The Death Of An Apartment Door Essay

Vehemently, I threw my myself on the bed, covered my head with pillows and screamed in pain and agony.Like a pack of wild, hungry ferocious wolves, the thoughts began to commence and every second they got louder. Like paws,every sentence clawed at my brain,every thought pierced my mind in agony,and my body began to shake. The shivers started from the tip of my fingers and cascaded straight down my gut, my body shook, and I screamed

Suddenly my eyes flew open, the coldness slowly lingered away. My body felt warm. Almost as warm as how my mouth felt the last time I had sipped on my grandmother's tea. My grandmother always told me to have faith and to believe in the end everything would be alright. I felt the frigid saltwater against my skin. “Where am I?” I thought to myself. I couldn’t quite recall what had happened nor where I was. All that I could recall was hearing screams of innocent children and parents trying to comfort

I felt my heartbeat rising every step I took as the blood rushed to the surface of my skin. My muscles tightened, beginning with my legs as if I could’ve ran fast enough to chase the truck. The image of the man and his words repeated many times in my mind, making me vulnerable to hatred. I thought I was doing something good and just. I was naïve. I thought everyone would gladly give us a helping hand. I looked at everyone around me, and I noticed it wasn’t just me that was burning with raged. I could see the anger in their eyes as they conversed with each other. It wasn’t until a loud voice snapped me out of it. “Do not show fear! Do not show anger! Our justice cannot break that easily!”

“The Door” written by Alex Finn takes readers through a story about a teenager struggling to go outside after being bullied. Cameron has agoraphobia and can’t face the fact of going outside, and is too afraid to admit it. His parent have to take a trip and are gone for many days. While they are gone, he is brought face to face with his fear. He teaches us through his journey that fear of judgement can make you afraid to advocate for yourself.

Deafening screams ricocheted off the gray, blood-smeared cement walls.  My body became blanketed with a cold sweat, that made it hard to decide whether I was warm or freezing.  I received small glances of my surroundings as the strobe light blinded me.  My nose was filled with a pungent odor, making it impossible to breathe.  I thought I knew what I was getting myself into, but I was wrong.

Everyone has moments of weakness and indulgence in their lives, but not everyone’s momentary weakness lead to their spouse’s death. This is, however, what happens to Ann, a farmer’s wife, in Sinclair Ross’ short story, “The Painted Door”. She feels as though she and her husband are emotionally isolated. That growing malcontent is what gave Ann that push to sleep with Steven, a man whom her husband, John, trusts profoundly. After sleeping together, Ann awakens in a dream-like haze and sees John, who would do anything for his wife.

the connection from contact and voter turnout may be misleading. Also, the sample size was small for the study, leading to question the unreliability and perhaps overstating the outcome of the mobilization campaigns. This study did find that for competitive races the likelihood of voter turnout increased 5% and those voters were likely to contribute money. They also determined that those running the campaigns were most likely to target those who had resources, or were affiliated with parties, and had strong social networks. They concluded that those with certain associations were easier to be mobilized to vote.

One night, thoroughly past her bedtime, Georgiana crept stealthily downstairs to sneak a bite of pie, even though her mother would never approve. She immediately realized a heavy drape of desolation. The only noise was her heart beating to the rapid rhythm of the twitching fan. Georgiana thought that no one would be awake at one in the morning. She slipped through the doorway into the kitchen. For an instant, her heart stopped. A dreadful sight stood in her way. An innocent and isolated individual lay with his hand grasping for life, but it was already over. Taking a step back, she

“It is horrible Amira saw him being shot, she is only 8.” My mum whispers. “Ream shouldn’t have been shot for standing up. The poor boys that got tortured for grafting on the wall is unfair. A war has broken out. This is not the Syria I remember.” I hear someone start to uncontrollably weep. Poor mum, is the only thing going through my mind. Creak. The front door opens then shuts. Who is that, but I am too exhausted, so I close my red, puffy

Men would be fine and the next morning they would be carried out in body bags, they would drop like flies in the shower, yard, on the john and even mid sentence. It had been all over the news, tens of millions dead. He had come down with it himself, but in a great stroke of luck a cure was found and he was one of the few that survived. Only a quarter million were cured. Nearly 80 million dead worldwide. He remembered the night he saw his cell mate die as clear as a picture. The stench, something he could barely stand, was even stronger that night, smelling like how he imagined his long dead great-grandmother would smell like in her grave. And then there was that thud, a sick, wet thud, something that sounded awfully wrong. He immediately jumped off his bunk and hit the call button and flipped his mate's body and instantly threw up. He knew it had been bad, but he never thought it was this bad. In the moonlight his face looked like a bowl of cottage cheese. He is neck swelled like a balloon and even in the darkness he could make the dark veins bulging against his skin. Pus and mucus ran across his face and there was blood pooled under his eyes, even leaking like the final teardrops of a dying man. Asher felt around for a hopeless pulse, but only found an unnatural wetness on his

Monique and her family have experienced many incidents in her Liberian homeland that will have a lasting effect on them. The probable psychiatric effects of living through war, bombings, and destruction of your own village as you flee from it, are sure to play into the psyches of folks long after being removed from the immediate danger. Though the initial removal from this scene must surely be a relief, the overall toll it takes on folks would be very disturbing and burdensome. The worry of loved ones and friends left behind, and of losing your home and effects surely must be overwhelming. Even Monique’s family’s escape experience was harrowing with going through the checkpoints, being detained and the car being searched, and lastly, that final

The Abandoned house stood there, with fog rising to the sky. Lights flickered being the only light in the dark….. The fog dragged a cold breeze, that sent a chill up my spine, this house has been here forever and nothing like this has ever happened before, I gulped and strolled into the cold night fog. As I approached the house, the door slowly opens and a Shadow steps towards me. The weather just dropped like 40 degrees, I don't like this at all.

Stiles stood at Scott's bedroom door, not pausing for a second before he repetitively slapped his fist against the closed-door. "Scott? It's me." The door was opened soon after but only by a small portion. Worried for his friend, Stiles weakly attempted to push open the door. However his attempts were to no avail as Scott easily managed to prevent the boy from entering.

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

"The Woman Who Walked Into Doors" is a novel written by Roddy Doyle, set in Ireland in the early 1990s. This story combines love and violence and shows how the two can go together in one marriage.