It was a nice building. The carpeting was handmade by Mrs. Dela. She was the old woman that lived on the first floor with her husband, Mr. Dela. Every morning, they were found outside watering the flowers. Mrs. Dela especially took pride in the tree that casted a shadow above the building. My mom always had something cooking in the kitchen, and my dad was always home before 5:30. My brother, tall and masculine, would pride himself on his athletic ability. My best friend Curly, lived in the building as long as I did. He was one day older than me and he never let me live it down. He always had his hand running through his curly, jet black hair and his goofy smile never failed to cheer me up. His mom was a nice woman. She worked a lot because Curly’s dad left them. He was an only child, so we spent most of our time together. When we were about five a new kid moved in. His name was Benny. Benny was a boy of few words, unlike Curly who never shut up. He moved in with his mom, stepdad, and two step sisters. Benny was a good listener. Curly and I talked and talked, and he would just listen. And everything was okay. Until…
$2,400 just for rent? Can I still keep going with all these bills? Looking outside clouds start to cover the sky. I go to turn the lights on and accidently trip over a box on the floor. Why is this box even here. I open the box to see my old high school varsity jacket that I got from tennis. My mind is immediately flooded by memories of THAT game, the last game for my sophomore year tennis season.
The narrator of The Great Gatsby is a man from America named Nick Caraway. He not only narrates the story but portrays himself as the book’s author. Whilst we as the reader make our way through the passage, it is effortless to forget the important fact that The Great Gatsby is first of all a book about a man writing a book; therefore we are not observering this scene first hand, although it seems on the surface as if we are; Nick Caraway is merley recreating events for us, filtering them through his own sense of connotation, and filling them with his own perception.
Rogue finally turns around, his glasses back on his face as a warm smile spreads across his lips. "There," he says softly. "I can see you better now." He looks down at his feet shyly, then finally says, "And I accept your offer. Maybe...lunch tomorrow? I know a good deli that's right across the street from the Preforming Arts building."
At first sight of Nick you immediately feel sorry for him because poor Nick he has no arms or legs. You can only see his limitations because you are comparing him to our cult of normalcy and his him capital is not as valuable as everyone else. But then you hear his story and how God transformed his thinking of himself pass this handicap. Soon after hearing about he no longer prayed for arms and legs but to just be used by God, you began to look at your life. If God could make him happy surely he can do the same for me. Hearing the power of God make you want to hear more of Nick story
I stayed and my sisters bosses guest apartment above the garage. The apartment was dusty and filled with art work. Nobody had been in the apartment in quite some time. It smelled like old people. The apartment was just one room, a big living room with a kitchen and a bathroom. The bathroom was connected to both rooms. The toilet had a douche in it with a sign saying put toilet paper in the trash. The property was a small organic farm with a small man made pond and sauna with stain glass windows. The sauna was free for the whole town to use. It was a town full
17 Bluebarn Avenue was more than a place that I lived in. This house was a place where I could feel at ease when my life becomes hard to handle. I am really attached to this house. I did not realise how much I loved this house until Thursday night when dad came home. The weather was dark and gloomy. Darkness began to drain in the sky, hiding away all the beautiful pink and orange clouds. Soon the warm glow of the streetlights began to cut the darkness. As I was casually checking my BioChip data on my phone I heard the creaking noise of the main door. I ran down the wooden stairs of the old cottage to see dad. All of us gathered around the long and solid wooden table which looked like a medieval banquet table in the middle of the crisp patterned wallpapered room. Dad started to discuss about the promotion he got this morning.
Three years ago I was 15 years old. My life consisted of being outside playing with friends, or I’d be in my bedroom listening to music. My bedroom was the only place I’d love to go to, it was like my own home, my own privacy. I woke up
Stupid house. I can’t believe we had to move here. It’s such a downgrade. My dad had to had to move jobs, so now were stuck moving into this stupid, old, falling-apart house. It’s hideous. After contemplating my life for another few minutes, I finally get out of the car. Grabbing my suitcases, I walk up the old stone path straight to the front door, looking up at the old windows as I do. I swear I could see someone standing there, but I’m probably just tired. I open the door and *creak* oh god. Even the doors are creaky. I walk straight to the steps,