A Short Story : A Uncle's House?

In the short story “The Writer in the Family” Jonathan, the narrator is a second generation of the family. He seems to be same his father care people beside him. Therefore, his aunt’s Frances wants Jonathan to use his dead father’s voice to write the letter with the content of the family situation to grandmother know. Consequently, Jonathan who decides to write a letter to lie his grandma is his aunt idea of success and image have affected characters such as Jonathan and Jack, also wants to tell his grandma the critical sense of himself in the last letter.

The blazing light was shining in my face and a slight breeze blew through the arched windows. I spotted an open chest in the attic, whilst spring cleaning. The outside rim of the box was covered in dust and cobbled webs; the hinge was rusty, making a creak noise against the ghost-quiet room. Rummaging my hand around the chest there was a scratchy-substance digging against my fingers. As the sun faded from my sight I lifted up the mysterious object. It was an old rustic book; I flipped through the delicate pages, every touch made a crinkling

The mouldy, rotting, brown house stood in front of Emily, only fear keeping her feet planted to the ground. Moaning and creaking noises being projected from the house. The grass was damp from the evening fog and every time she took a step the mud squelched. The bottom step squeaked as she applied pressure with her foot, she let out a sigh of relief as the old structure hadn’t swallowed her up. The door, slightly off colour from the rest of the house, loomed over her like a giant as he reached for the brass door handle. A shiver ran through her body like an electric current, the musty smell of a house that had been long abandoned filled Emily’s nose. It was dim and uninviting. The furniture dusty and old, looking as if it would crumble to dust if she was to touch it. Mould ate away at

If this story had been told from a first person point of view, the reader my not have gotten this in depth of a description of the setting. Without the reader understanding that the house was boarded up and abandoned, to the point where it seems

. Entering through a set of double doors, he stood flabbergasted by its size and furnishings of a large bed, desk, several stuffed chairs and even a fireplace. Book shelves, lined one of its walls, entirely filled from floor to ceiling with books, but the balcony, drew his attention with its panoramic view of the city, however the bed beckoned him, and looking very inviting, quickly stripped himself of his armor and clothes to climb into it and when his head hit the goose down pillow, was fast asleep.

The bunkhouse was nearly empty, the men in the dining hall. The sun was just rising above the horizon, peeking through the dusty windows. If a blind man walked into the rectangular building, he would have never known a man named George was sitting on a bunk near the blackened stove, gazing at the floor, his eyes full of morose. The mattress next to him and the shelves hanging above it were empty, as if no one had sat on the bed or placed their belongings on the makeshift apple box shelves in a long while.

She turned something dull and boring into something that’s helpful and creative. Her superb use of examples made her article come to life as she showed precisely how leftovers can be appetizing. The benefits of using leftovers, which were shown throughout this essay, demonstrate why families should be more thoughtful about their food. Many people don’t have time every night to prepare a fresh dinner for their family, and don’t have the resources to buy additional food every week or two. Sustainable cooking has numerous benefits, many of which could save families time and money. Perhaps Americans should be more open to the idea of using

Fixing his eyes on the place where the light had shone down he searched for stars, clouds, the slightest hint of moonlight, yet found nothing, and shutting his eyes again, resolved to sleep until daylight. Before the numbness could swallow him, a crawling sensation on his right calf alerted him to the presence of some creature lurking there, a small animal with strength, insect or lizard. With a simultaneous kick of his right foot and flail of his left arm, he managed to smack it off, then laid as still as possible till the fire in his bones subsided. Sleep overtook him, smiling in the dark. He could

After two long hours of traveling with nothing to look at but the passing trees, we finally arrived at the farm. As we piled out of the car, I looked at the dirt road we came in on and turned to the house. It was one story and had a red tin roof, surrounded by a large grassy field and then woods beyond that. Twirling around, I walked into the house and plopped onto the closes bed. As everyone else unpacked, I locked myself in the room like a petulant child.

When we went inside the spiral white wood staircase had fool’s gold railing. In the kitchen there was a table with 4 twine wrapped legs, and a wood stove with a chimney. In the living room there was 3 small chair couches and another chimney but this time with a fireplace. When we went upstairs there were 2 bedrooms, another living room with 4 couches this time and another fireplace. In my bedroom there was a big dresser with plenty of space, and there was a window, with a window screen, and glass! The bed was big and luxurious. And John’s bed was smaller but luxurious. His room was pretty much like mine, except mine had a fireplace with a chimney.

The kitchen was quiet as he opened the door. Through the glass window near the sink, he could see the sun was just starting to rise from behind the once dark horizon. A rooster crowed from outside, signaling the start of the day. A fresh, cool breeze floated in through the open window. On the table was a very small dark wooden bed which had a small heart craved into the centerpiece. It also had a small white mattress, a red and blue sheets, and a beautiful down quilt.

Gathering up what courage she could, the child removed her blanket and allowed her feet to meet the cold, hard floor. The sobbing grew more distinct with the decreasing distance between the girl and the dark underbelly of the bed. Hesitantly, she stretched her arm out under the bed, for it was too dark to try to take a peek. Shaky fingers met with a wooden object, a box. It had not been there before, she was sure.

When he arrived at the camp, he saw his father picking up the trash from breakfast. “I’m sorry, Dad. I made a mistake,” Brayden sighed. “I’ve just been ... mad....” His father gave him a look of understanding and patted him affectionately on the back.

She makes her way to the room when getting closer to the room she saw how it was so eerie and shady looking. She again shook off the feeling and entered the room. Looking around she looks at the baren room. The wallpaper crumbling off the edges of the wall, the bed sheets old and dusty showing no one has been in this room for weeks maybe months. She walks over to the bed sitting her stuff down in the nearby chair. Laying down on the

The door of her room was slightly open, leaving a crack between the door and its frame. Upon the door, there is a small window half covered by a curtain. Light from the