Summary : ' The Mudhole '

Pages 61-120 are basically explaining Tris’ new life and what her daily routine is. This section of the book starts out with Four, the new instructor of the transfers, showing his new students around the Dauntless compound. The first place Four takes the students is The Pit. The Pit is a big chasm that is so big that Tris couldn’t see the other side from where she stood. Then Four turned the group over to Eric one of the five leaders of dauntless. Eric showed the new initiates to their dormitories and gave them their schedules. Their first task was to learn how to shoot a gun. Tris was terrible at first because of her insecurities about holding a gun. In her old faction having a weapon was self-serving which went against their thrive for selflessness.

On a sunny afternoon in May of 2013 I learned a very important lesson. I was at a family auction in the small quiet town of Ames, Oklahoma. The dew was still wet on the ground and the air was crisp. There was a lot of my extended family there as well as people I had never met. I got to see my cousin Taylor as well as one of her cousins named Jadey. We decided we were going to go ride four wheelers out in the field and it was at that time I learned a valuable lesson. Four wheeler accidents happen often, but I never expected to be the one involved. Before my accident I thought four wheelers were fairly safe, but afterwards I learned that an accident can happen in a split second and you should never assume you won’t be the one involved.

In the short story “Mud,” by Geoffrey Forsyth, a first person narrator is used to guide the reader in identifying with the daily internal struggles that the main character faces while attempting to cope with the grief, “mud,” of losing his family. When the narrator first notices his dead relatives alive and well, yet covered in “mud,” he acts as though this is an entirely normal occurrence. Forsyth introduces the characters in order of their deaths starting with the grandma. The narrator's grief, the “mud” his relatives are covered in, seems as though it is not weighing down on him as heavily as one would think, saying that, “Today is not a good day… People are counting on me.” Secondly, the narrator’s father appears. Upon seeing his father,

Many people define their lives by the relationships within their family. They are someone’s daughter, someone’s wife, or someone’s mother or father. The loss of a family member, especially due to death, creates a radical readjustment to people’s day to day lives and how they see and feel about themselves. Sometimes the process of grief can last over several years and how it is mentally processed and dealt with is different for everyone. “Mud” by Geoffrey Forsyth, shows an insightful view of a grieving man who had already lost his father and grandmother and is now just coming to terms with the loss of his wife two years prior. The entire story is written in first person point of view which allows for the reader to fully engage themselves in the grief and strife of the narrator’s life. Geoffrey’s story “Mud” begins in the home of the narrator where he encounters these dead family members and has to decide if he is ready to move on from his grief and say goodbye or stay behind and be consumed by it.

Airplanes. Window seats. Wilderness. Just a few of my favorite things, Melanie thought quietly to herself while flying over Canada. Staring out the window, gazing at snow-covered mountains that looked like they were peeking into the clouds, she tried to remember how long it had been since she last saw Connor, her older brother. When she was younger, they were close but their bond had faded out as Connor was constantly moving, never able to settle down. The last time she saw her brother was almost three years ago when they spent the day hiking in the Delaware Water Gap. Being surrounded by the wilderness seemed to be one of the things that always united them. Recently, as a high school senior, she moved from Arizona to Louisiana. Meanwhile,

Then, through the ocean of green trees, I’m riding in the back of a dusty truck. My belongings of cheap furniture, books, and way too much clothes are packed into the bed behind me. The barely static radio is tuning in an out of a country station as I take in the environment around me, anxious for the next big step of my life. These two journeys in my life are vivid memories to me.

Road trips with the family weren’t always fun and exciting. Sometimes they could get very irritating. For instance, I remember the time when my family and I went to Indiana for Carter’s Hoop Shoot Regional Final. When we were finally about two hours away from our destination, the transmission on my mom’s GMC Acadia stopped working completely. As a result, we had to pay around 4,000 dollars to get it fixed and had to wait an extra couple days after the Hoop Shoot so it could get fixed. That trip was very stressful and made everything we did harder and a lot more frustrating.

Dozing off in a jampacked SUV during a long and tedious three hour drive from Troutdale, Oregon to Kennewick, Washington isn’t exactly how I’d like to spend my weekends, but these trips have come to represent a symbol of how hard work, grit, and determination shaped my grandparent’s lives; so that I could have a better one. Growing up until last year, my grandparents from my mom’s side were never really around, as they lived three hours away in a small city named Kennewick, Washington. As a result, my family made regular trips to visit them about every two months so that we could maintain a tight bond. I had always thought of these random visits to my grandparents as ordinary and monotonous drives to be with family, but as I have matured I’ve

Loading the hefty luggage into the vehicle, we were beginning our journey to an exciting place that I’ll never forget. We were traveling from my hometown located in the southeastern part of Mississippi, Waynesboro. Waynesboro is like the land of zero opportunities. The streets are often bare and boring. There is no “downtown”; everything is crammed in one section of the small town. Calling Waynesboro dull would be considered an understatement, but where we were traveling was the complete opposite. It is a rather near location that enlightened me with intriguing aspects of the world. Our destination was Nashville, Tennessee.

The motorcycle operator’s story (vehicle 1 POLLARD) is in conflict with the truck driver’s story (vehicle 2 SHELOR). Contact was not made between vehicles. The motorcycle operator did fail to maintain control. The motorcycle skid marks are to the right hand side of the operator’s southbound lane. The motorcycle skid mark turns to the right as the operator loses control.

Whenever we traveled in the canoe from that trip on we couldn’t have much extra weight in the boat, and we had a designated rescue boat. The day after we arrived on the island we paddled to a quarry next to Liam and Ethan, and did the same the day after that when we went back to camp. This trip showed me that road trips are seen as an American tradition because it shows how a journey can change people and in circumstances they can sometimes relate to. Although I was

Flying off of a four wheeler, through the dusty Barrow air, was a 16 year old praying he wouldn’t get hurt from his four wheeler crash. During the summer of 2016, I used the four wheeler to have fun, go from place to place, and hang out with friends. Throughout the time that I was in Barrow during the summer, I used a four wheeler as my transportation because I don’t have a license to drive a car and the DMV is always closed because no DMV workers will come to Barrow to work. Many people in Barrow drive four wheelers because there aren’t any paved roads here so you’re able to drive on any of the roads in Barrow. There aren’t any paved roads in Barrow because most of the people that live here would think that it would crack from the cold weather or maybe even from the permafrost all under the ground all over Barrow.

I woke up to the sound of yelling and explosions. I ran outside to find myself ankle deep in mud and water. As I looked around at the destruction I thought to myself, ”How did the war get this bad?” I looked down at the mud filled trench and saw my best friend Jay lying there with a small wound on his shoulder. I quickly took him to the doctor and he recovered from a minor gunshot wound within a few days.

Arlen drove out of the Nadley Campground entrance, took a right-hand turn, and applied a lead foot to the accelerator through the state forest road toward home. As the speedometer hit sixty, he eased back to the speed limit of forty-five when he became conscious of his somewhat reckless driving. There was a fifteen-mile drive home, and it dawned on him that he could view the ride as drudgery, or use the time to unwind. It was a sunny pleasant afternoon, after all. About five miles down that road, as Arlen approached the entrance to Wharton Pond campground. Arlen thanked the stars he let up on the gas pedal because he nearly clipped a man riding a small motorcycle that emerged from the entrance. The man did not notice anyone beyond a bend

Before I knew it, my nomenclature for the Egg turned more affectionate, as I referred to her as my “baby.” This bond I felt with my car was an emotional manifestation of my lifelong desire to experience unknown roads yet to be discovered. My car became a rolling sanctuary, my favorite place—a promise of avoiding staticity in life. Even as a senior citizen in the world of cars, my car climbed the hills of Saratoga, taking me to viewpoints overlooking the Bay Area. As I looked out at city lights and the mountains in the distance, I understood that although I was born and raised in the “Saratoga Bubble,” the world held infinite promises of new experiences. I have never feared novel places—I yearn to experience them. I dream of gazing at the Northern Lights from underneath a glass dome in Finland, basking in the spray of Victoria Falls, and balancing on an elephant’s back through the jungles of