Miner's River: A Narrative Fiction

“James,” he says. We begin walking where there is a bundle of people and he looks concerned. “How about I send you to the sheriff’s station? They will surely help you out,” he says. “If it will help,” I say. The chirping of birds seems to follow me, it triggers a memory of home. When Mama and I would take short walks through the meadow behind our home. Whistling along with the bird's melody is what we did. Back then, I had no worries at all. Now, all I have is worries.

The book I am reading is “The Rock And The River” by Kekla Magoon. The book is wrote about

I leaned in closer to Yalena and whispered, okay I shouted through the tumbles. “I’m. G-going. To st-op. U-us.” I say through the rustles. She replied almost instantly. “O-ow! Oh-K-kay.” I pressed her against me so she would not feel the impact and jammed my feet into the ground. I pushed at the sloping hill with all my force and I could feel the crumbling ground becoming fickle under my feet. There wasn't much time and soon we would fall off the cliff and we would be- Yalena felt the need to poke me in the stomach and I raised my hands with a

Her account of this incident appealed to be in part because of her description of the underwater scenery. Her description is both visual and tactile. Similes describe the stones underwater as “small and smooth like pale eggs” and others “as big as human heads.” She relates the description to things which she is familiar with in her surroundings such as “strangely jutting curves like buffalo horns.” The contrasting words such as smooth, sharp and jagged all help the reader imagine the bottom of the pool.

His warm breath contrasting sharply with the chilled air, while his skin looked as though it could have been taken straight from the darkened sky that glittered high above. Thoughts began to drift into the man’s hazy mind. About their first meeting in her father’s shop, how he’d rescued her from the bugger who yabbered on about chooks. Eventually, his thoughts brought him back

The cool autumn wind whispers against her cheeks as her chin sinks deeper into her knees while she watches the figures roam the streets below her. Tears prick her eyelids, but no sign of weakness is shown. Not even the aching of her shattered heart or the jagged pieces of her fragmented soul could bridge the barricade she created. A wall of stone encircling her heart, reinforced with barbed wire, protecting her from everything and everyone

I threw with all my might, but the third stone came skipping back. I looked at Julieta petrified. I ask her if she saw that. “It must have been the wind or something,” Julieta said. “That’s impossible!” I cried. “Ray, nothing interesting can happen in a boring river like this,” she said. We then started heading home. I couldn't help, but to look back at the river. I keep thinking about what happened on our way to Julieta’s house.

Her legs move freely in the water, as she sits upon a stone, hair falling, framing her naked body. The river flows on it's path around the stone, calm and gentle, without a care in the world. She turns at the rustle of leaves, and looks as a man emerges and walks to the shore.

A lake is no place for a watch. I think it’s unreasonable to request anyone to keep time in such a place. My tan forearm barred no watch; no stripe of pale skin to indicate a childhood subject to the constraints of Tick and Tock. A timeless realm, the lake emancipated the soul and the body, allowing both to mingle with nature. My bare, unpainted toes were always covered with mud from walking the trail around Apache Lake, past the little outhouse, Carp Cove, but not as far as Hodgson’s dusty old cabin. It was difficult to see from the road, and at times I felt nobody ever went there but me. Tall yellowed grasses embraced the water’s rocky edge like a mother’s protective hug. Clumps of Aspen whispered collectively as I built forts in their midst, and Ponderosa tress stood tall and unyielding, looking down at my imaginative creations with approval. The wind and the euphonious lilt of the Meadowlark were ideal companions as I played and watched and wondered.

Between the Mexican state of Chiapas and the Guatemalan department of San Marcos flows a seemingly insignificant stream. Deriving its name from the Nahuatl word Xochiatl, the Suchiate river is both a membrane and a vessel. Between its banks, lies a basin of placid blue which swiftly gives way to narrow inlets of muddy brown. At these thin arms, the water does not run unaccompanied on its journey; instead, the brown body, soaked in a fleeting dream, permeated by a notion of progress, joins as a fellow traveler. Carefully placing driftwood atop thick inner tubes, the bodies float across the thinnest river veins as though blood and water were equally worthy of passage. Their expressions are calm, if not casual altogether, as they travel from east

Seated on a boulder of Missouri red granite, Rachel watched the water gobble bits of ice as it swirled downstream. Spring had arrived late; now the creek flowed with a bubbly sound as if the water was laughing at ice clinging to the clay bank. To Rachel, the scene presented an apt example of the human condition. Born in an ever-changing stream, one could only cling to the familiar for a brief season before reclamation

The photo labeled “In the Coal Mines” was very interesting, because the children are in a factory working. In the portrait the children are in a row of five or more and they are completing their own task. The children in the photo appear to be young boys. The children in the photo seem tired because they are sitting on wood and they are hunched over while working. They also appear unhappy and trained, because they are facing forward, not talking, or smiling. All the children are focused on getting their work done. Every row of children has an adult or someone older than them behind them making sure they are working. The people watching the children appear to be adult or teenage males who are holding objects that appear to be a steel pole or

He wonders why the birds are just waiting in the sky as if they are waiting for a command, why they are restless, and he thinks it is strange that they are little birds and they are the type of the birds that normally keep to their own territory and don’t have a history of attacking people . When he looks out toward the coast, he sees the birds flocking in his direction and he believes that for some odd reason, they are going to come down to the

Snippets of a conversation whispered behind him piqued his curiosity, yet the steadily dripping water distracted him from the dialogue. A lone lamp flickered ahead of him, moving and bending to the whim of it’s wearer; his uneven tread leaving differing prints within the loose coal dust. Henry felt his eyes waver over the deeper impressions within the dust and groaned outwardly as the identity of the miner materialised.

Introduction Now, if you talk of rich men there is one man whose name you cannot exclude from the list. That person’s name is Raj Rameshwaran. He owns half of the city Mumbai. He had found a huge diamond mine in his house. He had used that money that he got from his diamond selling to start a business of selling chemical weapons.