The Death Of Black And Purple Rings

The young sisters, who know little about their father’s suffering, make fun of the hole without knowing the consequence of their action. The father is unable to intervene on his daughters’ behalf, as he sits there “face paled.” (40), till the mother orders the children to keep quiet. Apparently, his role in the family structure prevents him from expressing his emotion directly to his children. Nevertheless, after a visit to the doctor, it turns out that the father’s internal organs are intact despite their state of severe deformation, which shows the father’s incredible determination to remain functional in his family role after his tragic loss. Ironically, the doctors “pronounced him in great health” (41), which implies that apparent defects in mental health could be suppressed by the father’s unwillingness to challenge his image as a man, thus they are not easily detectable. The father’s behavioral patterns after his father’s death are in accordance to many stereotypical views of men.

I started to say hi, but suddenly my entire body felt like it was on fire. Arching my back, I tried to gulp air. I felt arms under my legs and he whispered "please." I fought to stay conscious, but the darkness grabbed me and dragged me

Looming over me was a man in a blue pinstripe suit holding a leather briefcase. His wrinkled forehead displayed beads of sweat and stress was painted on his face. “Rise and Shine, Anastasia.” He said with a certain accentuated low-key moroseness to his tone, placing unusual stress on syllables and stressing the wrong parts of words. “Wake up, Anastasia” He continued, “Wake up and smell the ashes of your people.” I glowing blue eyes staring at me, observing every detail of my being. I called for my Mum and Dad, but they were gone. The world looked different that day. My colourful childhood home had changed to a bleaker and less welcoming brown, there were many planes in the sky, like birds flying south and there were bones and pieces of metal all over the ground. That was when I was deported to The Society. To my new

In the “Gargoyle”, the narrator lacks a nurturing childhood and is blamed by the grandmother for causing his mother’s death: “Her bitterness towards me towards me, as the cause of her daughter’s death, was obvious” (Davidson, p.9). He is later transferred to live with his drug-dealing uncle and aunt who only takes him because of promised government cheques. Eventually he becomes an addicted drug user. Similarly, in his speech “Walk to Morning”, Joseph Boyden described how his pain from depression and drunkenness, coupled with the break-up from a girl, set him off to end his own life. “All I knew was that I’d just become too scared to live” (Boyden).

The night air was heavy with silence. Clouds drifted across a calm sky, and a full moon shone in the distance. In a small hut on the outskirts of the valley, an old man lay in bed, awake in the peaceful slumber of the village. His breaths came in rattling gasps, his forehead burned, and his joints felt stiff with pain. He shifted on the blankets, his withered hands clenched in fists as he tried to suppress the wave of bitter memories coming to him. His life had been nothing more than work, loss, tragedy. He remembered all of his hope, his ambition, in his youth, and he smiled bitterly. No one would remember him as the man that he had once hoped he would become. Now, as his breathing became heavier and he felt himself fading on the brink of

“This singularity of meaning – I was my face, I was ugliness- though sometimes unbearable, also offered a possible point of escape. It became the launching pad from which to lift off, the one immediately recognizable place to point when asked what was wrong with my life. Everything led to it, everything receded from it – my face as personal vanishing point” (Grealy 7).

With each impingement, he angrily moaned at his assailants. And, there was even one point in the short film… one moment where you could see him clearly… for just a second or two, an image that burrowed its way into my mind. His harrowed face, the jaundice of his skin, and sunken eyes. He reminded me of my grandfather in the last few days of his life before pancreatic cancer had taken him. How he had become a shell of what he had once been, a blackening peel decomposing before our very eyes.

The subject shuffled in, with his countless wrinkles, his hair peppered white and his threadbare clothes. However, despite his telltale destitute upbringing, unlike many other citizens, his eyes were still full of hope and life. Peculiar. Nevertheless, his value to the regime had diminished, as he could no longer contribute through work thus, he was a suitable candidate. As the drug was administered, the subject began to fade out of consciousness, his bright eyes slowly fading away. Breath in. Breath out. Silence. The whirring of the machinery seemed to dominate the silence, the white and sterile walls reflecting our distorted faces. Then the subject jerked to life.

It had been thirty-six years since I had last seen him, yet he was the same height. Compared to me, he looked like an elf you would expect to find working for Santa at the mall during Christmas time; he was all scrawny and short. His hair was whiter than snow (Metaphor) found in the mountains. He looked like he was in his eighties, although I knew he was only about forty eight. I snapped out of my train of thought, “why did you never come get me that one day, or even call me!” I said in a hurtful tone.

I waited to see if he would say anything but no response.  His eyes in the mist looked scared, we did not say a word to each other. He looked me in the eyes and told me “ follow me”. He started to walk towards the end of the tunnel where a two kids lie dead with blood dripping down their face.  The boy started to tear up, I did not understand why though the way he cried was

"Different emotions battled for dominance in his mind and heart. Confusion. Curiosity. Panic. Fear. But laced through it all was the dark feeling of utter hopelessness." (6)

He cried on my shoulder that morning in his hospital room when he saw himself in the mirror for the first time. The right side of his handsome face sagged, and he couldn't open his drooping eye. He didn't cry because of vanity, but rather because the image looking back at him represented a lost way of life.

In Emergency Medical Technician school, you learn that when a patient is in critical condition they will feel an impending sense of doom before there body goes into complete shock. After this drastic change in behavior I sensed that his condition was about to get much worse. As he began to scream his evergreen eyes found mine. Our eyes were locked, and that’s when I watched them disappear like a sunset into the back of his head. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if it was my eyes that were the last thing he saw on Earth. Then he seized. All I remember thinking was that I had to get out of the

The pain was gone. I couldn’t feel the warm goo running down my face. I was...glad...that the pain was gone. But now there was a new pain. My mind felt like it was being pulled from somewhere in different directions. “Are you alright?” Suddenly there’s a voice. The pain dulled when she spoke. Her voice was like an angel, (Yes, I know that sounds cliche) but it’s true. Her voice was as soft as a cloud’s depiction, as sweet as a butterscotch candy. She sounded like she was as graceful as a dragon in a story. No matter what she did it was a beautiful flow of movement transformed into an art. Like something you’d never want to look away from. “Don’t be shy, You’re safe now. Come, follow my voice and you shall see the grace of the clouds and the eternal light from the sun and stars above. You can see all of the beauty in the world as if you were there. Come, follow my voice, and the wonders of the world are yours to experience. “Wi-Will I see you?” I ask her. There was silence. A long pause. “If that is your wish.”, she finally said. I moved. I actually felt like I was moving, like I was walking. I started to run. The pain from my mind was dissipating. I was almost there, I could see a silhouette in the whiteness. I felt clear, at peace. It felt nice. I found the source of the voice. She was incomprehensibly beautiful. She looked down at me, her eyes were full of kindness. She smiled lovingly at me, like she knew me. I paused. “A-Are you my

The bar was cluttered and messed with shot glasses and beer bottles, most of which that dripped onto the surface of the counter. Carvings surrounded the bar; produced by previous customers and drunkies. Behind the bar stood the bartender, a short, stocky, middle-aged man who wore a deep frown just below his handlebar mustache. Just one look at the man, one could see a great loneliness beneath the hardened exterior of the man. It seemed almost as though he had lost something very dear to him, yet it was hard to tell what.