Creative Writing Of Charlotte Russet

This is shown in paragraph five,“ Gathering the bent head in my arms, as freely as if he had been a little child, I said, “Let me help you bear it, John”, the narrator is feeling sympathetic to John, and wants to relief his pain. The narrator takes care of him, and tries as much as can to comfort him. In paragraph six, the author includes details such as, “I bathed his face, brushed his bonny brown hair, set all things smooth about him.”. The author purposely includes them, to show these charitable actions that can lessen someone’s pain. Aware of this upcoming death, John’s comfort has shifted its focus to positive things that has occurred in his life. In addition, the narrator shows her love and sympathy to John by pleasing him, she cuts off his hair and sends it to his mother, kisses his forehead, and buries him with the letter he received before. Human empathy is often expressed and shown during wartime, they reveal it through their empathy for wounded soldiers, that are suffering pain. The use of rhetorical devices, such as anaphora and metaphors authorize this harmony in the composition to be revealed. The actions of each character and worker of this hospital lightens John’s death and reveals their emotions towards

A single tear simmered in the corner of Henry O’Shea’s eye. It slid over his lashes and snaked its way across his cheek; a silver trail glistening in the mauve dusk. He blinked away further tears and stared as an unsteady hand whittled yet another name into the Tree of the Dead.

Henry dreamed of the day his father would take him out and they would be happy again…. But those dreams were crushed after Henry recieved a letter stating his fathers passing… He writes in his biography “ I didn’t cry, i was so deep in sorrow i stayed quiet. I would be better off if i had just cried but i was in that state for weeks.”

This is Mrs. Adelaide Contessa Franchesca Thermopolies. Or you can just call her Addie T. for short. Addie T. is just like you and me in most ways.

“He’s not mine,” Henry repeated more loudly. His chest tightened as his heart raced erratically, and he suddenly couldn’t breathe around the lump lodged in his throat. Despite his preparation for this result, he was devastated.

Ancient trees, dressed in white, soft and delicate furs, are bravely standing attached to the ground, arcing their hands to the sky, creating a connection between two worlds. So far away from civilization, they are calling us to join them. To forget all the constrains of the outside world, and just enjoy the sweet fragrance of nature. They strongly defy the cold winters and malicious winds, that have been trying to break them down and destroy them. Winters come and go, but these trees are still standing proudly and healing their wounds obtained from the enemy.

The nineteenth century was the beginning of the age of exploration, the age of the Renaissance, the age of discovery etc. Considered to be one of the most extraordinary writers of her time, Charlotte Bronte was born the 21 April 1816 in Yorkshire, England. Before the novel Jane Eyre Bronte worked as a teacher and governess, then after ,she collaborated on a book with her two sisters, Emily and Anne. In 1847, Bronte’s novel Jane Eyre was published and considered a classic of western literature. She died on march 31, 1855, in Haworth, Yorkshire, England.

In the center stood a pale, grief-stricken boy. No taller than my waist, he couldn’t have been any older than my little boy at home. Clothed in a tattered shirt, small whimpers came from his parched lips as I took a few steps closer to him. Small pools of blood had collected in the palm of his hands as he held a needle and ragged thread. To the left of his scarred feet lay a small, frail doll. It was falling apart at the

Until today, I remembered my visits to Mrs. Burnage's house fondly. The neighborhood I lived in was small, with only ten houses on the whole street. Each house was placed far apart with everyone having at least three acres of property. Our house was at one end of the road, and Mrs. Burnage's was at the other.

Later, he surveyed the white bandage from her lap, and shed new tears at the memory of his injury. A handkerchief in a houseworked hand pinched his nostrils caringly, and between deep sobs, he blew, and sighed, and felt better. Annie’s soothing Irish voice rocked him on bony knees, and wax polish and soapy smells mingled with her usual reek of tobacco and beer, providing solace in

Sitting on the rustic wooden bench without having anyone to talk to, he flipped through the worn-out pages of his newspaper. His face had thick, deep lines like carved wood and his winter-white hair was slowly transforming into a bald scalp. His blue shirt brought out the colour of his eyes but they were also red – rimmed and faded with age and poor health. His aches were his persistent companions, not friends, but always with him. The man painstakingly got to his feet and began to limp on towards his house.

As blue eyes closed, senses inhaling his essence, and her head finding rest in the curve of his collar. A safe haven reserved only for her. "So much." With Bruce grounding her to his earthy form, she wasn’t afraid to reveal her mistakes – that ever mistake she made brought her closer to him. Not afraid of the unknown, knowing his tight hold would never falter in letting go. Because home existed in the heart. And her heart belonged to him. Everywhere he went, she was there, physical form or not, clinging to him like now, always there to wipe away his tears. Kiss away the monsters. And soothe all his worries and strife. “I’ll always be here with you. You won’t have to search long or hard to find me.” In her lover’s sweet embrace, she grabbed at everything he radiated with. Love. Longing. And redirected it with a press of her lips. A tender stroke to his wild curls. As if trying to mend the damage to his soul. Ease the years of loneliness to a dull ache. Treating his body and soul as a lover would, even after everything he’s done, everything she’s done, because that love connected them. Her presence there to show him that he deserved love, and deserved her. That if she loved him, took his pain, anguish, love, everything that made him Bruce, and sewn it to her own heart... That he was capable of more than just destruction. He was her

He shivered some more, his eyes falling on a large pine tree. It was the centre of the gardens, and Queen Guinevere's favourite place in summer. The magnificent tree swayed a little, and before Mordred could blink, a small light came out of nowhere. It wavered in the air for a moment and landed in the tree top, lightening

Reaching high into the sky, The dark skeleton of a tree, But a silhouette against the red; The setting sun, a fire in the sky, Sinking lower and deeper and I see, I see the sun on the horizon; And I see further past.

The sun shone brightly on the wet, thawing leaves of the great oak tree. Spring had come and with it the landscape seemed to come alive. Birds chirped, worms wiggled in the mud, people walked about, and animals ran playfully around looking for their first fresh meal of the new year.