It Was A Dark And Cloudy Afternoon When Dr. Everett Rameses

“There was music from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and he champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his motor-boats slid the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with

Walking through the train station seemed more difficult than wading through tar. You couldn't get anywhere due to the sheer volume of people in your way. The sun’s intense heat was punishing the earth’s unshielded surface and was boiling the station’s inhabitants from the inside. A hot, sticky, overcrowded mess. Suddenly, everyone erupted into a full sprint; the train was leaving. Thousands of people formed a Tsunami behind me, tearing down anything that stood in their way. The stampede vibrated between my ears, rattling my eardrums like a baby’s toy. It was a scramble to get on. The crowd forced me forwards with the power of a million bulls. I could barely keep myself upright. Sandwiched between thousands of others, I had extreme doubt I would

The mouldy, rotting, brown house stood in front of Emily, only fear keeping her feet planted to the ground. Moaning and creaking noises being projected from the house. The grass was damp from the evening fog and every time she took a step the mud squelched. The bottom step squeaked as she applied pressure with her foot, she let out a sigh of relief as the old structure hadn’t swallowed her up. The door, slightly off colour from the rest of the house, loomed over her like a giant as he reached for the brass door handle. A shiver ran through her body like an electric current, the musty smell of a house that had been long abandoned filled Emily’s nose. It was dim and uninviting. The furniture dusty and old, looking as if it would crumble to dust if she was to touch it. Mould ate away at

The evening was ominous and gray. The cold wind blew softly, and carried a heavy scent of blood through the streets. A loud intense screech pierced the ears of its listener, leaving the body trembling in fear.

The Mirror Image During the depression, the town of Maycomb, AL is old and run-down; this mirrors the characters as they passively travel through the days. The first two chapters of Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird are very uninteresting, and do not contain much action. The first chapter is used to introduce the town and characters. The narrator, “Scout” Finch, is arguing with her older brother, Jem. They are debating who is to blame for the breaking of Jem’s arm.

Dawn’s early morning light crept over the city, the various shades of amber emanating from the horizon bringing life to the shapeless skyline. Outside Booker’s apartment, the resident sparrows began their morning song of joy, their cheerful chirrup filtering through the dark-haired officer’s dream, pulling him toward consciousness. Moments later, his alarm sounded, the annoying bee-dee-dee-deep, bee-dee-dee-deep shattering what remained of his slumber. With a sigh, he rolled over and hit the off button, returning peace to the cramped room, and stifling a yawn, he speculated about the upcoming day. He’d arranged to meet Tom at the abandoned warehouse before school so they could discuss strategies. But after the previous night’s events, he wasn’t sure where their friendship

Through the angle in the screen door I saw my father who had been walking into his room wheel around on one of his rubber-booted heels and look at her with his blue eyes flashing like clearest ice beneath the snow that was his hair. His usually ruddy face was drawn and grey, reflecting the exhaustion of a man of sixty-five who had been working in those rubber boots for eleven hours on an August day, and for a fleeting moment I wondered what I would do if he killed my mother while I stood there in the porch with those three foolish mackerel in my hand. Then he turned and went into his room and the radio blared forth the next day’s weather forecast and I retreated under the noise and returned again,

The night air is warm in Maycomb, perhaps even welcoming one on a nightly stroll. Perhaps on any other day, I’d relish the air and the newspaper in my hands. Not tonight. Tonight, the humid and warm atmosphere tortures me; it drives me crazy. It adds to the already strenuous mood. Desperate for a distraction from the waiting, I focus my attention to the newspaper in my hands. Scanning for any interesting stories, I flip through the newspaper. Insults hurled toward me, words of anger tossed at Tom Robinson. Despite the foul things that were written, I could not find a place in my heart to hate these people. Each and everyone was a person I had known since my childhood, each knew me, yet they let their good judgement be blinded. I look back at the jailhouse, curious if the

Making her way toward the sidewalk, she turned right on Doveland Drive. Without a car, Anita must walk two and a half miles to reach Forest Creek Lane, the predominantly upper-class part of town. As she walked, her stomach turned as if she had ridden a fast carnival ride and no matter what she tried to calm her nerves, her attempts were futile. When she reached the street, she couldn't help but stare in awe at the beautiful houses that lined it. Some had the latest car park in front, others had empty spaces while the owner was at work. Anita imagined handsome doctors carrying briefcases and housewives wearing wearing the latest fashions. Anita, at 22, still lived with her parents in the not-so-nice part of town, where houses where becoming dalapitated and the roads and sidewalks were cracked and never fixed. Always feeling as if she didn't belong where she lived, she often imagianed what it would be like to live as other

At 11:34 p.m. Marty Wilkins pushed the button for the 24th floor of his apartment elevator. The metal doors slid noiselessly across greased tracks and he walked to the window at end of the muted yellow hallway. He climbed out onto the fire escape, scaled up its ladder, and padded silently across the roof. Marty sat on the knee high retaining wall that bordered the roof, and his feet hung loosely into the nothingness. He liked the way the wind bounced up from the street, bringing with it the smells and sounds of the Friday night.

The year was 1949 and there was a blur of green and blue passing by the window of a Cadillac 2-door automobile. It was a darling shade of eggshell white. In the sleek vehicle held a happily married couple and they were on their way to their nation’s capital of Washington D.C. . Elizabeth Diane Winters had the car window rolled down with her right hand hanging out, her fingers fluttering in the wind. This was their first honeymoon even though she and Adam had been together for about 3 years. They had had a shotgun wedding due to them both being called to serve for their country, and Elizabeth was excited to spend this time with Adam. They had already been in the area for a few days and had taken up residence at a lovely bed and breakfast in Williamsburg, Virginia.

We continued down the early morning streets of New York, the sun barely peeking over the towering concrete and stone giants surrounding us. Not many people were out at this time of day, and it felt as though there were even less with all the newsies absent from their usual corners. Albert had started to slow down as we got closer to the Lodging House. It was quiet, as if a strange spirit had taken over now that all the rambunctious and rowdy young boys were out causing trouble elsewhere. Even from farther away, you could still hear faint shouts in the distance rising up from the aforementioned ragamuffins. When one particularly loud uproar rose into the air, Albert yanked me up the stairs, my

The street was eerily quiet as I crossed. So was Mike. Staring at me unwaveringly, he said nothing as I approached. The crow's feet framing his eyes, the ridges in his forehead, and the crinkles in his cheeks still stand out in my mind. How many nights had he lain on that bench, covering his face as the wind whipped against it? Now he hugged his body tightly. He was wearing an old pair of tan khakis, a shirt that I couldn't see clearly, and a light multi-colored jacket, its sleeves ending above his pale wrists, that was just slightly too small and clung to his body. As I gave him the money in my wallet, he took it--slowly--and stared at it for a second in disbelief. Although the street in front of the library is usually an amalgam of car horns, headlights, whining engines throughout the night, nothing--not

At 7:00 a.m. the Union Pacific passenger train thundered through town at seventy miles per hour. It seldom stopped. Few passengers arrived at or left from Haines. Leaning out of the open door of the mail car, the Railway Mail Service postal clerk braved the heat or cold of the fierce wind to throw the mailbags with practiced precision onto the long, wooden station platform. The deck had been polished smooth by the bags that slid to a stop in front of the station door. A split second later, the hook on the mail car performed its magic act and scooped up the outgoing mail bag that Vern had hung from a gallows-like structure at the end of the platform. I watched closely from my hiding place at the end of the platform a few feet away from the gallows, but I had to squint to protect my eyes from the blowing dust and grit and never actually saw the hook take the bag. It just disappeared; now you see it, now you don 't.

Fall arrives in the city with cool, crisp winds that brush leaves from the ground into the air in a slow churning whirlwind causing them to dance about, descending to the moist ground. A yellow cab is patiently circling the neighborhood in search of fares, which has been a twenty-year practice of Max – a stout, older man with a protruding belly that strains the buttons of his faded, much-wrinkled shirt. He slowly drinks a cup of lukewarm coffee singing “my mama told me you better shop around…” He looks up at the sky at dark, overcast clouds, “Looks like rain today” he says. Max knows the streets of his hometown better than anyone around. He typically works on the east side of the city around the old Elmhurst Cemetery. Most people don’t venture close to the cemetery claiming that they often see a young woman walking through it. They are convinced she is a ghost looking for revenge, but these stories never bother Max nor had he ever seen this ghostly young woman.