The Effects Of My Life

The air was thick with the smell of sulfur. The sky looked overcast, but there was only a slight chance of rain. The path was slick with mud, the person ahead of me was struggling to move forward. Every now and then a bird would fly by, probably a tern or gull, but maybe a bald eagle if we were lucky. When I looked down I could see the little holes that the fiddler crabs lived in. We passed both of the waist-deep holes--nobody fell in that time, not accidentally at least. We finally arrived at the salt pan in the middle of the marsh. While there, the participants in our camp received a talk about the soil they were standing on. Instead of listening, that time I stood away thinking about what we were heading into next. The mud pit was one of

Imagine, if you will, a brisk night wind coming fast across a lake carrying a pungent smell, something you can’t quite identify, but is nonetheless familiar enough to send a shiver up your spine. As it hits the trees, they creak out a somber call in the still night air. Or was that groan something more…human? You notice, for the first time, the absence of tires humming on pavement and you wonder if it’s that late, or maybe just a slow night. The soft tapping of your shoes on the sidewalk is the only accompaniment your slow breathing has as you move towards the warmth of your home, holding thoughts of a warm bed in the palm of your hand to keep the chill away. You don’t notice at first, perhaps because the reality of what you’re hearing is

The boy lay there next to his father keeping each other warm from the chilling atmosphere where they set camp. The air was so moist it turned the dirt into damp mud and the boy could feel his sleeping bag submerge into it. The intimidating glare of an owl examining him sent a tingle up his spine. The sounds of bugs chiming filled the ambience, killing the silence giving him a sense of security. He looked up at the twilight sky illuminated by the blinding shimmer of the full moon gleaming through the forest trees over him. Surrounding it was an array of glimmering stars prompting the sky alive. As his body grew accustomed to the environment, each natural attribute gave him comfort and allowed him to slowly fall into a deep sleep.

Immediately into Tim O’Brien’s short story “The Things They Carried” the reader is introduced to First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross and the letters he carried from his past back home. Throughout the story, readers are also introduced to other items and supplies which “were largely determined by necessity” (O’Brien 1) as well as items deemed a luxury that each individual soldier carried with him for one reason or another. Pictures, memorabilia, and personal items all acted as a gateway into a portal which would bring them back home to the ones they loved if only for five minutes at a time. Although the pictures, memorabilia and personal items of Cross and his soldiers alike, helped them recall back to an era much more peaceful, the consequences of bringing the past with you can carry exceedingly negative side effects.

My shoes squeaked on the tiles as I walked across the floor. My muscles tremored just before I stepped outside and shaded my eyes against the day’s bright light. The sun looked no different from the day I went in. But that was seventy-eight years ago.

I finally fell asleep in my cavern, all alone I reflected on how exhausted I was after a long day of watching over my sheep. I had an exceptional dinner before I went to bed, filled with bread and wine. Then, during the night I swore that I had heard some noises, but I overlooked it.

Usually, the only sounds we could hear would be the occasional downpours of rain. This wasn’t rain. It was more like… footsteps. But it couldn’t be. Nobody was able to walk on The Surface anymore. At least, not humans. Every child hears rumors that mice, birds, lizards, even cats could survive there. The sounds echoing above me could not come from a cat.

The rattles of leaves were heard from miles away, even from the hut I slept in most nights. The sounds of rushing footsteps drag along the dirt-filled road roughly. Wonder-struck my mind was, an invisible barrier held me from seeking the noise. I knew my curiosity might lead me to death. Out here in the forest, that always happened.

The day finally came. It was time for the dreaded goodbyes. My entire face was soaked against my grandfather’s wrinkled hazel shirt. I couldn’t see a thing from the tears that flooded my eyes. I had to say goodbye to my grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins and friends. It was a bittersweet feeling leaving behind my family in Jamaica but the thought of finally going to America overwhelmed me with joy. After saying goodbye to my family, I walked on the plane eager to see what was in store for me. I stayed awake the entire plane ride, taking everything in. Once we finally landed I grew fidgety. My patience grew smaller as I waited to exit the plane. After what felt like hours, I was finally off. I got nervous. I didn’t know what to expect. I

As soon as the whistle faded into the night it was quickly replaced by the screeching sounds of metal grinding against metal. The loud clatter carried and echoed throughout the night’s darkness, causing all of us to share a worried glance with one another, completely frozen up in silence.

Crisp, chilly breezes tugged at the brown and red leaves which lay on the slightly frosted ground. A forest of trees dressed with orange leaves allowed the wind to move their branches, some of those leaves detaching from their spots and gliding away with the cool draught. Grey clouds float in the sky, showing no threat to rain. This casts an eerie yet calming glow upon the forest below it. A figure, Ali Whiteman enters the silent forest, appearing to just be a young woman. Her thin, pale hands are gripping the opposite sleeves of her over-sized white sweater as she meanders around the expanse. Her black leather boots cause what little frost has formed on the ground the crunch audibly with every step.

People are always wondering about life and what makes it worth living. Many have different ways of seeing what makes their life worth living. Some choose not to focus on themselves, but on others’ lives. In this essay, Butler presents with a very strong point about what she thinks makes for a livable life, but also what makes people have grief in their life. Butler shows that people are going through problems and we choose how to deal with the consequences and how to keep living our lives.

It was amazing how silence could descend upon a dwelling when you took away all the power. The steady hum of air conditioning, the whirring of fans, the sounds of appliances. They all disappeared leaving you with nothing but your thoughts and the outside...and the outside here was howling with the snowstorm. He straightened up out of his office chair and shut his laptop, his large frame looming in the darkness and the floor making a slight creaking noise as he stepped from around his desk. His hand moved and he picked up one of the flashlights, the other picking up his phone as he called out just slightly.

I looked only at the ground, at my muddied, frosted hooves, a hazy cloud of my breath momentarily obscuring their image in my eyes. I wasn't sure what to feel, or rather, what I was supposed to feel. My bloodlust wasn't satisfied, but sedated. This cognizance was foreign to me; it took the entirety of that brief, obfuscated moment for me to identify that anomalous perception as hollow. I felt hollow.

“Jonah it is good to see you awake” I hear a familiar voice say the sun shines through the now open flap of my tent