Life And Death Of The Vulture

body and completes this cycle of life many times. Christians believe in a life after death in

| There is no eternal Life when we die that is it we get put in the ground, nothing else happens except we decompose.

She took us on countless outings, but one memory, in particular, has always stayed at the forefront in both our memories. It was winter break from school and the children’s author Robert Munsch had come to Ottawa and was doing a book reading. I remember my sister and I laughing until we had tears streaming down on cheeks and our sides were hurting. After he had read a number of books and the auditorium had been hysterical laughter, he began reading a much softer story. His voice had slowed down, and although my sister and I were still intrigued, this story was not the same captivating humor. Yet there our mother sat, listening to every word as though this story was somehow greater than the others. We must be missing something I thought, it's going to get funny really soon. The story continued and the humor did not come, and yet the smile grew more and more across my mother's face. By the end, she was still smiling, but she was wiping tears from her

Stiff and smooth sticking out between my aching toes, the grass flirts with my feet giving me the illusion that it knows who I am. I lift myself up from the ground and head straight, making sure my front sole feels the rough rubble that no one cares to pick up. My toes touch the fine cinder and I measure out two steps before I turn and start running. I count the steps in my head and feel the track slightly turn and follow the movement swiftly, conquering the track that I practiced so hard to master in order to compete in my cities annual track and field meet.

We were an unlikely pair—she resembled a tall, more properly dressed version of Pippi Longstocking while I looked more like an Americal Girl doll with my oversized eyes, small stature, and caramel brunette hair. Biking around the neighborhood, one might mistake us for a young babysitter and her charge. Neither of us can accurately date the beginning of our friendship. But I do know that we cemented our relationship in the third grade, by which time she consistently came over to my house to sing “Funkytown” on repeat with my karaoke

I slowly turned the first page of the worn and fragile book. The Instrument contained numerous words of wisdom, or so I had heard from my biological grandma, I lifted it to my face. Did it hold the solution to my problems? The woman of my childhood was convinced that it did. It smelled of leather with lingering traces of tobacco. Grandma held the book often, I remembered, envisioning her in my mind many years past, when I went for a visit to my grandparents house. After supper she sat in the rocker near the fireplace, from time to time taking a break from her reading to step outside and smoke. I didn't like the smell of the cigarettes. Never the less that was the way grandma was. She was an intriguing woman. She didn’t say much in her later

Vultures illuminated by dim headlights took flight from their gathering place around a piece of carrion, a disemboweled[1] armadillo, as he passed. The radio was cycling[2] through stations of its own accord. The moon wasn’t visible[3]. His first assumption[4] was that it was obscured by clouds, but there were none. His leg bled[5] steadily. Blurred silhouettes meandered across the road; he made no attempt to avoid them as they meshed around his vehicle, emitting[6] harsh whispers into its confines. He’d seen nary another vehicle in four hours. The road was disheveled and rough, and clearly had not been tended in numerous years. He could tell he’d reached his destination when the abyssal expanse before me underwent a marginal change in color

The girl had never believed in love. When her mother spoke of fathers and kisses, there was never a warm bloom in her veins, although she knew her mother experienced pierces of shock in her own chest. She skimmed her small hands over old pictures of interlocked hands and white dresses and purple ties, but there was no substance to those gray pixels.

Most people tend to think that death is either biological or philosophical; taking the stance that only one can be right or that they must choose. But, this is a false dilemma. What if death is everything we think it is, or simply put, what if death is both philosophical and biological? This would mean that instead of death being a process or event, death would involve multiple processes or events. Yet, my theory pushes this thought a little further. I argue that death involves both processes and an event. In sum, there are two deaths and an intermediate process between the two. The first death is the transformative death. This is the process in which the “person” as we know them dies . When this occurs one of two things happen, either the person dies along with the body thereby parting from this life or the soul/essence/consciousness separates from the body still parting from this life. Now, for the conception of death it is not necessary to determine whether the soul/essence/consciousness is immortal or not. That is a different discussion. What is important to understand for the transformative death is the concept of personhood, the idea of what makes “you, you.” This is a hole in my theory, as I have not come up with my own thoughts about personhood and personhood rests purely or at least partially on theory. However, setting this aside, once transformative death has occurred the intermediate process

Death is the transition from corporeal to non-corporeal. The body becomes a part of the planet and the acorporeal becomes a part of the universe.

My younger brother was distracted by a bag of candy and my sister disturbingly played the most horrific genre of music: country. Memories came and left throughout my mind, stories I was told of; what it was like before me, before my family moved to Lancaster. It was like the road trips before, except I missed my older brother and the strange faces I laughed upon while he would sleep; as well as his company during the reunion.Various topics emerged as boredom grew, along with a variety of ideas my father said we would do. A somber tone took over; I soon did like my brother before

Death, the total cessation of life processes that eventually occurs in all living organisms. The state of human death has always been obscured by mystery and superstition, and its precise definition remains controversial, differing according to culture and legal systems. During the latter…

It lurks in the back of everyone’s mind, soundless and black, never seeming real until landing right in someone’s ear, whispering that the time has came. A term created at the same time as life, death originally defined itself as “a permanent cessation of all vital functions; the end of life” (“Death”). The uses and views on death seem endless: some fear it, unable to imagine a world without themselves. Those involved in Christianity believe that death starts the beginning of eternal life in a place called “Heaven”. In everyday life, death surrounds everything. Everyone and everything that ever lived, eventually ceases to exist in the world after the inevitable death.

He adored my mother. They would hold hands while I played. None of the tunes had words, yet to me each had a very specific story. This one was about elves and gipsies who gathered cowslips and drove travelers deep into the woods. My father doses off and my mother lays a hand on my shoulder, I quietly depart. Once in my room I look through my mother’s drawings. They are bound so I can flip through them like a book. Both my mother and I enjoy wordless stories. My favorite one of mother’s is of a beautiful woman with long rich hair and olive skin. It looked like my mother spent hours on

Diane Ackerman once stated, “A poem records emotions and moods that lie beyond normal language, that can only be patched together and hinted at metaphorically” (Diane Ackerman). This is plainly shown in the two poems “Vultures” by Chinua Achebe and “Limbo” by Kamau Brathwaite through their use of structure, style and purpose. These similar and contrasting features give these poems their individuality.