Personal Essay : A Tale Of Two Graves

Throughout every story there remains a valuable impact onto the reader. Novels and Short stories often stand as the brilliant creation with a mastermind not far behind. One of the most recently studied works: Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Chronicles of a Death Foretold; Showing a great example of styles and variations in writing. Without detail, art cannot prevail in iconic value. The iconic value of a piece depends upon how many different ways the reader can interpret the piece. In Chapter one of Chronicles of a Death Foretold most readers already understood someone croaked, however the form Marquez chose to describe the death relics gruesome imagery for the painter. The canvas and colors selected by Marquez gave the “true painter” an instant entrance

“All paradises, all utopias are designed by who is not there, by the people who are not allowed in.” - Toni Morrison. Chronicles of a Death Foretold by Gabriel Garcia Marquez is set during the late 20th century near the Caribbeans. It describes the orchestrated death of the main character: Santiago Nasar. Toni Morrison's novel, The Bluest Eyes, is set during World War II and portrays the life of an innocent black girl named Pecola whose life was ruined because of her father Cholly Breedlove who raped and impregnated her.

Throughout the cold, every home had smoke rising from the chimney in grey heaps toward the blue of sky. Voices blared throughout a house of brick, the scent of immortality dwelling in

In the novel, Chronicle of a Death Foretold by, Gabriel Marguez, the characters lack individualization and the communal values determine the events of the town. The characters in this novel only watch what happens but never try to stop it. The character’s thought that nothing evil could happen when the bishop was coming to their town. Therefore they never believed all the threats that were made toward the main character, Nasr Santiago. The communal values evolve around religious events, having family honor and virginity.

“Aaaah!” The kid ran away screaming. “Gets em’ every time” I chuckle as i walk back toward the graveyard. Now that it’s october, i’m back in a job. My job? Scaring people. Mean, i know, but everyone has to put food on the table. Well, i don’t really need to. Skeletons don’t need food. You heard me right, i’m a skeleton.

A few days went by , me and Karen took shifts staying with dad , I did more job searching , with dad out of work for now someone has to provide. Dad was quiet the whole time , watching the TV and barely eating anything. My leg was better as the days passed , I can walk faster , Karen's poor back was pealing with scabs like crazy . It was dad's last day in the hospital , I tried conversations with him , but nothing , I could not resist anymore. “ Dad , are you sure you don't know who could have done this?” He stared into fear ness again not saying a word. “ I'll be back to bring you home tomorrow .” I was walking out the room when he stopped me . “Mark !” I stopped looking at him , in a serious tone voice he looked at me . “ There's something you need to know .” I

Chronicles of a death foretold is a novel by Gabriel Garcia Márquez. The narrative summarizes the events surrounding the murder of Santiago Nasar, Who is thought to have taken the virginity of Angela Vicario. On her wedding night after discovering she is not a virgin Angela’s husband Bayardo returns her to her house. Angela’s twin brothers find Santiago and kill him eventually. Bayardo came from a rich and wealthy family and the Vicario’s were relatively poor. Angela had no choice but to marry Bayardo even though she did not love him.

It was called the “Years of Death” by my family. With this recent war and the constant need to draft, the food and clothing were scarce. My family figured out a way to survive. We survived off the land. Being in Siberia, though, made things, like food, scarce. “Vladimir!” my mother screamed from downstairs, “Dinners ready!” I was overjoyed. I ran downstairs at a fast pace. I could smell the rabbit my father had killed this morning. It had been a while since my last warm meal. “Where is your sister?” I shrugged and went to her room. “Sasha, dinners ready.” she did not move. I walked up to her and tapped her. She fell over, lifeless. Instantly a wave of depression went over me. We were all hungry, but none of us knew she was that hungry. I began

It was a hot, humid evening, My body felt like a corpse, dead inside and tired looking- mostly because of p.e.. Now you would think most schools would go easy on students when it comes to halloween night, false, my school had no mercy and decided to supply me with stacks of homework to agonize me with the fact that if I don’t at least try this year, I’ll have to start again. As you might have guessed, I’m not a very bright kid but I know when to be deviant and clever when it comes to trouble, pranks and occasionally other people’s problems, there is no in between. As I went downstairs, I saw my mom in the kitchen making pan de muerto, a traditional dish mexicans make for the day of the dead and my mom will be taking it to an annual carnival created to show respect for ancestors who have died. “Samuel! I’m so glad you came just in time, take out the paella from the oven before it burns into a crisp!” She exclaimed. “Alright, I’ll be there” as I was taking the the dish out I asked her “hey mom, I was wondering if I could go out

the men of the Nasar family was passed on to Divina. “She had so much

My forearms pulsated with strain, sweat trickled down my face. The behemoth salmon on the other end of the line fighting for every inch it could get. As soon as the fish bit it took off like Usain Bolt in the 100m sprint. To my misfortune, it was in the opposite direction of the boat. It was a fight and that fish was not giving in. After nearly forty minutes of fighting with no success, the fish was becoming enervated. The good news was I was finally able to gain ground on him. The bad news was the salmon was three hundred fifty feet behind the boat. I could feel the fatigue setting in my arms. Every crank of the reel was increasingly difficult. The end of the rod was starting to hurt my hip from the constant pressure. At

Amy tried to keep her attention on the history book she was reading. Her teacher had warned the class that there might be a quiz on Monday morning. But it was difficult to concentrate, and Amy’s eyes kept wandering off the page to look out into the dark night. She must have done into a daze, staring out the window at the lightly falling snowflakes. Because, suddenly, every muscle in her body jumped when she heard the sound of the front door opening. Amy listened to the click of the latch and then the slight creak of the heavy door as it moved. She even felt a cold draft move through the living room just as she heard the door shut again.

The cold January night was leaden with fog and street lights seemed to stream like golden rays. A woman sat slumped in her bed, her belly drooped from each side of the bed as the television’s flickering white light glowed against her face and against the walls. There was no light bulb hanging from the ceiling just a wire. Magazines, dirty plates and burn marks scattered themselves densely across the carpet. Upon the walls was a dark brown-gray glue, smelling of smoke. She had been accustom to this manor of living for years now.

My window faced the backyard, a huge plot of land that housed a miniature forest of sorts. The wind was blowing that night and the leaves on the tree shook gently, quietly. Every once in a while, I could hear an owl’s hoot slice through the silence. I felt myself starting to nod off when suddenly, all of the leaves shot off the trees. So quickly I wasn’t even sure I saw it. But there they sat, trees with bare branches in the middle of March when they should’ve been green and lush. I tried to get up slowly, to look closer at the window, but then I saw it.

The rain was particularly heavy today, the clouds a gray cluster of mess. I look at my beaten down leather watch, it’s 5:30, the time we were supposed to meet up. With a sigh, I grabbed my transparent umbrella and walked out my front door. I had agreed to meet up with friends to work on schoolwork, not the most fitting weekend but staying at home alone didn’t seem much appealing either. The thunder shook the sky, as if letting off a warning, begging me to go back. The double story house greets me with an intimidating stare. It was a Victorian-style house, an old shabby, gothic building. That enough was an unpleasant sight in all the rain.