Creative Writing: Antony´s Grave Essay

Remaining on the gravel road, passing the first curb with a big old pine tree on the left. The sudden calmness takes over my body, as I approach her gravestone feeling her presence. The smell of fresh, crisp pine trees in your nasal cavities. The smell is much stronger this morning from the rain storm the night before and so relaxing like the smell of a little tree air freshener. I approach to her gravestone, as the summer morning warmth hugs me tightly and the morning breeze runs through my long black hair. The chorus of birds flocking in the blue sky. As I walk up the little hill to her gravestone, I pass the baby boy that lays beside her. His old, dirty gray gravestone in a heart shape with his name engraved in between a ribbon. His bright,

In the beginning of the short story, as Brother reflects on Doodle’s life, the author uses personification and foreshadowing to create a mood of remorse. As he gazes out of the window into his backyard, Brother states that “the graveyard flowers were blooming. ...speaking softly the names of our dead” (Hurst 1). The flowers provide flashbacks of the past, and foreshadow a loss of life. The loneliness felt by Brother causes readers to consider how they would feel if their loved one was gone. As Brother observes the seasons, it is noted that “summer was dead but autumn had not yet been born” (Hurst 1). The personifications of the seasons as stages in the cycle of life and death creates an unsure and uncertain mood. The shift between seasons creates an idea of change and uncertainty of events to come. Hurst creates a mood of remorse through

Mark Antony, in the play The Tragedy of Julius Caesar, was a brave, intelligent, pleasure-loving, and cunning man. He was loyal to his friend, Caesar, whom he considered a true friend. He looked at life as a game in which he had a signified part to play, and played that part with excellent refinement and skill.

The most predominate and important aspect In the play Julius Caesar, by William Shakespeare are the speeches given to the Roman citizens by Brutus and Antony, the two main charaters, following the death of Caesar. Brutus and Antony both spoke to the crowd,using the same rhetorical devices to express their thoughts. Both speakers used the three classical appeals employed in the speeches: ethos, which is an appeal to credibility; pathos, which is an appeal to the emotion of the audience; and logos, which is an appeal to the content and arrangement of the argument itself. Even though both speeches have the same structure Antony’s speech is significantly more effective than Brutus’s.

Robert Frost’s poem “Home Burial,” written in 1914, centers around the conversation of a married couple whose relationship is struggling after the death of their young child. A duality in meaning exists in the poem’s title, “Home Burial,” which references not only the death of their child but also the death of their marriage. Is the child’s death the sole cause of their marital distress? Robert Frost opens the poem in the couple’s home with the husband watching as his wife, Amy, begins to descend the staircase (1-2). After a few verses, the audience has become witnesses to the marriage’s descent into nothingness. The child’s grave lies forever in the background, framed by a small window at the top of the stairs (Frost 24-31). In Robert Frost’s “Home Burial”, the marriage of Amy and her husband is irreparable due to differences in expression, acceptance, and perception.

Crumpled newspapers scattered the table like the bones of dead bodies after war. Windows wiped down of memories huddled between oak frames, facing a street with cosy cottages. Single embroidered carpets hugged the floor, covering the marble tiles in delicate silk. A whisper of wind floated in through cracks of the panes of glass, whispering it's songs of misery throughout the house. I breathed in gulps of air, allowing the icy coolness to fill my lungs, and the morning frost creep out. My glistening blue eyes presented purple bags, and my sleek hair was a tangled cobweb. My feet dragged along the stone floor like the walking of the undead. I’d been up all night, searching and seeking for answers.

i was getting super bored julius had begun to leave at month at a time leaving me with augustus and his family, and his annoying council members . i hated them they were low and sniveling and i could feel their un approving gaze whenever i would be walking around the house not doing my supposed wifely duties, which bothered me because i knew the council members would ask crude questions about me to augustus, i had begun months ago eavesdropping on augustus’s affairs with the council , it probably fueled them saying i would never get married because i wasn't the ideal patrician woman. but today i was determined to go speak to augustus i had to see him and make sure he was ok and not working himself to death like he usually does when

“I need to visit her,” he said, leaving the recycle center and drove down the street. Arriving at the cemetery, Mr. Cassidy parked on the side of the road, walked down the pathway lined with tall tombstones and stopped at the one with Helen Cassidy’s name across the top. “Hello, sweetheart, I love you and wish you were here,” he said, sitting down on the grass beside the

I walked towards the Bleeding Heart Cemetery. The cool October wind blew against my frame, making me wish I wore a coat. I readjusted my grip on my oxygen tank. As I neared Augustus’ grave, the sun light captured the diamond ring Isaac gave me. My stomach flopped upside down. Although the wedding is in 2 weeks, I still felt unsure. I mean, who in their right minds marries their dead boyfriend’s best friend? I slipped the ring into my jean pocket. I located Augustus’ grave and sat down. I felt my stomach churn, realizing I haven’t visited him in months.

After everyone had gone home for their noon dinner, Nancy Hutchinson was still standing staring down at the dead body of her mother. Tessie’s head was caked in blood and there were small bruises all over her body where tiny stones had hit her. After a few years of seeing these same images and countless nightmares she had kept hidden from everyone, Nancy no longer felt as afraid of looking at the dead bodies of past winners of the lottery. It had become normal. This scared her the most. That by partaking in this annual event she would no longer feel anything toward the dead. Today was

Waited on hand and foot as he lay in bed, waiting for his life to slip away. But that time was long gone. His sons and their wives were dead. His grandchildren were dead. All except little Alice. And Alice was far too young and vulnerable to let her face his death alone, unaided. So Craig Weathers, who had been born screaming his lungs out on a wintery day in 1938, dug his own grave. He told Alice it was going to be a pit to compost in, he would line it with bricks come springtime and they would compost in it. He spent long hours writing in his journal he planned to leave Alice. Stories of their family. Advice to her. Information on planting, on the open wild land surrounding their farmhouse, on anything and everything he could think of. He asked that she name her firstborn son after his father, James Weathers. He told her over and over again how much he loved her. He wrote stories of her father’s childhood, of his romance of her mother. All these things he told her in his journal, because he could not bear to worry her. He would not tell her until the last possible second.

Allie woke up and came to consciousness, elated to realize it was simply a nightmare. Her room was pitch black as she gazed around the walls of her room. Rain pounded against her window and thunder was booming off in the distance. A sharp crack of lighting lit her room. With the flash of light, Allie saw her mother covered in blood laid back in a chair across the room. She leaped out of bed to find help, only to see her blood stained father’s grinning face blocking the

“What the hell do you mean he moved away 4 months ago?” I yelled at my mother and she shushed me. “Babe, it’s important to keep calm at this time during the pregnancy.” She said as she took me back inside. I didn’t care but I did care at the same time. This was my only child, it was a miracle I had even kept this child and not had a miscarriage. This baby kept me alive, and in return i kept her alive.

She decided to look down for the rest of the walk after getting glared at by a passerby. As she was watching her feet and skipping over the cracks in the pavement, something had yanked the back of her jacket. Whipping around, Becca saw a shambled family. They were tan and soaking wet; their cardboard home shaped the background of the frightening portrait Becca was faced with. A wave of angry words, desperate words confronted her, echoing without meaning her mind. The mother of the two children fell to her knees weeping, pleading for something Becca would never exactly know. The daughter, the girl Becca realized pulled her jacket, stared at her. Dark chocolate colored eyes were melting with the heat of her pain and her brittle lips smoked with the speed of her pleading words. Becca was being pulled away unknowingly when she heard a familiar rumble coming from the pit of the girl’s stomach. And just as soon as the encounter had happened, it was over. Concern replaced the sound of desperation and she let her family know she was fine. She went back to looking at her feet. In a couple of minutes, Becca’s family arrived at the

Empathetic but naïve, Laura in Mansfield’s “The Garden Party” is not spiritually dead like Mabel, but she reaches a new level of understanding about life through the death of Scott the carter. Laura’s love of life, her appreciation for nature, and her