Analysis Of ' Mr. Postag197v1 '

Sara’s arms ached from the heavy bag, full of manuscripts she must finish, as she stepped out from the office building and made her way to the company parking lot. Her earlobes tingled from the brisk evening air and buzzed from the loud noises of cars, as they spewed exhaust fumes and rushed down Seventh Avenue. She wondered where the hell were all of these people going at this time of the night.

She hadn’t imagined the charachters so vividly. She hadn’t realized just what she had written or how much she had overestimated the challenge of finishing it. All she had to do was exctly what she had already done - in just a few weeks - again. She had thought she was too young or too inexperienced to write somthing amazing or intricate or meaningful, but as she read over her novel she realized that she already had.

She knew she faced the same challenges. She couldn't speak, but she could still think and

‘They hurt me. So I hurt them’ I said, emotionless, letting my feelings run out like a tap. My head was clear, dangerous. Objects became distorted. Clarice’s face became white. Her heart was a gunshot, piercing my ears with bullets. She waved her arms about and shook her head as if she was trying to will out the memories, the words, the actions.

While she regarded him so thoroughly he barely looked at her, except to make eye contact and give her a complete grimace so she would truly understand his mood. In the coming months he will wish he had taken more notice of her, had created more of a mental image with which he could remember her. Her mousy face, and dull brown hair. He honestly couldn't recall what color her eyes were. Deep down he knew it wasn't his fault, how could he have known this would be the last time he would see her?

Hamilton planned to confront her, and gain some sort of compensation for the humiliation he felt. Flaunting the letter, he hoped to provoke some expression of shock or embarrassment in her unassuming face. But instead, she had smiled at him. So innocently and in such an unaffected way, that Hamilton could almost distinguish an ounce of sadness in her

'The book, how will it end?' I popped the question as his fingers absent mindedly made curls in my hair. We had been lazing around for quiet a while now. Autumn was at its peak and a chill had started settling in my bones. He gave me a sidelong glance as he mumbled, 'Don't you wanna know that yourself?' even though his face remained hidden by his diary I could've sworn I saw a ghost of his smile. 'Come on don't be sucha tease' upon hearing the impatience in my voice he huffed a laugh and sat his diary aside. I sat up beside him, our backs leaning on the old oak tree.

I cringed, stopping halfway to my desk. Almost made it. A moment ago, when I'd peeked in through the classroom door, Mr. Lockhart had been preoccupied—completely absorbed in his book, as usual. I'd thought to sneak in without him noticing, but I should have been wiser than that. Henry Lockhart never misses a beat—no matter how faraway he may seem, his mind is always ticking. He notices every-freaking-thing.

My hand reached for my suitcase, intending to take out my sketchbook. The leather bound book was a comforting thing, the turmoil of anxiety in me calmed as my fingers skimmed across the soft cover. It had been with me through all of this; it still is now. This book was not a traitor, not like Charles, not like Oswald.

She walks to the centermost oak tree near Mason Hall, she finally has found the perfect shady spot on an 80-degree day. She passes the boy from her Psychology class and gives him a small smile. She’s taking a journey to a jungle she doesn’t normally observe, a place where many humans and animals inhabit. There isn’t a breeze and the air feels drier than usual. The Diag seems unfriendly today, as she sits down she’s nervous of her surroundings. She plants herself on a somewhat clean patch of grass and pulls out her shiny laptop. She is reading “Werner Herzog’s Conquest of the Useless” for her freshman English class. As she dives her way into the reading she starts to think about where she is, what is going on around her, and the journey that she is on. A bushy red squirrel approaches her, she’s confused why it’s coming so close and quickly gets up to escape its presence. “Why in the world is this squirrel so close to me” she thinks to herself. The girl moves from the tree but as she get up she starts to notice specific details she hasn’t before.

Riley felt emotional while reading the letter from Roger. He didn’t know Roger could write an average letter for a young man who hasn’t been to school for about 2 years now. When Riley and Roger went to the same school back at Kennedy High School, they both had the same english class for all four of their years their. Roger wasn’t the best at english but on the other hand, Riley was fantastic at it. He was one of the top students every year in the class. But somehow, Roger would always end up in the same class level with Riley. Riley remembers when one time when every student had to write out a ten thousand word novel for the class. This novel was the final for that semester. Students were chosen to read a paragraph from their novel in front

He was trying to piece together a town plot all the while thinking how ludicrous that is when it hit him: he was in Mrs. Walker’s class too! He had written a letter with the rest of the class. What he couldn't remember was what it said. The more he tried to access his childhood, the more it eluded him. He remembered Mrs. Walker. He could recall how much trouble he was always in. He even unlocked the recollection of Amy Kessler: the first girl he had ever kissed. But the letter or what was written on it ran from his struggling mind. As he battled to remember, he glanced down at the lock, now twisting and flipping in his nervous hands. The violet glow was growing stronger. Why was everything different after Flemming read the letters? Why was his best friend not here? Why was Mike rich? Questions began swirling around faster and faster. Tom had to grab the stage to steady his weakening knees. He closed his eyes in an attempt to calm his mind and nerves. The questions still dug at the back of his mind like gnawing

“If I weren’t so hell-bent on revenge, you’d be fine. It wouldn’t change what happened to our boy, but at least we’d have each other. I’m so sorry, Marc.” She closed her eyes and wept silently. “If I’d known what I was capable of,, I wouldn’t have unleashed my wrath–exacted revenge, but I had no way of knowing the damage I’d do.”

“It has developed a mind of its own!” Rowley yells. “In fact, rumor has it, that this book can bend reality to its will. Any time the book starts getting ‘bored’ it will try to make the story it is writing more interesting.”

The impact of her lithe body against the shrubbery didn’t bother her that much, as it certainly was not her first time to attempt such an endeavour. Her dressing gown was snugged by a stray branch, causing a sizable hole to appear near the seams. The young lady’s hair was windswept with whatever breeze she had acquired due to the physical activity. Her mother remained oblivious to her escapade into the streets of Boston.