A Cup of Tea by Katherine Mansfield: Creates a Contrast Between the Bland Ordinariness of a Cup of Tea

Nothing of interest was in the room, only dimly lit candles and trunks of old, moth eaten clothes. She felt as if someone, or something, was watching her, waiting to drag me into the shadows. Then there it was it was she was unsure but almost certain it was a ghost. The ghost was a white cloud like figure and its eyes and mouth were as black as the night sky's. It was more silent than the grave it arose from, staring with heavy lidded eyes and a slack mouth..As Emily turned to leave, “Don't go.” said a gentle voice, “we can be such good friends.” A blue-white glow filled the room making her skin appear paper thin. “Who are you” Emily asked in fear “We met the day I turned twelve. At the train station, you sat across from me with a small smile. Our toes could hardly touch the floor then. I remember being so very close with each other, but I don’t know how after what you did to me” Emily shook her head mutely. She'd been here an hour tops, or this was some nightmare. It wasn't real, how could it be. “Stay with me” the ghost repeated as Emily was trying to find a way out. She shook her head. “Why refuse

He waited until the night’s 11th hour. By now the Princess rested in the highest tower of the castle, locked away from the dangerous world, yet so oblivious to the dangers that which fated the rest of her life. Silently the peasant journeyed outside, where he stopped at the wall of the tower where she lay. He watched her in the darkness from below, lifting his face to her, letting the light rest on his every surface of darkness. The night was cloudless. The winds wailed between the motionless oak trees as its thin branches clawed out, ever so slightly disturbing the leaves with its hostile screeches. Not the thick moss of the trees nor the damp leaves squirming in his toes could distract the peasant from so enticing a scent. All that encircled him was the sweetness of lavender and rosewood, filling his entire being as he sunk into the grass, like sand washed over by the water, with every breeze passing

“It was December and the weather bitterly cold. She was a tiny mite, the size of five years, though, as afterward appeared, she was then nine. From a pan set upon a low stool she stood washing dishes, struggling with a frying pan about as heavy as herself. Across the table lay a brutal whip of twisted leather strands and the child's meagre arms and legs bore many marks of its use. But the saddest part of her story was written on her face in its look of suppression and misery, the face of a child unloved, of a child that had seen only the fearsome side of life. These things I saw while seeming not to see, and I left without speaking to, or of, the child. I never

Greg Mortenson, with the help of his co-author David Oliver Relin, has painted a picture perfect image of himself in Three Cups of Tea. Leading many to believe that he is a hero and savior for the children of Central Asia, when in reality he is just a conniving, deceitful, greed driven man. Greg Mortenson hides behind his Three Cups of Tea persona and the truth about his “charitable” actions.

“The astonishing, uplifting story of a real-life Indiana Jones and his remarkable humanitarian campaign in the Taliban’s backyard” is the introduction given to Greg Mortenson’s readers before even opening his book, Three Cups of Tea. This phrase slapped on the back cover of the millions of books sold in America prepares readers to not only buy into Greg Mortenson’s heroic story but even support his cause. “One song we hear too often is the one in which Africa serves as a backdrop for white fantasies of conquest and heroism”(Cole). The problem with Mr. Mortenson’s “song” is that it provides a single view of the religion of Islam. At first glance of Mortenson’s book, “[Greg’s] mission to Promote Peace… One School at a Time” is an

            Every morning before school the boy lies on the floor in thefront parlor peeking out through a crack in the blind of the door,watching and waiting for the girl next door to emerge from her houseand walk to school. He is shy and still boyish. He follows her, walkssilently past, not daring to speak, overcome with a confused sense ofsensual desire and religious adoration. In his mind she is both a saintto be worshipped and a woman to be desired. His eyes are "often fullof tears," and one evening he goes to the back room where the priesthad died. Clasping the palms of his hands together, he murmurs, "0love! 0 love!" in a prayer not to God, but to the concept of love andperhaps even to the girl, his love. Walking with his aunt to shop onSaturday evenings he imagines that the girl's image accompanies him,and that he protects her in "places the most hostile to romance." Inthe mixed symbolism of the Christian and the Romantic or Orientalmyths Joyce reveals the epiphany in the story: "These noises con-verged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore mychalice safely through a throng of foes." He is

One autumn afternoon she went out back to empty the Mistress’s chamber pot into the privy, unaware that a visitor she thought gone had not yet departed. She opened the privy door and stepped inside. Just as she lifted the porcelain lid and prepared to pour the pot’s contents into the hole, the door opened and someone stepped inside the small

From somewhere in the stillness, she felt a soft breeze on her neck and heard a faint whisper in her ear “Lacey....” A trickle of fear ran down her spine as she gave a furtive glance around the room. She was alone, wasn’t she? Were there vagrants in the area? Afraid and needing to hear a human voice, she called out, “Hello? Is anyone here?”

She pulls her scarlet coat closer wintry wind pushes by. Her delicate features scrunch up in discomfort as the bitter air pricks skin. Maria squints her radiant, jade eyes at the multitudinous papers posted on the wall and sees the multiple reports of missing people. As she warily strolls further down, she notices a large chalkboard covered with an innumerable amount of names. There is space beside the name Alma, and Maria furrows her eyebrows in confusion while searching for a writing tool. Her fingers desperately dig into the snow and uncover a small piece of white chalk. She scribbles her name down, and as she turns around her eyes find a doll that looks identical to her resting within the shop. Her emerald-colored eyes widen like saucers as she inspects the doll. The urge to go to the doll burns bright inside her, as if she is a moth to the flame. She looks at the oddly shaped door, her stomach churning in suspicion. The door is jammed and she gives it one final push with her shoulder, turning around in disappointment. The door opens to reveal her look alike, within her reach! Maria darts towards the doll, but not before nearly tripping over a moving object. Her breathing grows ragged as the doll heads over to the door, its entryway shutting. Her eyes slowly move back to the center table, where the doll no longer stands. Maria's green orbs finally rest on the doll. While debating whether

Two minutes. All views simply fading from her mind into thin oblivion as her eyes focus on the rich soil path leading to the train station, always crowded by ghosts with no conscience; however, now the ghosts are transparent as no one is present. Walking towards the isolated tree, Adriana stands in perplexment as to why her true love is absent. A moist drop lands on her cheek, as a metallic smell arises opposite of water from rain. Her hand leads up to wipe the liquid, as a sharp intake of breath is audible when wide emerald eyes meet a blush red rather than clarity- A sharp hum fills her mind, starting gradual but heightening in sound, piercing ferociously through her ears, and numbing her mind. Her airway blocks as if someone has sharply dug their hand down to her soul, and latched onto her heart. Adriana’s chest heaves up and down rapidly, struggling to allow the once sweet air within. Hesitance clouds her conscience, as her eyes hesitantly trail to see the source of the bloody rain that falls from the sky. His round nose, his dusky complexion, frilly careless hair, black pants that cling to strong legs, and a white stained shirt that fills with winds that once were familiar. Her thoughts only stray to denial and nothing

“Sweetheart, we know you want to play, but you need to come in.” Her mother smiled at her from the doorway. “I’ve made hot chocolate.” It was a lie, of course. Hot chocolate was a delicacy in those times, especially in such a far away land as Scotland, but anything to keep Larissa, their one joy, safe.

When we arrived at Miss McBride’s an hour later, the coffee was brewing and places were set for us at the table with her fine bone china, the antique silver from a chest in the dining room, and linen napkins the color of snow.

Macy sits back in her chair and imbibes her cup of tea, and tries to forget read as her muse. This time was transient, but she felt as if she was always toiling with the unflattering feeling she had on this moment.

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Touched by fading moonlight, the girl looked pale as a ghost, distressed and sorrowful. Great drops fell from her eyes; the heavy rain clouds in her mind let loose their turbulent nature. She felt the muscle of her chin trembled like a small child, again, she looked toward the window as if the darkness outside could soothe her. However, she tried to keep her sobbing down by biting her lips, afraid the woman would “visit” again. Meanwhile, in the hallway, there was only deadly silence, creating an overwhelming sense of emptiness.