Sam Blackwell: A Narrative Fiction

Richard Kuklinski was an incredibly cold-blooded man. He had at least 100 confirmed kills, and claims to have around 200 total. Richard has a very horrible childhood. Richard liked to torture and kill animals as a little boy. His father abused him and his brothers, one of which was killed from the abuse received from Stanley. Stanley’s brother, Joseph, was pretty messed up, too. He probably would’ve turned out to be a serial killer himself. Kuklinski himself wasn’t like Ramirez or Dahmer, or any other serial killer for that matter. Kuklinski was an evil man, with a ton of interesting information about him out there.

He could see the image perfectly in his mind; the cemetery quiet, crows singing harshly in the distance, the sun's light illuminating the tombs as it baid the day farewell, orange leaves nestled near the stones resting on the grave, Hannibal young and sharp-minded, settling in this new country, paying his respects to the past as he took in the present. Maybe he had traveled here for the sake of his studies, or because the small suburb in which he'd grown up had grown too banal, and it was time, now, to stretch to the world. Or perhaps he had simply been visiting. But he could see it, young Hannibal in a navy blue windbreaker, or a too-large sweater, less together and experienced than now, taking in the sight as if heaven sent to him, the sun sneaking through and lighting not just the nameplates nestled in the grass but the features of Hannibal's face. He could see himself finding Hannibal there, his sister on his arm, pausing to stare at the man encapsulated at the sight, Will and his sister encapsulated by the man. Approaching him, and then the three of them, standing together in silence, the sun casting orange-yellow light and pulling blue shadows on all of them, the tears dried on his sister's face not unlike the shadows of rain on Hannibal's now. When they turned to look at each other, the their eyes drifting to each others', they would be silent, and his sister would smile, and he'd smile, and Hannibal's eyes would shine the way they were shining

Lionel held up his hand. “We’ve had enough, thank you. But if you’d be so kind, please pack that up and the extras. I’ll stop by the kitchens later to retrieve the leftovers. However, I will accept that pitcher of mead.”

The novel “The Lovely Bones” by Alice Sebold centers around the disappearance and brutal murder of fourteen-year-old Susie Salmon. The grief that came along with such an event eclipsed the world that she left behind. Throughout the story, Sebold uses the characterization of Jack Salmon to express the idea that losing a loved one takes a fragment of one’s warmth from them as they grieve. As the first fragment of warmth was taken from Jack, he changed as a character to become noticeably more withdrawn as he navigated his way through the initial stage of the grieving process. At the beginning of the story, he is a loving and devoted family man.

“Bread,” he grunted. She handed him a piece, took one for herself. He took a couple of bites before

The maid then came with my tea she then gently poured it into an old tea stained cup, i watched the steam slowly rise and dissipate in the air.

As she rubbed her eyes in exhaustion she remembered the adventures of the day before. When she got home she passed out from the excitement and strain on her heart. She reached down to check her leg and sighed with relief to find a replacement was already attached. She looked over at her nightstand and noticed her spare glass waiting for her to put them on. As she got out of bed all she could think about was how rude she was to Sam. She walked into the kitchen to see her mother preparing breakfast. She looked around and did not see Sam. She didn’t know why she expected to see her but she was upset that he was not here. Her mom turned a saw her disappointment and said “He seem in quite a rush to leave he left his job to help you.” She was startled by her answer and rushed out the door ignoring the cries from her mother. She hurried Sam’s farm almost throwing up because of the strain on her heart. When she reached the farm she found an old man working the fields. She rushed over and asked, “Where is Sam?” The old man replied, “I fired him because...” She didn’t let him finish She rushed to the road the taste of blood in her mouth from running. She saw a man walking on the road looking forlorn. She called out, “Sam!” The man stopped and turned it was Sam he answered her, “Joy?” She ran into his arms and started to cry. Sam confused hugged her back. She thought to herself about how a horrible incident led to her

My shoelaces whipped at the backs of my ankles, urging me forward. Rain-drenched, I ran. I had felt the venom of desperation before, but never of this caliber -this was its purest form. It tasted of whiskey. I 'd never been fond of whiskey. The branches of the fir trees scraped against my cheeks and I forced myself to feel each individual needle. I deserved as much. His voice laughed “Come find me” amongst the trees, echoing throughout the forest. It was a wet winter, as wet as one would think a winter could be with Washington 's climate. I slipped on the moss coated roots and sliced my right cheek on a jagged rock. By midnight, it would all be over.

We had not gone a rod when we found ourselves in a heap, in a heavy drift of snow. We took hold of each others’ hands, pulled ourselves out, got into the road, and the cold north wind blew us down the road a half mile south, where the Strelow boys and John Conrad had to go west a mile or more. When they reached a bridge in a ravine, the little fellows sheltered a while under the bridge, a wooden culvert, but Robert, the oldest, insisted that they push on thru the blinding storm for their homes. In the darkness they stumbled in, and by degrees their parents thawed them out, bathed their frozen hands, noses, ears and cheeks, while the boys cried in pain. “My brothers and I could not walk thru the deep snow in the road, so we took down the rows of corn stalks to keep from losing ourselves ’till we reached our pasture fence. Walter was too short to wade the deep snow in the field, so Henry and I dragged him over the top. For nearly a mile we followed the fence ’till we reached the corral and pens. In the howling storm, we could hear the pigs squeal as they were freezing in the mud and snow. Sister Ida had opened the gate and let the cows in from the field to the sheds, just as the cold wind struck and froze her skirts stiff around her like hoops. The barn and stables were drifted over when we reached there. The roaring wind and stifling snow blinded us so that we had to feel thru the yard to the door of our house. “The lamp was lighted. Mother was walking the floor, wringing her hands and calling for her boys. Pa was shaking the ice and snow from his coat and boots. He had gone out to meet us but was forced back by the storm. We stayed in the house all that night. It was so cold that many people froze.” Although most of the information that was collected or the stories that were told were in South Dakota, Nebraska, North Dakota the temperatures took

The short story, “Shaving”, by Leslie Norris has several modes of discourse, three of them very evident. This story is told as a narration, following a plot line from the beginning to the end. Within the plotline, description helps us understand who the main character is and what is happening in his life, the narrator mentioning that “the smell of illness was everywhere”. He then goes on to shave his father’s beard and describes the razor as it “[the new edge] moved light as a touch over the hardness of the upper jaw and down to the angle of the chin”.

The steam from the kettle had condensed on the cold window and was running down the glass in tear-like trickles. Outside in the orchard the man from the smudge company was refilling the posts with oil. The greasy smell from last night’s burning was still in the air. Mr. Delahanty gazed out at the bleak darkening orange grove; Mrs. Delahanty watched her husband eat, nibbling up to the edges of the toast, then staking the crusts about his tea cup in a neat fence-like arrangement.

Riley pushed his wet blonde hair out of his eyes and shivered while drawing his fleece blanket tighter around his body. The hairs on his arms and legs felt like they were standing straight up from the goose bumps that were forming on his skin. Even though it was the middle of August, it was unusually cold tonight. It had been raining on and off since five PM, so the grass had disintegrated into the slippery mud that was oozing between his toes and ruining his bamboo mat. At least he had been smart enough to bring it – others were sitting directly on the grass and ruining their jeans. People were walking around with brown stains on their backsides, making it look like they didn’t make it to the bathroom. Even though, his jeans weren’t dirty,

Dibby Blackwell is your typical fourteen -year-old middle school girl. This usually means the littlest problem becomes the end of the world. Dibby has long brown hair that is usually in a braid, a forehead dotted with traces of acne, and braces the color of pink cotton candy. About 2 hours of school has passed. At Westwick middle school students always eat lunch with their grade. Later that night there was a seventh-grade dance, so tickets are sold during lunch. Lunch time arrives. Everyone left class early trying to get a good spot in line. Dibby walks to the lunchroom door to see her crush, Mark Angelman standing in line waiting to purchase his ticket to the dance. Mark Angelman is the captain of the bowling team. He has dark chocolate brown hair, olive skin and a smile that could stop traffic. He was beyond dreamy and out of her league at least Dibby thought so.

In the United States, there are hundreds of thousands of people whose safety in this nation is in jeopardy. The recipients of DACA, a deportation protection program, rely on its benefits to remain in the US. Not only does DACA keep many people safe, but it provides a variety of benefits outside of simply being protected from deportation. The impacts of DACA on society, the economy, and health vastly outweigh the possible negatives it has on the United States.

"Norma," he whispered, and pulled the short-handled hammer out of his pocket where it had been all along. "They're for you, Norma... it was always for you... all for you." She backed away, her face a round white blur, her mouth an opening black O of terror, and she wasn't Norma, Norma was dead, she had been dead for ten years...”