Essay On The Story Chapter 1

At that he walked faster, aware all at once of urgency and the declining sun and a little wind created by his speed that breathed about his face. This wind pressed his grey shirt against his chest so that he noticed--in this new mood of comprehension--how the folds were stiff like cardboard, and unpleasant;

“Don’t look down” the wind whispers tenderly as it blows through my golden trusses. Trifling detailed fragments of snow fall from the skies above, meeting the horizon. They are the calmness in this storm. My storm. The jagged icy glaciers, sharp as a knife, smooth as silk, tower overhead. Every breath I take is a battle, every thought is a war and every step is one closer to the end.

The wind sent dirt into the air, “making it difficult to breathe” as wells as blinding the innocent walkers of the street. The wind did everything to “discourage the people” from walking outside, sending most, except for the brave, indoors. Furthermore, the wind rattled garbage cans, opened and closed windows and doors, and dislodged hats off the walkers heads and “pried

Grimsley’s use of figurative language fabricates a tone of anticipation. The narrator describes the clouds as “hanging close over the treetops, heavy with a load of something waiting to fall.” The ambiguity of “something” infers that a storm

Rainsford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again. “Nerve, nerve, nerve!” he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the trees dead ahead. Ever nearer drew the hounds. Rainsford forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of the sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy gray stone of the château. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Rainsford hesitated. He heard the hounds. Rainsford threw himself off the tall cliff. The wind rushing past his face and threw his hair, he had a split second on just peace flying down the cliff preparing to hit the water. The water crashed around Rainsford swallowing him whole, as he started to swim to shore he heard a mysterious yet familiar voice.

Dr. S.O. Young, a Cline acquaintance, was drawn by the sheer power of the storm as it assailed his home. Opening the door to a second-floor gallery, he hauled himself outside and was immediately pinned to the exterior wall by 125-mph winds. He remained there, agape, as he surveyed the unfolding drama.

From my room,I had smelt and sensed that rain was about to  arrive and had scurried outside before the drops commenced.Sweet anticipation formed inside as I awaited the blissful raindrops to pelt me on my face and body.The wind rose higher and grew frighteningly violent,swirling throwing rocks and gravel into the air.The thin

The wind is harsh and piercing as the gusts reach up to 50 mph. Even layers upon layers of clothing do very little to protect people from the harshness of the cold unrelenting wind. The snow on the ground would blind them as they trekked across the barren wastelands of snow and wind. As they all began to peal back their layers of masks to speak, the pain of the fierce wind immediately ran across their faces. It felt as if a stroke of lightning had ran across their faces and down their throats with every breath of the icy wind. Each one speaks with the same raspy bark from the brutal cold ravaging their vocal chords. The wind laced its way through their clothes like it was not even there and chilled them all to the bones.

There was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had risen from its uncertain puffs into a steady blow. The few foot passengers astir in that quarter hurried dismally and silently along with coat collars turned high and pocketed hands. And I was the in the appointment place, uncertain almost to absurdity, with my friend of my youth, smoked a cigar and waited.

His mother had warned of rain. It was in the forecast, she had said in her small, fretting voice. She had urged him to wear his raincoat and to take his umbrella, but he had forgotten the umbrella in the rush of leaving, and how he thought of the five blocks he would have to walk from the Omni station to the Century National Bank, and of the morning crowd that would push against him in its hurried dash through the fine mist of the rain that had begun during the train ride from Decatur.

Tense, she fixed her eyes upon the clock, listening. There were two winds: the wind in flight, and the wind that pursued. The one sought refuge in the eaves, whimpering, in fear; the other assailed it there, and shook the eaves apart to make it flee again. Once as she listened this first wind sprang inside the room, distraught like a bird that has felt the graze of talons on its wing; while furious the other wind shook the walls…only to return—to return and quake among the feeble eaves, as if in all this dust-mad wilderness it knew no other sanctuary. (Ross, 423)

It wasn’t a good day. Thick blackened clouds hovered over the town. It brought down heavy rain, with large distinguishable drops. The silence from fear was disrupted by the large roaring thunder. The tents allowed water to drip inside, the gusting wind caused the tents to dance in the wind.

Four days passed without the ground or the scene changing much, except that behind them Weathertop slowly sank, and before them the distant mountain loomed a little nearer… At the end of the fifth day the ground began once more to rise slowly out of the wide shallow valley into which they had descended… Next day, early in the morning, they came down again to the borders of the Road… At once they went on again, hearing no sound but the water swirling against

He stood once more, sopping wet and muddy, but he was soon doubled over, hands tight against his stomach he left so stupidly unprotected. His arms were jerked up sharply, and brought up to either side of his body, held up as he fell to his knees. Nyx gradually brought his head up, gazing past the black spots that now dotted his vision. Another lightning strike brought a blinding backlight to a dark figure standing before him.

He could still hear the noisy sleeper at least a dozen shacks back. Worried about the time, once more he bent down, but this time to put his shoes on. His feet ached from the rough path and welcomed the protection his boots offered. Several steps then he quickened his pace and before a moment was up he was running full speed towards the sacrifice ground. His feet clattered on the path but nobody would hear him now. He liked to be running. His breathing steadied to be in time with his footfalls and his body relaxed. This was the sort of strain his mussels ached for and with a spear in each hand he almost felt free. He ran fast, he wasn’t sure if he was really late, he just liked running