A Short Story : A Story?

Five minutes later, Amira called out again. “Sara, I see something in my room. Can you come and look at it? I’m scared.”

To begin with, the narrator’s emotional bond that grew with her grandmother was slow but impactful. One day she was sick and her grandmother had taken care of her, using homemade balm she describes as “sun shining through the darkness of your eyelids” (Viramontes 33). As a result of this feeling of care and warmth she became fond of her time with her grandmother. Out of all her sibling, she was the one that chose to visit her and help with chores. On the contrary to the beliefs of her sisters, the

Her death, moreover, comes through the agency of an apparently gratuitous and incomprehensible evil. Her ability to accept such a death is therefore the supreme test of her faith. That the grandmother at the moment of death truly embraces the Christian mystery is her great triumph. Although, in Christian terms, such a moment is always a gift, it is one for which the recipient has prepared throughout her life. The grandmother’s most essential attribute is therefore not her meddlesomeness or her smugness, of which there has been considerable evidence throughout the story, but her maternal compassion and concern, and it is through this maternal love that she has her moment of revelation. As O’Connor once described it, “she realizes . . . that she is responsible for the man before her and joined to him by ties of kinship which have their roots deep in the mystery she has been merely prattling about so far.” The action of grace is not confined altogether to the grandmother but begins to undermine The Misfit’s own egotism and sadism. Insisting on the possibility of redemption for even this most evil of her

Rosie could see that Lillian was very religious. The two statues were about a foot high. She could see the names engraved of Saint Anthony and Saint Michael. There were smaller ones by the clock of Jesus on a cross and the other with him carrying the cross on his back. She couldn’t make out the portrait of a woman with a cloak gazing downward, but all this explains Lillian’s calm. Still things within the house and the lack of exchange gnawed at her. “Just a few things.”

She didn’t get a response but she knew that Susan had heard her and would eventually come out. As Mary sat on her wooden bench waiting for her daughter to bring out next load of laundry, she was distracted by her ashen, blistered hands. It wasn’t uncommon for Mary to lose herself gazing at her hands. The rough, marred skin was the only physical account of all the works she had done over her life. She was making a note to put some balm on her hands after she finished for the day and simultaneously reminiscing about a scar she had gotten from harvesting tobacco as a little girl when she heard a rustling at the gate.

In this story, the grandmother 's journey from controlling self-absorption to grace denotes a Christian 's journey towards redemption. As we begin to look at the grandmother, it is important to note that she has no name. The story opens by, “The grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida” (276). She is one of three main characters made mention of in this story who are not given a name, followed by the children’s mother and the Misfit. In the opening four paragraphs the grandmother is been referred to three times, but always with her title rather than her name. Since the grandmother has no name and only a

Inside this notebook were some of my Little Grandma's writings, clearly one of her God-given gifts and she used it in a way that was and is still pleasing to the God with whom she had a very close relationship. It appears, in her words, that her mother, my great grandmother, was also a Christian woman of simple

The passion and admiration in her daughter’s voice, moved Charity to tears as Martha talked on of her remembrance’s, such as her mother’s first hunt, and how she always made sure they were safe and never let them go hungry. She talked about how she admired her storytelling ability when she told them all the stories of her ancestors. She even spoke of her teaching them how to catch dewa's and tame them, and she talked about the night the spirit lightning visited them and how brave she was then. And, how brave she was when the whirlwind flipped the wagon over and scared them; “but it didn't scare you, Mama; you were always fearless!” Martha exclaimed.

Page 5: I moved out of my Tia Martha 's house, Jesus and I visited her often we got an apartment of our own. Colorful decorations covered the building top to bottom. One can see the walking park through my cherished window in the only bedroom within our apartment. We built a family of our own, our little girl was named Alicia. Dark brown hair and bright lightly brown eyes brings out her beauty. Over time, she was stumbling, crawling, standing and nearly walking.

Madeline stopped dead in her tracks when she saw that Gabriel’s things were gone from the room when she returned. Had he left her? She shook her head, trying to calm her anxious heart. Gabriel didn’t seem like the type that would just up and leave because she was uncertain about what she wanted. It seemed more likely that he had just moved to a different room.

“Are you sure you want to go in there, Your Highness?” the guard said. “There 's no telling what she 's capable of.”

Mary Maloney sat by the fireplace, her frail head tilted against the lined leather chair, listening to the whispers of the fire. She closed her eyes, her hand resting thoughtfully against her cheek, remembering the feel of the cold leg of lamb held firmly in her delicate hands. She was always remembering, especially in her old age.

The cold thin air from the November sky had left a lot to be desired. The weak winds had left a reminder of the time of year the people here knew all too well; winter was fast approaching in Erie. Even though she’d often rescinded the idea of using it, Cleo had used the commuter bus as it was the only option she had.

When Mrs. Chipley and Sally climbed the stone steps to Aunt Sarah’s porch, the great winds slapped them across their faces in frustration that they had escaped the rain. The sky was dark with night and storm clouds. Mrs. Chipley rapped the oak door. Soon the door was ajar, and it emitted a low voice.

When I walked through the door, Grandma Becky was sitting at the table, staring at the door as if she was waiting on someone or something to walk through it; it was a moment before she spoke. “Come sit down,” she said. Timidly, I walked over to the table and sat down across from her.