Across the scorched and broken landscape, empty of laughter and devoid of happiness there marched a shadowy figure. His face obscured by a long and furry hood of fur, his long snout crisscrossed with countless scars, his ruffled coat dirty and worn. The stranger shuffled along a twisting canal that snaked across the hellish landscape. His gait was mismatched as well as his eyes, one gray and one black. The stranger shifted his hood so it fell crookedly across his face and from its depths, peered out two eyes. The black iris as cold as the coldest night, the gray iris as cloudy as the cloudiest day, together the mismatched eyeballs gave the stranger an air of wisdom. Those eyes had seen both amazing and wonderful things, yet they had also witnessed cruel and unspeakable horrors. As the day grew old and the dying sunlight shifted to pale and pearlescent moonlight, the stranger arrived at a rumpled pile of straw.
The yellow straw was damp and decayed; a healthy population of lime green mold was gradually spreading across the blocks of grain. As if catastrophe had blown through the area, the blocks of straw stood uniformly along the banks of the canal, an ominous reminder of a time not so long ago.
The stranger, calling it quits for the day, marched out slowly toward a block of straw standing along the bank of the canal. Lumbering over, the stranger inspected the straw and surrounding area, adjusted a few strands of the straw and quickly sat down on the hardened grass. Then lifting his hood, the stranger turned his furry snout upwards and toward the heavens, howled a long and earthy howl.
It was years ago, when the he had last been at the very spot. He the uncontested world champion of the lung busting martial art of “How to blow st...
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...enge, cold hearted revenge. In the years that followed his release he had meticulously planned the murders of his torturers, the evil pig senior and his coconspirator pig junior. He savored their deaths and it gave him great joy to know that his enemies had suffered too.
Upon the block of straw, the stranger shifted his body weight and breathed a long sigh of relief. He was back to where it had all begun and for the first time in ages, he felt extremely humbled. Religiously removing his long fur cloak, he spread his broken crippled body atop the yellow straw. Then as moonlight filled the sky, the stranger breathed in a final breath indulging in the cold night air. His brow immersed in sweat, the stranger shifted his gaze up to the horizon and his dark black eye shuttered close, followed immediately by his silver gray one. At last the stranger was at peace.
What’s that Pig Outdoors? is a memoir whose name easily captures the attention of the potential reader. Moreover, the story of the title captures an important theme in the narrative, which is that being deaf can sometimes lead to humorous (and sometimes not so humorous) misunderstandings. Henry Kisor, the author of the memoir has been deaf since age three. Still, he grew up in the hearing world as a lip-reader, and does not separate himself from the hearing culture in the slightest. While his disability can lead to said misunderstandings, it hasn’t stopped Kisor from living his life the way he wants and feels is best for him.
In his article “Boss Hog: The Dark Side of America’s Top Pork Producer,” (Rolling Stone Magazine, December 14, 2006) Jeff Teitz reports that not only are millions upon millions of pigs being abused and slaughtered each year by America’s largest pork producer, but, in turn, the waste produced by those pigs is polluting, destroying, and even killing others. Teitz begins by revealing that Smithfield Foods, the world’s most profitable pork processor, killed 27 million hogs last year, which is roughly equivalent to the entire human populations of America’s thirty-two largest cities. As Teitz delves deeper into statistics, he explains that more fecal matter is produced from half a million pigs at one Smithfield subsidiary than the 1.5 million residents of Manhattan, and in just one year Smithfield’s total waste discharge is enough to fill four Yankee Stadiums.
Alastair Norcross in his article “Puppies, Pigs, and People: Eating Meat and Marginal cases “expresses the moral dilemma based on factory farming. Norcross gives an example of a man named Fred. Fred has to torture puppies in order to be able to enjoy chocolate. This is because when puppies are brutally tortured and then brutally killed they release a chemical called cocoamone. This chemical enhances the taste of chocolate, so Fred is killing puppies for gustatory pleasure. Any morally sound person would be appalled at what Frank is doing to these puppies and that is the basis of Norcross’s article. He is arguing that raising animals on factory farms and what Fred is doing are both morally wrong, because in both cases we are brutally killing the
Untouched and unhindered, he continued on a path, not yet discovered, towards the unknowing Prince Prospero. Although he had a slow pace, he made an unexplainable distance in a small amount of time. Some masqueraded man from the retreating group grew enraged and curious of this mysterious man. He ran up to the figure and placed a hand on his mask with the intent to tear it off of the ghostly man. The moment he laid his hand upon the mask, he screamed in agony and pain. Then, unable to pull his hand or the mask free, his fate was sealed. His scream withered away along with his final breath, as he turned old and crumpled onto the lustrous floor in a pile of black ash. Silence and absolute stillness filled the room before a wine glass, half full of a red drink, descended from the whitley g...
Developmental assets are assets that define who you are. In The Pigman By Paul Zindel you will see a lot of assets that the two protagonist John and Lorraine Lack or have. Although some readers may believe that John will grow up to be a successful adult because he has a Positive peer Influence. John will not grow up to be a healthy and successful adult because he is lacking responsibility bonding to school, and Listening skills.
Looking out across the stone-paved road, she watched the neighborhood inside the coffee colored fence. It was very similar to hers, containing multiple cookie-cutter homes and an assortment of businesses, except no one was there was her color and no one in her neighborhood was their color. All of them had chocolate skin with eyes and hair that were all equally dark. Across the road to her right, a yellow fence contained honey colored people. She enjoyed seeing all the little, squinted almond eyes, much smaller then her own, which were wide set and round. One little, sunshine colored boy with dark straight hair raised his arm and waved his hand, but before she could do the same back her father called her into the house. His lips were pressed and his body was rigid, the blue of his eyes making direct contact with her
...ome the dream of attainment slowly became a nightmare. His house has been abandoned, it is empty and dark, the entryway or doors are locked. The sign of age, rust comes off in his hands. His body is cold, and he has deteriorated physically & emotionally. He is weathered just like his house and life. He is damaged poor, homeless, and the abandoned one.
The satire Animal Farm by George Orwell expresses the idea of self-government through the animals. The animals play the role of humans, in this way using most, if not all, of the human characteristics.
Eyes in “The Displaced Person” tend to be illustrated with violent terms. The eyes are harsh and very rarely are they described softly; Mrs. McIntyre has eyes like “steel or granite,” characters’ gazes often “pierce,” and “icy blue eyes” and other similar descriptions are common.
As I crept out of the window around a quarter to midnight, I ran to the barn to saddle Chestnut. I had to be very quiet so the master would not be disturbed. My pockets were filled with potatoes and bread. Although I was hungry and could smell the aroma of the freshly cooked bread from the night before, I knew I needed to lead the horse out with food to keep him in my favor. The horse neighed softly and followed me out to the pasture. Gaining his trust, I hoisted myself on his back and off we trotted. Miles later, I stopped behind an old abandoned barn to rest for the night. As the morning sun began its journey, I noticed something familiar a patch of woods with a frozen lake. If I remembered correctly, my dad’s old master owned these woods. I spent my childhood running
The Three Little Pigs has been an iconic story for many, many years. Many stories has been produced with different narrators each time. How can the same story have so many different versions? Many people think it is easy to target the audience and change it up a bit. In each version the language will switch around, the narrator usually will transition, and the audience has different targets. When the language is different the whole story changes also.
Every enduring object or idea lasts because ordinary people focused on their goal and ignored the temptation of taking the easy path that leads to failure. History illustrates that great feats require arduous labor and wise preparation. During World War II, the Allies attacked a less than fully prepared German defense in Normandy on D-Day, which became a foothold in Europe for the Allies. The Chinese spent over 1,700 years developing the 3,700 mile-long Great Wall that successfully protected their country from Mongol invaders. The key difference in the outcomes of these events lies in the determination and preparation of the opposing sides. In the end, the more prepared side exploited the shortcomings of its opposition. Many writers have gained inspiration from the effects strong wills have had on human history, and the fruit of one forgotten author has remained a staple example of the benefits of labor since the Mid-Nineteenth Century.
Prunier, A., A. M. Mounier, and M. Hay. 2005. Effects of castration, tooth resection, or tail docking on plasma metabolites and stress hormones in young pigs. J. Anim. Sci. 83:216–222
I looked up at the black sky. I hadn't intended to be out this late. The sun had set, and the empty road ahead had no streetlights. I knew I was in for a dark journey home. I had decided that by traveling through the forest would be the quickest way home. Minutes passed, yet it seemed like hours and days. The farther I traveled into the forest, the darker it seemed to get. I was very had to even take a breath due to the stifling air. The only sound familiar to me was the quickening beat of my own heart, which felt as though it was about to come through my chest. I began to whistled to take my mind off the eerie noises I was hearing. In this kind of darkness I was in, it was hard for me to believe that I could be seeing these long finger shaped shadows that stretched out to me. I had this gut feeling as though something was following me, but I assured myself that I was the only one in the forest. At least I had hoped that I was.
The sun was still below the horizon but the clouds above the mountains were tainted the color of pomegranates. Around me the shadows seemed empty. I tried not to look into the brush as I walked down the driveway. I had stopped before, looking to see the back of the shadows; staring hard, only to have them retreat from my eyes indefinitely. Invisible birds called from within. Their sound followed me down the driveway and onto the road.