Short Story - The Thud Essay

Written by Steven Millhauser, The Slap is a highly detailed short story that showcases the theme of how fear can debilitate a town. The story is centered on a man who goes around slapping people once and then walks away without a trace. Each victim gives a detailed testimony to the reader throughout the story until the slapping comes to an end. The town is very distraught over these incidents because it is a violation of their security and safety. The slap is not so much a physical attack as it is a mental attack. The town as a whole is affected by the fear of being slapped and gives into that fear by no longer wearing trench coats, making sure their houses are secure more than before and by parents walking their kids to school and picking them up.

When I was a little boy my mom, dad, and three little siblings lived in a in a small dimly lit cabin owned by a white man. He owned the endless fields and all of the sharecropper cabins upon it. My dad was one of the many sharecroppers who worked the land the white man owned. He rented the small plot of land in return for a portion of the crops we harvested to be given to the landowner. Our lives were hard; we worked in the fields and had very little to live on. We were poor, and to make it worse we were black.

Mishibi was a man who loved to write poems. He always had his tattered notebook with him, and his eyes twinkled when he had an idea. I always loved the way he would nibble on his pencil, and I would play with his long hair to help him relax.

October 12, 2010. 9:34:42 pm. The lights are dimmed. I am bathing in sweat. The amount of liquid that is slowly finding its way down my face is unbelievable. I hear a piercing scream, a thunderous boom, and suddenly an ear-splitting explosion that would terrify me for the rest of my life. The scream that I heard killed my soul. Attacking me piece by piece, the screech will never be forgotten. Rickkkkkyyyyyy! Boom. Boom. That was the moment I noticed that life is not always fair. The moment Ricky died.

Short Story The ancient house sat astride the cliff's rugged shoulders. Sections of rendering had fallen away into the tangled vegetation far below, revealing thick stone slabs underneath: toothless gaps, the dark smile of an old bearded gunrunner, and the oblivion of a whisky drunk, Brazilian whore. The house was four stories tall and had almost been reclaimed by the jungle; this ornate Churrigueresque fortress had been smashed and peppered for centuries by tropical elements intent on a gradual stripping away of its baroque stone carvings.

With short, shallow breaths trying to calm himself, he steps onto the train. His palms drip with cold, nervous sweat, he worries that the curious eyes of the reserved passengers don't notice the hypersensitivity of his actions. Another quick breath. The shivering of his knees starts to highlight the unpredictability of his nerves. Attempting to take his mind off of his vibrating legs, he glances over to his comrade in the adjacent cabin who appears to be handling himself with ease. The metallic click of the train doors closing reverberate through the travelling metal drum. He knows there's no backing out as he hears the automated announcer over the speakers. "Bienvenue à la seulement train direct à Lyon." Anxiously

According to Aung San Suu Kyi, a male dominated society does not mean men are stronger than women, it just means women are kinder. Both Miss. Emily and Mrs. Mallard experienced going through many expectations and restrictions that needed to be proper because of their gender. Their development pattern and their culture was similar. Besides their similarities they differed in how they have changed within time, their physical descriptions, and how they both respond to other people in their society.

With over a hundred hours of batting practice this season, Paul planted his feet firmly against the soft dirt. He took a deep breath and readied himself for the pitch. The ball bolted towards the strike zone, and Paul started his swing. He swung his bat with perfection. In his head, Paul knew it would be the best hit of the year. “Strike three!” The umpire hollered. It took Paul all but a second to realize that he struck out for the tenth consecutive time, and that he caused the Mustangs to lose the championship game. He walked towards the dugout; his teammates stared at him with grudge.

Human behavior is one of the most studied and talked about traits of human beings, for it makes us who we are after all. It is prevalent in books, movies, stories, and most importantly life, everything we do involves it. In all of the short stories we read, aspects of human behavior where the basis of the writings. The short stories "A Rose For Emily" and "Barn Burning" show excellent human reactions to life's challenges through the themes of social status and death.

History has known many a great author, but none more intriguing than Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hawthorne’s ability to weave stories through the use of complex language and early puritan society narratives has long been a topic of study amongst scholars and young adults, alike. “Young Goodman Brown” explores the idea of good vs. evil and draws many parallels to the life of Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Yep, yeahs, and ah-huhs were all replied back to her, but when Peggy took notice of what Zack sounded like, her gray eyes shifted firmly to him and then bulged from out her head. “Jesus, what the hell happened to you?”

You stay here,” Ken ordered the other dog and rushed into the yard to check on Margaret. “Smoky, you stop that and come over here,” he called out several times before the dog bowed his head and went to him.

Hiding behind fallen hair, she rubbed her palms against her jeans (Jacob and Emma both changed into more inconspicuous clothing).

He was on his way home when the accident happened. Everyone thought it was because of the rain and in a way, that was true. It had been bucketing down, making it hard to see through the heavy rain drops on the windscreen even with the headlights on. The front end of her red car had crumpled from impact, making the windscreen implode with shattered glass. The front passenger door was torn from it hinges laying several metres away and the front wheels had spun off their axis into the night. There had been so much noise. A choir of grinding, exploding, popping and then finally the soft silence of the night.

Short Story Imagine an office building, decrepit, run down and looted, windows broken and entire floors ransacked. The top level was a burnt out shell. Snow was falling heavily here, forming drifts on the ashes. A road, pot holed and worn, skirted around two sides of the derelict. It headed towards a car park where half a dozen burnt out cars sat alone, rusting quietly and gathering snow.