Kady's Break-Up

In this excerpt from The Country of the Pointed Firs, Jewett characterizes her narrator to be and observant, romantic, and solitary individual through the use of description, imagery and diction. Although the narrator does not speak at length about herself, her language and description reveal information about her characteristics. One may infer from the content of the excerpt, and the blatant omission of personal information that the narrator enjoys watching her surroundings. She describes at length her neighbor’s garden and actions, describing little about her interactions with that neighbor. This suggests that she, in fact, does not interact frequently with the neighbor, but rather watches and thinks about her.

A dull neon sign is all that stands to greet its travelers. The drone of cicadas is a narcotic; welcoming and familiar like scorched oil from a motor ran too long. Alone and cold I muster the last fifty-two pounds of my life on to a back too broken for its own physical age. Far enough away from home to fuel anxiety yet not far enough to break state lines. Inside the ring of a pitted copper bell drags a woman to the front desk. She invited me by name as if I was her only tenant in days. Eger to rest I skip formal pleasantries with a simple head nod and with her hand atop an antique brass room key she glances at the door behind het to ask, “Will you be needing any towel services this evening?” involuntarily I raise an eyebrow to retrieve the

It was silent, so very silent. She could almost hear the swish of her dress against her calves as she walked the paved paths that led off to different places and different people all around her. It had been months since their first meeting; winter had turned to spring, spring to summer, summer to fall, and now it had circled around back to the harsh cold and the onslaught of rain that came around every January once more. Her blonde hair, curled and plastered to the side of her head as was the style in these days was protected from the rain dripping from the sky with a simple black umbrella. Her skin was ghostly pale, and her face cleared of the makeup that was naturally on it, as no classy woman ever left the house until she was all done up these days.

In my quiet hours the darkness remains, a blot of ink stained in my mind. Gaps in the clouds, cracks in the pavement, pauses in a song where the echoes of forgotten memory fall through. I can never escape the wolf, he colours my world, inhabits my very being. It is to him I can attribute the peculiar sensation of moths in my lungs. Call me what you like, I have weathered worse than June

I am living in a barbarous region, in the presence of everything that I find oppressive, and absent from everything I care about. I am prey to sombre melancholy and fall into dreadful despair; I seem not to exist any more, and I become aware of myself again only when lurking jealousy flares up in my heart and there breeds alarm, suspicion, hatred and regret. . . . Sometimes I

"I'll see you tomorrow," I faked a smile to Ross, squeezing his hand in false comfort, he tried his best not to wince. With that, I was gone. I inhaled generously. The same chill that molded me hours before, disfigured me now. The sky had darkened from the familiar grey to a severe sable. The night air was crisp, beating harshly against my neck. It's temperature had dropped, comfort was nowhere in sight. The murky clouds were thick and heavy, blotting out every star. The relentless shadows tapered off into the sharp horizon, holes where the decorations of the heavens should lie like glittered jewels.

We meet through a mutual friend, Kally, who I became close during my sophomore year in college. Had had sat next to her in my chemistry class in which the professor talked for an hour and a half in a monotone voice, naturally we had a lot of down time. The windy chill of December night made my thin shirt…Though with a blanket of intoxicated warmth, the

He seemed to be deeply engrossed in his newspaper; the eyes of the people in this flat black and white world followed me and held my gaze as I edged across the wooden panels of the carriage. As the man looked up, we exchanged greetings; and I saw his smile had sadness to it, like the grin of a child determined not to weep. I noticed that his jaundice yellow complexion accentuated the cavernous frown lines across his forehead; he appeared to be a man who was harbouring many problems. I brushed past him, inhaling the strong aroma of coffee and harsh cologne, adamant not to let him perturb me I flopped into a navy, lushly upholstered seat which was positioned near the window and stared out into the blackness of the night. Suddenly the train’s doors noisily slammed shut and a moment of piercing silence was followed by the mechanical murmur of the engine, its powerfulness imprisoned me in a state of vulnerability and the shackles of fear didn’t seem to be breaking any time

Another year, another week, another day. These words seemed to weave through my head, utterly incognisant of their pivotal roles in panning out my existence. I pause through my brief moment of self-evaluation and stare up at a flight of stairs, bellowing out my wretched name. Glistening wooden boards adrift, full of tasty morsels eager to jump into my jousting jaws. A gale of wind howling through a nearby window sent chills up my black hard shell. I fall into the clutches of my meandering path, helplessly conflicted with my insatiable appetite. I begin routing through the assortment of dust, grime and hair, feeling bold yet feebly bleak. Managing to finally scatter through the fine dining, generously left in abundant amounts, I pick up where

The darkness was closing in on us fast making the shadows dance as the cars drove by on the nearby city streets. I could only imagine what lingered in those shadows. Zombies, maybe? Will White Hair visit me again tonight. Why not? I disturbed his final place of rest. Old Washam Cemetary was no longer peaceful but dreary. All I see when I close my eyes was egg shells and strands of toliet paper hanging from the trees. Old broken tombsones putting of an erie glow. The statue of the soldier laying on the ground crumbled into tiny broken pieces. I can faintly vision the black roses Snake and I laid on Stormy's grave that fateful night. In the dark I had plenty of time to think about these dreary matters. I was being consumed by the negativity of my actions. Those actions had a direct impact on my current situation and I had

The soft pitter patter of the rain on the ceiling and windows drowned out the deafening silence. The smell of old books and freshly printed papers surrounded you from the entrance to the tiny coffee shop in the corner. As I made my way over to the smell of fresh cocoa and coffee beans I ordered a hot cocoa and open the worn leathered book. The pages frail and tattered with water stains and wrinkled, my brain began to scan the page and let the story unfold and tell a story of forbidden love, rough seas, and heartbreak.

I woke suddenly as the cool morning air bit at my face, telling me it was nearly morning and another day had begun. I am seventeen today which means that today will be the day I ask Alma’s parents if they’ll allow us to have a courtship. That was the only thing on my mind when I heard my father calling me, knowing we needed to eat before we left on a hunt.

Heat radiating from the ground before I can even step out of the the front door, the kiss of a thousand tiny needles tediously stinging my skin, unable to feel moisture in my mouth with no breeze to give a moment of relief, that is how the summer feels in the desert in California. A raspy yet melodic little voice coming from under the only shade tree in my yard is chanting a nostalgic shriek, "Lemonade! Get your ice cold lemonade. A quarter a cup!" The little mocha complexioned girl dressed in a yellow cotton romper short set with with drawstring straps and rainbow colored glittered high-top tennis shoes momentarily pulls my attention away from my discomfort. Her natural hair in two evenly distributed puffy ponytails are reminiscent of

You left on the night of my ninth birthday, I’d counted the minutes until midnight and when I came to tell you you were snapping off our window lock in your nice new boots with a bag slung across your broad shoulders. When you saw me you stopped, but you didn’t speak. Then, I’d found it funny because you were Shade Santoro and you were the man who always had something to say. “Where are you going?” I had asked unto the night, clothed in one of your old shirts with a stolen and stale cake cupped in my small fingers.

I always pick up the worst books to read, they mostly end in death. I’m not sure if the big man up there is sending me a hint or trying to ruin my day. I am trying to fit everything in this stupid old raggedy bag, while trying to make some coffee. I check that I have everything, wallet, book, keys, lotion, gum, and my lighter. I’m not a smoker, I mean I’ve tried it but it wasn’t to my liking. I enjoy watching the flame, the way it dances and reaches out hungrily for anything it can consume to fuel its wrath. I should’ve put gas last night, I know I won’t make it with what I have now. I’m already late to my appointment with Percy,my psychiatrist she will be upset if I’m late since I missed two appointments already. Don’t start thinking I’m this crazy person on medication, I see a psychiatrist because I can’t sleep at night and because she has the best suggestions for restaurants. I finally make it out the door. Twist. Twist.Twist. I let the door knob go.