Clemmie Sue's Analysis

A “survivor car” is what the newspapers called it, did not stop such notice; gathering from the darkness a moment of miracle, and then disappear for the next bend. Michaelist wasn’t even sure of the facts – he told the press about the incident. The yellow car the one going toward new york, approximating beyond, hurried back to myrtle’s location, and abruptly change target to the nearest obstacle in the road, colliding in a big speed and intensity, surrounding the road with metallic parts of a wrecked car.

While Mrs. Cole has been on many adventures around the world, her childhood adventure never went past the borders of her hometown. Mrs. Cole’s life began in a farming community in North Anson County. She lived about three and a half miles from the eighty-seven student school and all of her needs were met with in the borders of her town. Mrs. Cole mentioned that luxury was not part of the daily life of her small farm community; only two students drove cars to her high school but that was due to necessity, since they had jobs at a mill after school. Remembering very little traffic, she reminisced that the town had one stoplight during her early

Jackie and I were now halfway to where Mike’s car wreck took place, on Highway 46. The accident must have been pretty bad because it was reported on the news, a rare case, I thought to myself. I prayed Mike was going to be ok. The drive felt like it was taking hours to get to the scene . I could feel the tension in the car growing. The fact that one of our closest friends could be gravely injured was a slug shot from a shotgun into our chests. Jackie was still distressed as she drove; tears dripped from her eyes like droplets from a cool water bottle on a hot day.

Elsie May walks into the parlor where MR. WINCHESTER is sitting in his tan Alvar Aalto tank chair that he brought back with him when he returned home from Chelsea’s Arms Asylum. Mr. Winchester is a beautifully masculine sixty-five-year-old with silver-gray hair that hangs to his shoulders. He is as kind as a butterfly but hard as a rock when it comes to his loved ones. Mr. Winchester does not look up from his newspaper.

Clemmie Sue Jarvis, an elderly vivacious pig farmer lives in Wrongberight, a farming hamlet on the eastern shores of Virginia. Late Saturday afternoon she hauls ass out of her driveway and turns south on Grayson Road. Instantly she transforms into the sex kitten Danica Patrick on the last lap of the Daytona 500. The crowd is cheering her on, she can see the checkered flag waving in the breeze, so she puts the pedal to the metal and the speedometer reaches 157mph. The sound of thunder in the distance quickly brings her back to reality. Moreover, to the fact that her rusty Chevy pickup, held together with hairpins, bubble gum, and duct tape, has a maximum speed of only 30mph. Fortunately, she has the good sense to drive with extreme caution since

With mild aggravation, Bailey drives down a winding and twisting road remotely traveled with scenic attributes. As the trip continues, Bailey considers and communicates to his mother that he will turn around if the house does not appear soon. Sudden memory confirms that the house was in Tennessee and the subsequent movement-based on slight embarrassment startles the cat that she had concealed before the trip began. While grandma simply tries to hold on to something that peaks her interest in this trip, eagerness and revelation further stresses her son and startles the stowaway cat that should not have made the trip anyway. The cat proves to be the mechanism that turns an already hassle filled trip into a fate filled voyage.

At the outset, during one cloudless afternoon in South Central, Los Angeles, a five-year-old juvenile by the forename of Anthony, cycles his training wheel down the pavement of the road while he unwearyingly waits for his mother Ronnie and her boyfriend Caine to finish transporting their properties to the van for their perpetual relocation to the metropolitan city of Atlanta, Georgia. As the adolescent voyages further on down the pathway, a green Pontiac LeMans Sedan comprised of four men with black masks obscuring their discrete identities, deliberately cruise alongside the curb contiguous to the last house on the street. As the four men approach the residence of Anthony and his mother Ronnie, one of the vehicle’s passengers bellows out

The tension rising in the stopped car is showed even more so when the car wouldn’t start quickly and Jean Louise responds, “‘No good for city driving.’” (Lee 14). This failing transportation shows the tension of Hank and Jean Louise’s relationship. The movement that Lee creates also clearly shows how Jean Louise has hardly changed and how she refuses to change in a continuously changing

As the family is driving along, the grandmother awakens from a nap and recalls “an old plantation that she had visited in this neighborhood once when she was a young lady” (189). This recollection happens while the family is driving through the town of Toomsboro, GA. The grandmother is extremely manipulative and selfish and coaxes the family into visiting the old plantation by lying to them with the possibility of finding hidden treasure. The name of the town is only a slight indication of the terrible tragedy that is yet to come. It is no

In the rural southern town of Wrongberight, one of its sixty-four residents, vivacious Clemmie Sue Jarvis, who stands 4 feet 3, and looks as if she weighs less than a hummingbird, turned fifty-nine last week. The townsfolk say she has less sense than the blessed Lord gave Johnny Homer’s jackass. In fact, this dent in her personality brightens up a dull day in Wrongberight. Today as the townsfolk were entering the Waylost Baptist Church for Sunday morning service they heard what transpired on Saturday night and instantly, their wagging tongues began to whisper Clemmie Sue’s name during Preacher Johnathan’s sermon.

The bright red fire truck sped through the streets filled with uniform, pale grey colored houses. The wheels skidded to a stop in front of a house that looked just like the others, as Beatty violently pulled the brake backwards. The men went tumbling backwards, as if the truck had just hit a brick wall in front of them.

She snatches the wheel out of an attached circular freefall, and with a well meaning jerk to the right, her car is on the road once again. It bobs between the yellow and white lines for a several moments before she finally comes to her senses, putting those few short months of drivers training to use. As she manages to regain control of the car she begins to frantically search for Nick, calling out into the night. “Nick! NICK!” she screams repeatedly, her voice quickly becoming hoarse with each impactful cry. Her eyes scan the sides of the road, opposed to the center in her moment of madness thinking that it was possible for him to abandon her mid drive.

Early in their lives, two young sisters, Ruth and Lucille, experience loss and abandonment from the men in the family. Their grandfather had died in a train derailment into Lake Fingerbone before they were born, and their father leaves them while they are very young. Then their mother commits suicide, but not before dropping the girls off on their grandmother’s porch. Moreover, then, “she sailed in Bernice’s Ford from the top of a cliff named Whiskey Rock into the blackest depth of the lake (23), again into Lake Fingerbone. After only a few months their grandmother dies leaving the girls to the remainder of the family, a collection of eccentric females. The girls deal with all of this by relying on each other. Soon, their great Aunt’s,

Miss Brill is a single woman, probably in her mid to late fifties. She lives alone in a very small space without even a cat or bird. She has a collection of vintage clothing. Her physical appearance is only alluded to in the 18-paragraph short story by Mansfield, but in reading about a day in her life, one has the impression of an intelligent, sensitive

The ruckus from the bottom of the truck is unbearable, because of the noise and excessive shaking. As we slowly climbed the mountain road to reach our lovely cabin, it seemed almost impossible to reach the top, but every time we reached it safely. The rocks and deep potholes shook the truck and the people in it, like a paint mixer. Every window in the truck was rolled down so we could have some leverage to hold on and not loose our grip we needed so greatly. The fresh clean mountain air entered the truck; it smelt as if we were lost: nowhere close to home. It was a feeling of relief to get away from all the problems at home. The road was deeply covered with huge pines and baby aspen trees. Closely examining the