irritably towards the front door. Not that I can see the front door from where I’m sitting. The response is an automatic one. “I’m never going to get this finished,” I grumble. I stare at the screen, do a quick word count, 500 words. I need 5000 before I can submit the piece. I’ve got to get it finished, those bills on the side won’t pay themselves. It’s going to be one of those days, I just know it. Started off at breakfast, the milk was off, I burnt my mouth on the black coffee - that was the only option - I didn’t fancy finishing off the bottle of wine. Anyway 10 am is to early even for me to have a drinky poohs. To top it off I put my foot in the dogs water bowl and had to spend half an hour cleaning the kitchen floor. You see when I mopped up the spilt water it left a sparkling clean circle, on what I thought was an already clean floor. It’s eleven o’clock now and I’ve only just started writing. I’m sitting and listening now. Someone’s still shuffling about outside. I hope it’s not Doris. I know she‘s got stamina and won‘t go away until either I answer the door or her stomach starts groaning to be fed. If you open the door before her stomach starts, you’ve had it. Once you let her in you can’t get rid of her, not until all the biscuits are gone. I’ve got chocolate biscuits and I don’t want to share. If I’m quiet maybe whoever it is will go away. I turn back to the computer and continue typing. But curiosity is starting to get the better of me. I tilt the chair onto its back legs and try to look around the door frame, with out actually moving from the desk. The door bell rings again. The chair over balances and I land in a heap on the floor. A couple of bruises later, I stand... ... middle of paper ... .... He had a funny turn not so long ago; he was out in the garden mowing his lawn. Her, from the other side was sunbathing. I can tell you now, it wasn’t the sun that was making him sweat. Right back to Mrs Snooty britches. Have you ever wished you could be a fly on the wall? At this moment in time, I certainly wish I could be. She might be surprised and embarrassed, having come home to find that parcel, so beautifully advertising its origins, sitting on her doorstep. But she’s in for an even bigger surprise when she realises her naughty secrets really got out. You see, I’ve added a little note to the bottom of her invoice. It reads… ‘I really don‘t think this is going to fit you. The colours not a bit flattering and it’s really not right for a woman of your age. Would you like me to lend you the top you commented on the other day? All my Love Elsie.’
Gregory heard someone giggle. He banged on the flat of his hand on the door “Let me in. Gregory. Let me in” There was nothing but silence… He waited and called again, but there was no response so he wondered away. He couldn’t demand to be let in and pleading would do no good.
Outside in the exercise yard a loud siren wails. The incarcerated men all gather together to get a look at the new prisoners that have just arrived. Reds' first impression of Andy Dufresne was, " That one looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over. That tall drink of water with a silver spoon up his ass." Little did Red know, at this time, but the two men would develop a strong bond. The mutual friendship Red and Andy would cultivate, caused them both to grow an inner strength which helped them deal with prison life.
“The house is settling,” my Italian carer would say as the lights dimmed and glowed in her ghostly presence… but this wasn’t all the house did. I slept in my room. Well, not really slept. Sleep was never something I did much of, especially early on. My worries at seven pm far outweighed my need for sleep. Awake. Forever awake. My father had left me. My mother…
Chapter One On a typically gloomy morning in Chesapeake, Virginia, a thirteen-year-old girl was the only one awake. It was two o’clock in the morning, which was extremely early for anybody, even Sydney. However, she had things on her mind that kept her wide awake. As she paced the room, she scribbled on a clipboard, often pausing to shake her head and cross something out.
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
I had got some sleep when Boom!!!. “What's wrong” I cry out hoping for an answer. It never comes. I run out to the hall with my belongings. “Hey lady” I hear from behind me.
"Ms. McMulkin, this is Alex. That essay--- how long can it be?" "Why, uh, not less than 600 words." He sounded a little surprised. I'd forgotten it was late at night. "Can it be longer?" "Certainly, Alex, as long as you want it." "Thanks," I said and hung up. I sat down and picked up my pen and thought for a minute. Remembering. Remembering a handsome, dark boy with a reckless grin and a hot temper. A tough, towheaded boy with a cigarette in his mouth and a bitter grin on his hard face. Remembering- -- and this time it didn't hurt--- a quiet, defeated-looking sixteen-year-old whose hair needed cutting badly and who had black eyes with a frightened expression to them. One week had taken all three of them. And I decided I could tell people, beginning with my English teacher. I wondered for a long time how to start that theme, how to start writing about something that was important to me. And I finally began like this: When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride
Under the busy streets, the fluorescent lights, and the hot summer night of New York City, I sat in complete silence itching to read the last few words. I didn’t want to be here in the first place. I wanted to be free. I wanted to play outside in the summer breeze of July while sucking on fruity Popsicle sticks. But my mother stopped me. She told me to stay here and finish the task saying that it will be for my own benefit. But as soon as I read the last two words of the last page, I quickly shut the book with a “bang” and ran from it as if it was a sin to be near the book.
Pike, David L., and Ana Acosta. "Chapter 10 "The Story Of An Hour"" Literature: A World of Writing. New York: Longman, 2009. 442-44. Print.
Before she opened the door, she asked, “Who is it?” But no one answered. A few seconds later there was another knock. Janine flung open the door, “What the...”
I had survived the first half of the school year and finals week was here. I had projects from all classes, tests to study for, and essays to write. I wondered to myself, “How am I going to manage all of this?”. I was stressed out to the maximum. I had the urge to poison myself with bleach and escape this prison. I was so ready to just give up.
11:14 p.m.-I slowly ascend from my small wooden chair, and throw another blank sheet of paper on the already covered desk as I make my way to the door. Almost instantaneously I feel wiped of all energy and for a brief second that small bed, which I often complain of, looks homey and very welcoming. I shrug off the tiredness and sluggishly drag my feet behind me those few brief steps. Eyes blurry from weariness, I focus on a now bare area of my door which had previously been covered by a picture of something that was once funny or memorable, but now I can't seem to remember what it was. Either way, it's gone now and with pathetic intentions of finishing my homework I go to close the door. I take a peek down the hall just to assure myself one final time that there is nothing I would rather be doing and when there is nothing worth investigating, aside from a few laughs a couple rooms down, I continue to shut the door.
I stared at the blinking cursor, unbelieving at what I had just done. I was indeed done; done with a paper I agonized over for 6 hours. The paper was due in a scant 4 hours and I had all week to do it. The radio had stopped working because my brother got on the Internet and thus cut off my connection. That was the least of my problems working on this paper. I got it done, though. My life changed with one trip of a teacher to the chalkboard and one phrase, narrative essay. God, I hate narrative essays.
The third maddening buzz of my alarm woke me as I groggily slid out of bed to the shower. It was the start of another routine morning, or so I thought. I took a shower, quarreled with my sister over which clothes she should wear for that day and finished getting myself ready. All of this took a little longer than usual, not a surprise, so we were running late. We hopped into the interior of my sleek, white Thunderbird and made our way to school.
Frost, the only thing I saw out my bedroom window, kept me focused on my homework. Temperatures dropping so rapidly, it dropped twenty- five degrees in an hour. The temperatures, frigid, plumbing to negative fifteen by the time it was over. Sunday nights are for the procrastinators to do their homework, surprisingly, one is me. Suddenly cellphone vibrations filled the room, it was from one of my classmates. The picture message downloaded for a few minutes, and it stated, “If you think this girl is a w****, s***, and a b**** forward this on.” I sat there in a moment of silence, mice scurrying up and down the walls. Being a junior high student, I really didn’t put much though into it. You don’t think for your future you think for the time now. The message referred to one of my ex girlfriends, so that made me forward it on with out any thought. Making that decision shocked me for what awaited me at school the next day.