A Descriptive Short Story (Sad, Mysterious)

If human beings are a part of nature, it can be assumed that they too have violent tendencies; in that respect, violence is a natural and innate response. Though we pride ourselves on being able to control these urges, they are always lurking somewhere beneath the surface of our most serene and civilized moments.

Nowadays, Americans find violence entertaining. It is recorded, viewed, and shared constantly. In Don DeLillo’s short story, “Videotape” a young girl recorded a man that was shot while driving in a car; the video was shown on the news repetitively. The short story revolves around a man at home attentively watching the video; he continuously called on his wife to watch the video with him. This videotape represents how everyone is being desensitized to violence, how there is a growing obsession with violence, and how quickly life can be taken away.

My eyes open. A crisp, cold wind blows through my my window and hits my face.The whistle of the fall air flows through one ear and out the other. It was quiet. The sound of nothingness was fiercely stopped by the blaring on my alarm clock. October 13, 2015, at 9:30 AM, I roll over and hit my alarm clock, The repetitive sound disappears. I throw my sheets to the side and step onto the cold wooden floor. I grab a pair of

Imagine, if you will, a brisk night wind coming fast across a lake carrying a pungent smell, something you can’t quite identify, but is nonetheless familiar enough to send a shiver up your spine. As it hits the trees, they creak out a somber call in the still night air. Or was that groan something more…human? You notice, for the first time, the absence of tires humming on pavement and you wonder if it’s that late, or maybe just a slow night. The soft tapping of your shoes on the sidewalk is the only accompaniment your slow breathing has as you move towards the warmth of your home, holding thoughts of a warm bed in the palm of your hand to keep the chill away. You don’t notice at first, perhaps because the reality of what you’re hearing is

Unfortunately the cycle of violence has lived up to it’s name. As a child not only was I

Posters and pamphlets strewn across the walls accompany the harsh, burning stench of disinfectant. Passing the bodies of former men, and followed by the click-clack of nurses shoes, he sees him. Hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, every bone visible through the thin hospital gown. His love is a shell of the man he once knew, Patty is gone.

Part biography, part social view, a very thoughtful look into inner-city violence and the rules surrounding it. This book describes how his personal history with violence influenced his work with youth and the programs that he has started to support youth. Geoffrey Canada describes the progression of violence that had happened in his lifetime. He also points out that there is a disturbing difference between what the streets were like in the 1960s compared to those of today.

Romance novels are typically based in a set pattern and Karen van der Zee’s A Secret Sorrow is no exception. Meanwhile, in Gail Godwin’s “A Sorrowful Woman”, the romance aspect is not nearly as focused on. While A Secret Sorrow is a nice, easy romance novel, the short story “A Sorrowful Woman” is a much better example of literature, and portrays a much more unique message. The two stories differ greatly when compared by their theme, by the role of motherhood and children, and by how they are written.

The evening was ominous and gray. The cold wind blew softly, and carried a heavy scent of blood through the streets. A loud intense screech pierced the ears of its listener, leaving the body trembling in fear.

The cool wind blows through the Melbourne alley ways, it’s 3am on the 8th of March and not a soul could be heard. The street lights were flickering and there wasn’t a car insight. The atmosphere, cold and dark, would give a deathly shiver down anyone's spine. Then, a loud, gut wrenching scream broke all silence. The sound of fleeting footsteps echoed throughout Hosier Lane and moments later sirens screeched through the streets of Melbourne.

“Talia, wake up! It’s time to get on the road!” I hear Mom say. “I don’t want to go, just leave me behind!” I say when I’m half asleep. Then it hits me, tonight we will be out in the open, sleeping under just a thin piece of fabric, where there are bugs, and who knows what different kinds of animals lurk out there. While I sit in the car, I think about the worst possible things that could happen to us. “A bear could come into our tent!” I think to myself. Oh, what a night it’ll

As I listened for the constant scuffling of rats scampering around in the rusty pipes, I tried counting to ten. In the darkness, I went in and out of consciousness, images of my mother and father replaying behind my lids. After a while, I drifted off to a half-conscious sleep riddled with jolts of fear and pangs of hunger. I could no longer close my eyes without seeing the nightmares that have plagued me since I was young.

One early, April morning, people came for me in the dead of night to take me to school. The tinkling sounds of their key inside the lock to the door of my bedroom woke me from a sound sleep. They fumbled with it, betraying their unfamiliarity with the lock, while I rolled over in my bed and half dreamt of reminding my mom that the handle had to be held slightly upwards. When the door opened full there was a pause as light and cool air entered my room, and I propped myself up on my elbows to see why I was hearing such heavy breathing. A tall, middle-aged man approached the foot of my bed, while a short and unfamiliar woman lingered below the doorframe.

At night, beyond the public eye, the rooftop comforts me, provides me a my safe haven. I hear the wind whispering my name to escape: but I do not listen. Being in my own world ushers a feeling of fright, yet also comes as a relief. With no one there to judge me; I sit alone, with the company of my inner demons.. I close my eyes, my demons have assailed me all day, midnight is their time. The void of judgment has remained. It’s dark, but at the end you see a flash of light. So, I walk in the obesity of my mind where the darkness has taken over. The sense of being paralyzed comes to my mind, my fears are woken up and the sense of neglect is off. I smell fear all around. I do not smell the smoke from the burning wood I left. The smell of fear and sweat are much more dominant,I feel my hands are getting sweaty, my body frozen, paralyzed. My heart beats faster than ever before. My Demons have become vigorous. An explosion of fear, rage, sadness and anxiety overwhelms me, but I cannot wake up. Powerless, my demons pull me into the darkest depths of my mind where I try to hold on for dear mercy.

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.