Karine Rickert: A Short Story

A. Jeannette Walls, in her memoir The Glass Castle, demonstrates Erikson’s eight stages of development. Through the carefully recounted stories of her childhood and adolescence, we are able to trace her development from one stage to the next. While Walls struggles through some of the early developmental stages, she inevitably succeeds and has positive outcomes through adulthood. The memoir itself is not only the proof that she is successful and productive in middle adulthood, but the memoir may also have been part of her healing process. Writing is often a release and in writing her memoir and remembering her history, she may have been able to come to terms with her sad past. The memoir embodies both the proof

The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls is a memoir to put down. It is a book about Jeannette’s unique childhood and how her experiences as a child shaped the rest of her life. When she was a child, Jeannette did not have a normal childhood like today’s average children. Her family would constantly push her around, but it was not typical child abuse because she did not realize her life was any different than other children. She thought it was completely normal for a three-year-old to cook her own food on the stove, and when she was forced to use a cardboard box as a bed, she was completely okay with it. Through this memoir, Jeannette Walls grasps the reader’s attention with her rare childhood experiences.

The Great Neck South High School English Department should require all incoming eleventh-grade Advanced Placement English students to read The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. In this memoir, Walls describes her untraditional upbringing. As the most mature of four children, she forces herself to run her family’s spending as well as take care of her alcoholic father and egomaniacal mother. The family, constantly misbehaving and breaking laws, must move from town to town and state to state in order to escape punishment. Jeannette realizes that in order to succeed as a journalist and become a stable, happy adult, she needs to cut off her relationship with her parents. Jeannette never blames her parents. She rather realizes that they continuously

This nonfiction story entertains and informs the reader about the author’s life and her family. Jeannette Walls lives her childhood short on money and food, while constantly moving across the country finding a new home. The memoir conveys information through the narrator, Jeannette. In spite of narrative purpose and sentimental tone in the book The Glass Castle, Jeannette Walls portrays the main point of determination.

The sun was starting to come out , I can feel my eyes getting heavy , I should have took that coffee to go made yesterday . I felt like I was wasting my time with this , Karen and Trever were probably right , I should leave this to the police and worry about my life . I got up from the bushes rubbing off the dirt from my jeans , all of a sudden everyone came running out

“Oh, I forgotten my apron back at the house,” I have told my sister. “I have to go back and retrieve it, Montressor is not going to be home until the morning so I have more than enough time.” I grabbed my coat and went out the door in order to obtain my apron that was a family heirloom passed down generations and generations of servants. I walked through the pitch black darkness, only using the light of the moon to illuminate the pebbled road that laid ahead of me.

Sorry I haven’t responded to any of these e mails didn’t check my phone until later in the day yesterday. I don’t have a number for him. So Jermaine came in Monday morning and gave me a note from his doctor saying he is to return to work on the 15th. He never showed up, I didn’t get a call or nothing from him. Hopefully everything is straightened out if you need anything else let me know.

Wandering the halls slowly and carefully without sufficient light to lead the way and through use of dark mood lighting and squalid living conditions in certain rooms, no end appears to her expedition. No required place for her to be dressed for or to be expected to attend, that is until the sudden echoing of someone crying draws attention to the existence of servants and provides a motive for the young girls search through the

Did you hear about the burning of those black folk last night? That really scared me. It’s the first day of school, and I am NOT excited.

Shafts of light dappled the rocky clearing as the sunlight broke through tree leaves. A slight breeze swayed past him, bringing with it the soothing smells of the forest.

As he turned, he saw Daryn Tel’Kesser, dressed not unlike the countless number of other underworld characters always lurking about the spaceport with the sole exception that he insisted on wearing an Impervium blade strapped to his back. ‘It makes me look dashing’ he’d always reply when asked about it. In truth, Daryn was deadly with the thing, add in the gauntlet he wore on his left hand that could release a pulse of concussive force designed to stun anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in its blast. Hutch still recalled a close quartered battle a few years ago when group of local gang members confronted them. Their intent was fairly obvious, kill the crew, and steal the ship. Hutch was also reminded that day just how quickly his normally

She awoke with great discomfort; the huger pains impaired her, and fogged her mental clarity, but she persevered, and crawled out of the neatly kept bed. It was early in the morning and no one was awake, there was no food on the table, and no servants guarding the doors, so Proserpina made her way to the front of the palace. Each step she took was carefully calculated, for the floors creaked. She arrived at the black wooden doors, still impaired from hunger, and the motionless fog that clouded her mind remained, she clasped the handle of the wooden doors, feeling the carved intricacies, and pulled only slightly. Just then, a hand reached from the dim, and somber atmosphere. The darkened room shadowed everything except the pair of hands that gripped the refulgent, pearl shaped seeds. The sweet smell of the berries was enticing, and her mouth began to water. Emaciated, and weak; Proserpina took the berries and ate. Of all the horrid possibilities she had thought of, this was among the worst. She was taken advantage of in her moment of

Recalling the conversation as he had, led straight to the last conversation he had with his dying father, thirty-two years ago. With a feeble voice he had told Cort someone had poisoned his tea, so beware of those who lead and with his last breath whisper something about a book - family tradition - tucked away in the safe in the family vault…however, he died before he could finish. Three days after the funeral, he opened the safe and all he found was the family’s copy of the 1908 edition of ‘The Road to Glory: the History of the Gotitright Family.’ As he recalled, he guffaws, because reading one edition meant you had read them all, so, without even touching the book he shut the safe and hadn’t opened it since then. Following that experience, he believed his father suffered from a touch of paranoia and wiped it from his mind. Until now, that’s what he had always believed and of course this bothers him. All of a sudden a thought raced across his brow. Quickly, he rose from his chair, went straight to the Beveled glass bookcase and pushed a button hidden behind the seventh book on the fifth shelf and the wall to his left slide apart, revealing the family vault. Immediately upon entering the vault, he opened the safe and this time removed the book. With book in hand, he went back to this study, sat in his favorite overstuffed chair, and read the book from cover to cover, including the inscription written on the last

Rena blankly stared out the window adjacent to her desk. The sky was a bright tint of light blue, and the clouds were ripped up cotton balls. Rena was the first to arrive in her class, and she was assigned a seat in the back. She settled into her homeroom class, by placing her bookbag on the desk’s hook. Her eyes wandered the neatly decorated classroom, taking note of the pictures and figurines of cats lying around.

Underneath the recently acquired hangings was the old wall, painted, repainted, and still unfinished; a great unrestrained mishmash of colors that represented Kat’s mood. There had been so many of the depressed hues casting unhealthy opalescent reflections onto Kat’s pale, unhealthy skin last year. The rest of the room was a multitudinous arrangement of various furniture; chairs, modern and antique, gifts from friends and family, holding memories from years past and present, oak shelves full of creaking leather bound scientific journals from aspiring botanists who’d given up on their hobby, torn books of copious varieties, ranging from journals people had kept and sold, wanting to forget their contents, to fairytale books with crayon pictures scribbled in margins that smelt like decades old wax, all worn from exposure to mildew, giving off the aroma of dewy basement. Kat and Phillipa could be found pouring over the books for hours, having sleepovers at each other 's’ houses just to finish them. They both loved the stories the books held, the information that could be learned about subjects of any kind, and about the original owners’ lives. Other assorted items were strewn about the room; a record player with a large collection of records dating as far back as the 1920s and up to the 21st century and slightly warped records like Saturday Night Fever and Billie Holiday stacked underneath