A Short Story : The Headless Horseman

‘The Horses’, by Edwin Muir, is a poem which forced me to think about the unthinkable – the annihilation of humankind as a result of a nuclear war. Paradoxically, however, Muir seems to me to take an optimistic view of such an event. In my essay I intend to give a synopsis of the poem and discuss some of the techniques that Muir employs to get his message across. I will discuss his use of Biblical language and imagery, the structure of the poem, his rhythm and rhyme and his use of symbolism.

Looks are Deceiving The short story “Old Horse” revolves around a sarcastic man with a “long face, [and] big, square teeth” and because of his appearances, he is nicknamed Old Horse by his students. The narrator, a fellow co-worker, fails to recognize the “true” character of Old Horse because of the reputation he upholds with the students. The students believe his sarcasm to be too “cutting” and they dislike him as a result. However, readers are quick to recognize that Old Horse is actually a sympathetic and compassionate man.

The short story “Horses of the Night” by Margaret Laurence is told from the point of view of a young girl named Vanessa but mostly focused upon her older cousin Chris. Chris begins as an imaginative, optimistic, and hopeful boy set on his dreams for the world. As the story progresses, Chris is demoralized by life to the point where he no longer seems to be what he once was. The final breaking point appears when he begins to fight in the war and is sent home to a mental hospital after eventually going insane. A skillfully woven horse motif gives insight to Chris’s inner thoughts as well as the theme of the piece.

In the story “Horseman,” by Richard Russo, a young English professor, Janet Moore, explores the complexities of her marriage, academic, and social life. The plot of the story, which jumps around the presence and the past memory, may seem diverse and confusing. However, in the end, Russo deliberately combines those layers, illustrates the interrelations of Janet’s experiences and relationships, and efficiently delivers Janet’s thoughts and her self-evaluation.

Everyone has a different way to deal with overwhelming situations. It can be more difficult for people with mental illness to cope with the hardships of life. For instance, in “Horses of the Night,” the character of Chris has dissociative symptoms that can be linked to his depression. Margaret Laurence’s short story tells the story of Chris, a young teenager who moves to from a small farm to the town of Manawaka in order to go to high school. The story is told by his younger cousin, Vanessa. As she grows up, she learns that Chris is depressed. The author uses the theme of fantasy to show that he does not cope well with reality. The horses, Shallow Creek, and the children are symbols that show us the fantasy that Chris lives in.

One 's actions are first sparked by their goals and passions, but as they grow, outer forces invade those thoughts and make them clouded, their passions start to fade and eventually disappear. As children, we dream about what we want to be when we grow up. We have hope in our eyes, and nothing can hold us back. As we grow and learn, we are forced into realization of the harsh realities we live in, making our dreams sink. We must decide if we are going to let these forces knock us down, and conform to them, or stand strong and not take 'no ' for an answer. Margaret Laurence allows us to follow the development of Chris and how outer forces effect him in the short story "Horses of the Night".

I awoke from my nap with a jolt. There was a man stabbing his sword over and over again into my belly. What is with these people and swords? He yelled out that his name was Beowulf but all I could do was howl in pain. “Please stop!” I screamed but he didn’t stop. That made me very angry and so I pushed him off and prepared to fight. We fought for a long time before he finally defeated me and as my world slowly went black all I could hear was the tapping off claws and then my mother’s

The world as it is depicted in Beowulf is home to many aspects of society that are at odds with behaviors acceptable in modern culture, but perhaps shares a startling number of similarities as well. As part of the Anglo-Saxon society, the concept of loyalty is imbued into the seams of the civilization, and allegiance can be found split between lords and kin. Tales concerning themselves with eternal human problems are not few and far between in Beowulf—given that it is an epic poem—and antithesis governs the flow of the narrative. In the midst of the battles raging between evil and good, heroes and villains, mourning and glory, and victory and defeat, death is omnipresent, constantly looming and prompting men to drift towards their swords. This is a society in which chances for a clean slate—a tabula rasa—are minimal, and every action is chiseled in stone, forever etched into eternity. During a time period when very little is certain, the only guarantee of being remembered, of having your name go down stamped with your identity, is through heroism and action. Boasting is a means through which one can build a reputation for himself, planting his name into his opponents’ heads and setting a foundation for success. It remains a skill to be used prudently, though, as overstating and misrepresenting one’s abilities has the great potential to yield adverse repercussions.

Crazy Horse was born in 1840 near Rapid City ,South Dakota. He was an Oglala Sioux Indian chief who fought against the removal to a reservation in the Black Hills. In 1876 he joined with Cheyenne in a surprise attack against General. George Crook, Then united forces with Chief Sitting Bull for the Battle of the Little Bighorn. In 1877, Crazy Horse surrendered and was killed by a soldiers. Since his death, Crazy Horse has become a great mythical figure.

The midnight sky is pitch black with only a slight gleam of light emanating from the moon. The night is so silent that even a pin drop could be heard from miles away. No one is stirring and the world has drifted off into a deep sleep. The night seems blissfully peaceful. But the silence is torn by the sound of rustling leaves in the distance. Two dark shadows emerge from the forest and gaze heavily at the sleeping house. The two figures slowly creep towards the house with devious thoughts racing through their minds. They begin to tear open the window screen and quietly crawl into the house. A flashlight pierces through the darkness and flutters through the rooms. The figures begin to rummage through the house and fill their hands with wealth.

¨Hopefully I get a midget horse¨ I thought as we pulled into the ranch. As I opened the car door, I heard the thunderous THUMP THUMP of horses hooves. ¨Oh God¨ I thought as my stomach turned into a knotted ball. Soon we were greeted by one of the ranch hands and were taken to a dinky shed to get suited up and sign waivers. Then came saddling time. We were taken to the horse pen where we were greeted by the stench of horse manure. I spied out a smaller horse around five to six feet tall and hoped to get that one as my horse. Shure enough my grandma got that horse as she is the shortest. I spied out yet another horse on the shorter side and hoped to get that one. My turn to get saddled came next and sure enough, with my luck, I get the second

Suddenly I gain consciousness. Unable to open my eyes, I feel a cluster of dried sticks poking my back as if I was lying on a bed covered by pins. A constant ringing noise almost blankets the sound of the leaves dancing with the wind around me. With a gentle sigh I allow myself to build enough energy for me to open an eye. My eye began to follow a path towards the only light source it sees, the fire from a wooden torch gripped with my left hand. I open my other eye and began to force my lean body to a kneeling position. The smell of decomposing leaves irritates my nose as I gaze at the identical oak trees surrounding me like a wall of armoured gladiators. Using my wrinkled hands and injured legs I crawl towards

Every day I would lug myself out of my bed while my alarm clock flashed 5:30 AM in bright red. I would forage though my dresser for a pair of worn out Wranglers, which I would match with an old button down shirt. I would slink down the stairs and out into the garage where I kept my aged boots and hat. I would restlessly pull the black square-toed boots over my tried feet and position the old dusty brown cowgirl hat on my head before I made my way to the barn. When I got to the barn I would gather up the eight main horses and lead them into the barn three at a time, and into their stalls. While the horses were preoccupied with their morning grain and hay, I would try to groom the young, untamed horses without getting my face kicked in. Once, they finished their meal I would lead them out to the pulling fence that was made out of large log telephone poles. The pulling fence was the site where these young horses would learn some hard life lessons. When I had fed all the older horses I would move on to the north pasture and gather up the colts and yearlings. I would repeat the same feeding and grooming regimen with them. All in all before I had my own breakfast, I would have seventeen horses curried, fed and tethered to the fence of the

Breathless, Alex ran through the forest. It was twilight, normally his favorite time of day, but this golden hour took on a malicious tone. These woods were full of weeds, slippery moss covered stones , and twisted, thorny vines. Alex’s foot caught on a snarled root, and he tumbled onto the cold dirt. Alex sensed something was amiss, and he knew The Beast was growing ever nearer. As Alex lay sprawled on the forest floor, a single thought ran through his mind. “I’m done.” with the will to live draining from him. Alex lay still in the dirt and leaves resting for his last time. The soreness in his legs was so unbearable he wanted the release of death; craved for it even. “Thump”....... “Thump” The Beast's feet approached slowly and

I screamed aloud, reprimanding, greased palm and feet, Betraying myself, I beat a hasty retreat. Heroic fortitude, dynamic chutzpah, freedom, the choice to do good and falter All silent questions, went unspoken and the society held me defaulter I gave up, slashed wrist, mine and his verbal fight Life, no longer felt precious no way like cherished knight I was the woman in the cheval glass, I was raped