Analysis Of The Number Three Saxon Window

By Saturday afternoon, the eighty-seven residents in the rural southern town of Wrongberight have borne the wrath of four days of intensive intermittent rainstorms. Yet another storm approaches the town from the northeast, augmenting their woes. One of the locals, Clemmy Sue Jarvis since birth has lived here and has a homespun philosophy concerning weather – ‘weather will be weather and it will not prevent her from doing as she damn pleases’. Therefore, around four on this particular Saturday, as ominous clouds lace the sky and soaring Pines bend to the rhythm of gusting wind, she lifts her petite frame into her rusty Ford pickup, and gradually eases out of her driveway. Cautiously, she turns onto Flat Bottom Road and follows it south

The room is lavishly furnished, with the curtains drawn wide. Hedda sits on the sofa and

Upon entry through the threshold of the bubbling slate grey front door of my run-down, colonial style home into the marshmallow warmth of the living room, all was silent except for the crackling of dying embers breathing their last breath in the soot covered 1991 Jotul wood burning stove. The family room remained just as it had been left with not a single object disturbed in the time passed. The walls were still the same shade of elephant skin gray that they had been for the past ten years, as were the worn midnight black sofas. Even the cherry red microfiber dog toy remained sprawled out in the same position; forgotten. The chestnut coffee table, around which the room was center was still covered with the defined creases of my palm engraved into it. However, among the coffee table, I caught a glimpse of something peculiar out of the corner of my eye. The usually neat pile of select magazine and newspaper articles had the edge

with the stars that were unseen through the rapid snowfall, we found another way to stargaze to see what was written. we gazed at constellations that were made with the stains in the wooden ceiling and how they connected with the cracks that were aged with dust. we lost our dreams in the crevices and burnt polish in between some astral consciousness to be elsewhere. our imaginary world was part fiction and part hallucinatory. it led us to envision images of: drinking tea in silence, memories shot, open sores, foreign nostalgia, ghosts, having trust, lying in bed, without touching, without words and without

The stone remains cold from decades of freezing winter nights as it sat neglected andunwanted. The couches is decorated in a faded flaming pattern of roses. The musty smell continues into the library. Shelves of forgotten novels line the fourwalls, and a large window is strategically placed between two of the shelves. The lights hangingfrom the ceiling are dimmed, and the melodic ringing of wind could be heard. Bodies crowdtogether in the small room, and all heads gaze at one single item. The television growls awarning, but it is set up in the form of a welcome to the hotel. Above the shelves sit manyknickknacks: a beat up camera, adusty music box, a rickety old fortune telling machine, andeven a vintage girl’s doll sits on the wall with beady eyes staring down at me. I gaze at my oldfriends. Their presence adds a hype to the idea of what awaits. The television blanks out and thefamiliar spike in my heartbeat comes, and there goes the lightning right on queue. The creek ofthe door is heard over the rumbling of voices, when a bright light blinds my vision for a quicksecond. A heated breeze flocks into the room from the shadowy corridor. The empty smell of steam surrounds, and it caresses my arms the further into the room Igo. The cold brick walls brush against my arms as families rush past me. The concrete floorchanges into a steel bridge. Over the railing, the boilers cascade down to the floor standing talland rusted. The smell of oil and steel disgustingly mix. The sound of my feet clattering againstthe steel reverberates around the room. The bridge splits into two and leads the newcomers intoan aloof. I remember, in the end it doesn’t matter; however, I am pulled to the right. The redboilers line the path as it slowly descends. The clatter of footsteps follows, and the steam in theroom thickens, crushing me. I turn to the elephant in the room. A steely service elevator door threatens the room in amagnificent haze of power. Above the powerful door

They were passing a magnificent antebellum mansion on the left. A deep-buried memory hovered on the edge of consciousness just out of reach. She knew this house, but how. Something wasn’t right. It shouldn’t be here. It belonged further down the street. She could visualize a large crystal chandelier above a glossy wooden floor with the rugs and furniture removed to make ample room for their guests to

Each night another candle is lit until all eight candles and the servant candle stand as light against the darkness. It is generally placed on a stand and then placed in a window for its dancing lights to be seen and to contrast the dark of the night.

Then I became vaguely aware of the horrible creaking noise, like a building was going to collapse. Thumping Footsteps in the hall outside.

"Here goes," I said when almost immediately we were blinded by light.Inside was an opulent red room dressed in gold. Cautiously, we crept inside and examined every inch around us. The room was cavernous but busily organized with furniture and decorations that all matched the red and gold theme. At the center was an impressive-looking gold table and to its right was an elegantly perched golden stand. Along the ruby red walls were bookshelves filled with dozens and dozens of beautiful books encased in gold shimmer.

I slowly moved from the glass chair into Doctor Cortez’s large office. His office was highly decorated with mini figurines and empty boxes. Of course, I should have expected that.

Her aunt’s house had always been drafty. Miriam recalled her childhood visits to the manor. Endless drafty rooms full of neglected and forlorn furniture. Another waft of cool air brushed against her neck sending chills down her spine. She shivered. Since her aunt’s death the manor seemed gloomier. An eerie presence

Guardedly, she tried the corroded knob. It rotated. She left the door ajar and took a deep breath. Evelyn pressed gently on the door. It opened. Solace flooded though her when she confronted a tastefully decorated foyer repurposed as an admissions area. A quaint desk with a guest book had been placed in the far right corner with some chairs set out, upon a table were magazines. The Yellow Stone, Wedding Dresses — A Fiancé's Guide, The Charming Life, Arts & Architecture—before turning her attention to the desk

The room is dark for there is no light shining through the window next to the drawer like any other day. A folded paper in the bucket is settled next the drawer, that always have been cleaned, but not this time when I looked. I can smell the fresh tea where it is sitting on top of the night stand. I am sitting in a chair next to my parent’s bed with my ill mother laying on top of her bed.

A coffee table is incomplete until and unless it’s properly styled and decorated. Flowers, books, trinkets are fine but nothing can be compared to those beautiful flames of candle dancing on the wall. A candle lights up your mood by just scattering on a flat surface of coffee table no matter what size or shape it is.

The silence of the store is broken again by a soft meow from behind the box. A tender creature, with white paws and stomach, approaches from behind the box and investigates the new visitor to her home. Large, green eyes stare at the newcomer, awaiting the attention that many before had given to her. Once the engagement is over, the dark grey animal will carry about with her business and playing with her sister.