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 As we sifted through the outdated information, the group has come to realization that our present efforts are not helping much to convey our message of urgency for our cause.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.
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”.
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...
“We walked through a high hallway into a bright rose-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house” (7).
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
Our backs hunched over as we started lifting sustainable sandbags with our drained muscular arms onto a dark wooden shelf. The scorching sun heated up the unswept metal fence behind us. Our feet were burning as we stood on the blistering concrete floor. We were sweating from every inch of our dried out body’s. Looking around the isolated area the smell of freshly cut grass starts to fill up in the atmosphere. The crinkled brown autumn leaves abandoned the thin branches sticking out from the ancient oak tree stood in front of us. A mysterious slim figure approached us from the distance. As the strange shadow got closer to me I could see a velvet red knee high dress blowing in the wind; bright red lipstick on a slim face, it became clear to me that it was Curley’s wife! Her devilish eyes looked deep into our sole as she stroked silky, exotic hair with her perfectly painted, red finger nails. “Hey boys” she called. I looked away with no interest; Lennie followed my lead. Her face went from a cheery smile to a sulky frown and she bashfully strolled
Hollow eyes glanced around the pristine apartment, the gray scale color scheme seems to match the women clasping her hands together, pursing her lips and searching for approval from the girl that stood in the doorway. Automatically, the girl deduced the woman was quite wealthy, especially in the neighborhood she'd now live in. The streets were busier, filled with nicer cars instead of busted ones without their fenders falling apart at the edge. Her nimble fingers explored the wall as she took careful steps into the living room. Winnie wasn't acclimated to this life style: the wallpaper wasn't being striped at the corners, stainless carpets without nothing questionable left behind, no sign of undesirable critters, and silence. She could finally
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...
...n running again. The traffic around him thinned as he closed the distance, and the street became desolate and broken. Dave looked around. He saw his office in the distance, and the bustling and busy street that he had left behind. Down the road in the opposite direction it was just as busy, but here, between the two thresholds of civilization, it was deserted. Dave starred at the lamp for a long while. It sat there, flickering, and nothing else. Finally he stepped in the light. It was immediately cold. The snow picked up and swirled about him in a frenzy. He gathered his jacket about him, and began shuffling toward his run down office. He was more tired than he had ever been, and he was glad that it was night again.
We walk up to the gingerbread colored house as the pea stones crunch underneath our feet and a summer breeze hits our faces. We open the rickety white storm door and push the heavy ginger bread colored door into the kitchen. The kitchen has a rustic smell to it, surrounded with furniture from the 1970s. I continue through the kitchen, glancing at the monk cookie jar on top of the refrigerator.
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.
I resided deep within a wooded glen in this modest chalet. It served one denizen and perhaps a visitor. The floral wallpaper was faded, torn and warped. The dusty floor was constructed of uneven planks that whined and bent when pressure was applied. The furniture was minimal and simple. There was a twin mattress raised upon a metal structure and a long wooden table with a single chair. At one end, the table was blotched with red stains and scratches along the edges. The kitchen held a small stove and a cracked wooden counter was a large worn dinner plate and fine cutlery.
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.
My childhood was a playground for imagination. Joyous nights were spent surrounded by family at my home in Brooklyn, NY. The constantly shaded red bricks of my family’s unattached town house located on West Street in Gravesend, a mere hop away from the beach and a short walk to the commotion of Brooklyn’s various commercial areas. In the winter, all the houses looked alike, rigid and militant, like red-faced old generals with icicles hanging from their moustaches. One townhouse after the other lined the streets in strict parallel formation, block after block, interrupted only by my home, whose fortunate zoning provided for a uniquely situa...
Sitting on the porch waiting for Michele, tall, southern, red haired and fiery, I have to do much needed laundry at her house where the wash is free and the dryers do not charge by the minute. I am down to my second and third wearing of jeans and socks are scarce so sandals in cool weather are necessary. Basking in the delicious intoxicating sunlight, this is one day in the unusually cold Florida February that my toes are not blue and numb from wearing sandals. I rest my twenty-two-year-old English filled head against the siding on the porch and wonder; “Does it get any better then this?”