“I never felt so alone [or insert here]”, he wrote. Wrinkling his face, he immediately tore out another sheet of paper. The wire basket held over a hundred scrunched balls of white, abandoned pieces of his soul.] He paced up and down the same stretch of the room, feeling the cold tiles on his bare feet. “Inspiration….inspiration….inspiration…” The blank pages glowered accusingly, the white surface deflecting the harsh glare of the fluorescent bulb onto his weary face, acting like bleach on his bed-raggled, gold hair. “You’re useless,” they mouthed, mocking him. “Two months, two months and not a word. Absolutely pathetic.” He flinched, and then sighed for the thousandth time, proceeding mindlessly to prepare breakfast – ramen noodles. The only food he’d ever known since leaving the orphanage four years ago. But food was no matter to him: living alone gave him the quietness he needed to write. “Inspiration...inspiration...” *** There was none. After cursing the vacant void that was his mind, and his heart, he sighed – again – resigning himself to the worn chair by the window. The grey skies provided him with no comfort, and his grey-blue eyes glared blankly. A storm was brewing. The red brick-lined building across the street was like any other. Nothing peculiar. Nothing inspirational. Nothing at all… Suddenly, a small figure caught his eye. A lone young woman sitting by the windowsill across the grey street...her eyes gazed up at the grey skies contemplatively...her sweet smile captivated him. Long, glossy-black strands of hair framed her glowing, olive face. What captivated him the most, though, was her smile. It was unlike any of the other few smiles he had seen in his life, almost convincing him that she was an angel – who... ... middle of paper ... ... the empty bench behind to creep back into the shadows of his apartment. He would write one last word… “Sit.” That was not the word he wanted. He placed his hand on the cold knob of the door. “Please sir, take a seat.” This was not the voice in his head. He turned around, curious. It was a lone woman, perhaps about forty years of age, sitting neatly on the bench he had just left. He wondered what she wanted, when a flash of hazel caught his eye. His blue eyes widened as shock, revelation and joy hit him all at once, and a million questions filled his mind. But he did not speak, instead letting her wan, angel-smile satiate him with memories. He wanted to embrace her, but she seemed to be signalling him to leave; it was time. He would do as she pleased. Content, he turned around to return to his apartment, not noticing that the image of the woman had disappeared.
It seems like a fairytale-like utopia until the narrator’s tour of the city takes a dark turn. Underneath the beauty, there is a dirty, broom-closet-sized room. A small, feeble-minded, naked ten year old child sits there in its own excrement. Subject to malnutrition and neglect, the child is only given just enough food for subsistence.
In short, this is a story of a random meeting of two strangers, and an attraction or feeling that is overlooked and ignored. A man describes a lady such that you could only envision in your dreams, of stunning beauty and overwhelming confidence of which encounters of the opposite sex occur not so very often. The mans attraction is met by a possible interest by the lady, but only a couple flirtatious gestures are exchanged as the two cross paths for the first time and very possible the last.
Her bedroom was closed but with an “open window” (463), with a roomy armchair she sank into. As she is looking out the window she sees “the tops of trees,” “new spring life,” “breath of rain was in the air,” and she could hear a peddler below in the street, calling to customers, and “patches of blue sky showing” (463). The author depicts in the previous sentence that when she uses “breath of rain was in the air,” rain is more like a cleansing so she could be feeling a sign of relief but can’t recognize it. She sat with her head on the cushion “quite motionless,” except when a sob came in her throat and “shook her,” like a child “continuously sobbing” (463) in its dreams. The author uses imagery in the previous
Pecola believes that being granted the blue eyes that she wishes for would change both how others see her, and they would love her. She is forced to see beauty instead of ugliness. ?At the story?s end, she believes that her wish has been granted, but only at the cost of her san...
Ar’n’t I a Woman? Written by, Deborah Gray White shows the trials and hardships that African American Women faced during the years of the infamous plantations up to the civil war. In this book White describes how the images of “Jezebel” and the “Mammy” and how they were the most vulnerable group with the least amount of formal power in Antebellum America. She compares the life of men and women in the slave society, and how truly different they were. The roles of women are shown through the slaves’ life cycle, family life, slave society networks, and the civil war. Each of these various aspects of life are discussed very vividly in the book, and serve purpose in showing how African American women were treated so unjustly not only because of their skin color but the fact that they were women, therefore they were the most discriminated against in Antebellum America. Though they were discriminated against their nature proved them to not be submissive and subordinate in all aspects.
...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.
And the only work there s... ... middle of paper ... ... a single word–"nevermore." All his emotionally powerful descriptions of the scene end with this one word. It resounds and persists as a ringing death bell, capturing the despair of the narrator and ending each paragraph with another pang.
“It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They jeered and sounded mourning notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro, down its whole length, without stopping, without resting. She carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying there she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the glittering circlet.
As I walked through the door of the funeral home, the floral arrangements blurred into a sea of vivid colors. Wiping away my tears, I headed over to the collage of photographs of my grandfather. His smile seemed to transcend the image on the pictures, and for a moment, I could almost hear his laughter and see his eyes dancing as they tended to do when he told one of his famous jokes. My eyes scanned the old photographs, searching for myself amidst the images. They came to rest on a photo of Grandpa holding me in his lap when I was probably no more than four years old. The flowers surrounding me once again blended into an array of hues as I let my mind wander……
His own loneliness, magnified so many million times, made the night air colder. He remembered to what excess, into what traps and nightmares, his loneliness had driven him; and he wondered where such a violent emptiness might drive an entire city. (60)
Food has been a great part of how he has grown up. He was always interested in how food was prepared. He wanted to learn, even if his mother didn’t want him to be there. “I would enter the kitchen quietly and stand behind her, my chin lodging upon the point of the hip. Peering through...
The men left and the house was left alone for a month’s worth of sunsets before that day came. It was demolition day. The house didn’t notice the bulldozer pulling up to it, smashing down the high grass that had protected it for so many sunsets. It did not notice the odd shovel-claw burying into it, tearing it to pieces. It did not notice the rusted mailbox getting smashed, and it did not notice the stable pieces of the fence being forced to break their bonds. It did not notice when the bulldozer left hours later.
With both hands resting lightly on the table to each side of his white foam cup, Otis stared into its deep abyss of emptiness with his head bowed as if willing it to fill again, giving him a reason to enjoy the shelter that the indoors provided. I could almost touch the conflict going on inside of him, a battle of wills as if he was negotiating with an imaginary devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. I sensed a cramp of discomfort seizing his insides, compelling him to flee, then a silent resolve, as if a moment of clarity had graced his consciousness.
We all remember these grey gloomy days filled with a feeling of despair that saddens the heart from top to bottom. Even though, there may be joy in one’s heart, the atmosphere turns the soul cold and inert. Autumn is the nest of this particular type of days despite its hidden beauty. The sun seems foreign, and the nights are darker than usual enveloped by a thrill that generates chills to travel through the spine leaving you with a feeling of insecurity. Nevertheless, the thinnest of light will always shine through the deepest darkness; in fact, darkness amplifies the beauty and intensity of a sparkle. There I found myself trapped within the four walls of my house, all alone, surrounded by the viscosity of this type of day. I could hear some horrifying voices going through my mind led by unappealing suicidal thought. Boredom had me encaged, completely at its mercy. I needed to go far away, and escape from this morbid house which was wearing me down to the grave. Hope was purely what I was seeking in the middle of the city. Outside, the air was heavy. No beautifully rounded clouds, nor sunrays where available to be admired through the thick grey coat formed by the mist embedded in the streets. Though, I felt quite relieved to notice that I was not alone to feel that emptiness inside myself as I was trying to engage merchant who shown similar “symptoms” of my condition. The atmosphere definitely had a contagious effect spreading through the hearts of every pedestrian that day. Very quickly, what seemed to be comforting me at first, turned out to be deepening me in solitude. In the city park, walking ahead of me, I saw a little boy who had long hair attached with a black bandana.
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’