Short Story

“On the outskirts of town, within the verge of the peninsula, but not in close vicinity to any other habitation, there was a small thatched cottage. It had been built by an earlier settler, and abandoned because the soil about it was too sterile for cultivation, while its comparative remoteness put it out of the sphere of that social activity which already marked the habits of the emigrants. It stood on the shore, looking across a basin of the sea at the forest-covered hills toward the west.”

(page 53) There are also other quotes that shows how rundown the town is. “His house was built more of wood than stone but there was plenty of stone. On the steepest side of the house there had been a porch outside the kitchen door but the stairs and pilings had broken away to leave the floor unsupported above a hellish plummet, a beguiling bad idea lying in the wait for somebody high to give it a try.”

I unlock the metal gate and climb onto the front patio. Before me stands a two-story house with newly-refurbished windows and a fresh coat of white paint. I admire the house’s beauty as I stroll past it. I walk through a crowded path of mohintli, white laelia, tithonia, and dahlias that seem to guide me to the real reason I am at this address. After moving the branches of some avocado trees out of the way, I finally find the treasure I am seeking: a small rose-colored house with just two windows and two rooms. With the key my father gave me, I open the doors to enter the rooms. The light switch does not work, so only shadows are present in the room. Giant cracks graze the walls like the markings of a lion. On the ceiling, an intricate flower design shines proudly with the rest of the room, slowly losing its will to decay. Only broken furniture stands in the corners of the room, ashamed to be present in front of a girl from the North. After taking a deep breath to calm my emotions, I lock the door, look to the sky, and walk back to the house I am staying at with my

While the plot and the theme are always very significant, a reader should never forget the importance of the setting in a story. This short story is a perfect example of the importance of the setting, since it is through it that the reader is able to truly understand the author’s message and intensions. It is through the description of a post-apocalyptic world, a city in ruins and the last house standing, that the reader is able to truly understand the

"Fireworks," Conan stated in a child-like voice. A smirk appears on her face. She wondered what the thief will do next. She turns at the sound of the rotor blades on a helicopter. "Look, a helicopter is coming this way! Maybe they saw us?" She added in a sly what-do-we-do-now voice.

He only had me over once: the evening I ran away. I had wandered for hours around the Champs-Elysées, seeking some elusive thing or other, and when I didn’t find it—whatever “it” was—I made up my mind to return to the school. The groundskeeper said Pedro was waiting for me at home.

The house that Lennie, George had bought had undergone many changes. It had a new coat of yellow paint like the colour of ducklings, with a black roof and a chimney for the stove. The house was perfectly located in within the hills and meadows, not far from the Salinas River. It was only just hidden from civilization but felt like a mile away from anywhere. A place like this would be difficult to find but certainly not impossible.

n any case, this was no million dollar wander with the houses here were tear-downs that nobody had any motivation to repair as people of colour lived there. Periodically, there are windows still in possession of its glass yet most had broken such a long time ago that there was no hint of the shards on the spoiling floor boards. Many of the homes had the rooftops incompletely collapsed or in any event they hang like a frustrating soufflé. The only welcoming you felt was the wail of the breeze, The fate of the town had been gradually beaten by the Great Depression and it had inevitably surrendered to gravity with only a few witnesses or individual’s to grieve its passing.

On a hill overlooking a farm, with yellow cornfields and a barn for cattle, sat an old adobe house. It was falling apart at the edges, stucco cracking and revealing cold, hard concrete beneath. The windows were dusty and it was nearly impossible to see through the film of grey and brown. The road leading to the house was dirt, and fine dust would coat the sides and tires of any car that was brave enough to drive by.

The speaker states, "Inside a stone house in the mountains," (1) which hints to readers that this house is somewhat secluded somewhere in the mountains. The poem even mentions "surrounded by ghosts and memories"(3), insisting that his older relatives have

Around the beginning of the story, the narrator skimmed over the house and noticed the excessive antiquity of the building; however, he realized the true inconsistency of the apparently perfect adaptation of parts and the crumbling of each individual stone. As the narrator observed the building more closely he spotted a barely noticeable fissure that ran from the roof of the building down to the waters if the

She didn’t know where she was going, but something inside of her told her to run far away and fast.

High upon a lonely hill surrounded by a great dark forest, stood an ancient, crumbling manor, known as the Haunted House. The windows were all smashed and it looked like the house was used a long time ago and was never used again. The font gates were as old as the hills. It belonged to a greedy old man, he was as short as a stump, he was really grumpy and fat who everyone said he was a wizard. Even though he owned the immense haunted house he didn’t dare to go inside because he was frightened like a child in dark, so he lived in the small cottage in the grounds of the manor, with just his black cat for company. He was as lonely as the master who has go to war, but hews happy, because he had a true love. His true love was gold, and he had

One day in a college water pipe there was a peanut named peter, this peanut was special, he lived in a Skippy brand peanut butter jar in a city named Aquaville. One day he met a donut named Dylan. Peter met Dylan when he was walking down to the local coffee shop. That day was not normal in his usual seat was sitting a donut. As Peter looked around at him the donut turned and glanced at him and he said hi and ever since that day they were good friends. After about a year of working at the local grocery store he discovered something very wrong with the city. In his daily walk down to the gym, he saw a sewer hatch open and he couldn’t resist but to explore. He loved to explore he climbed down the ladder and walked a ways down when he saw the

The village was ravaged. From the towering trees that engulfed it, to the simple houses that lived in the midst. Destruction left no soul alive, or so it thought…