Saturday morning, I was dressed bright and early to go to the library. On the walk over, the thought did occur to me that I might be able to find something on my weird weapon thing in a reference book. Google had been a dead end. Our next book in English was Lord of the Flies so I figured it’d be worth my time to look up stuff about it. It’d be that much less I’d have to do later.
I closed the door and started to walk to Eugene’s room, my mind buzzing with purpose. I wrenched open his door and ripped the book he had been reading out of his hand. He looked at it in longing, and then at me in fear.
Through the use of techniques and themes, a composer is able to create distinctively visual images when describing the setting and characters in detail which help us to understand and form meaning of what the composer is trying to convey in their texts. The use of techniques such as body language, symbolism, lighting, music and photographic background slides create distinctively visual images same with themes that are being used within the texts such as truth which is evident in the dramatic text ‘The Shoe-Horn Sonata’ by John Misto, the song ‘Lose Yourself’ sang by Eminem, and the film ‘The Eye’ directed by David Moreau and Xavier Palud featuring Jessica Alba. These three texts demonstrate how the responders are impacted and what is
Each Character’s strong loyalty of their country acts as a catalyst for arguments and development of tense between the characters. Scene four is such an interesting scene for conflict between the characters as it is in the motel room where they discuss the interview and their cultural differences. The argument between the reaches a crisis point but Bridie backs down as she doesn’t want to fight.
The Shoe Horn Sonata provides an insight into the lives of two women who were made prisoners of war by the Japanese and explores the little known and horrific conditions and events the women endured. With the use of distinctively visual techniques, John Misto brings Bridie and Sheila’s experience vividly to life. Through the use of projected images, sound, music and symbolism; the horrors of war, survival and resilience are portrayed throughout the drama.
I turned away and walked up to the locked door back inside. It was dark inside the library at 1 AM. I knelt beside the door and took out the spare key Barksdale had given me. I forced it into the keyhole and then tapped on it until I heard the lock break from the inside. I turned the knob and the door swung open easily.
The door fell to the cemented floor with a loud bang. I stepped over the door to see stairs to my left that went up, and stairs that curled behind them going down. I went up the stairs. I reached the top. There was nothing there. Literally it was just a wooden wall. There has got to be something I though. I pounded on the door several times. The wood was cracking as I pounded into it. “Six where are you we are meeting heavy resistance,” George basically yelled into the radio. “I have no idea,” I said continuing to pound on the wood. That's when I heard George’s gatling gun sounding from behind me. Where am I, I thought. Instead of breaking like I thought it would; it fell down. Books scattered from it as the nail were ripped from the wall.
1. Abbington Youth Center is a not-for-profit organization, which provides three high-quality programs: Infants and Toddlers Program, Preschool Program, and After-School Program. Targets are children up to three-years old, three to five-years old, and five to seven-years old.
I cringed, stopping halfway to my desk. Almost made it. A moment ago, when I'd peeked in through the classroom door, Mr. Lockhart had been preoccupied—completely absorbed in his book, as usual. I'd thought to sneak in without him noticing, but I should have been wiser than that. Henry Lockhart never misses a beat—no matter how faraway he may seem, his mind is always ticking. He notices every-freaking-thing.
The brown files dropped with a thud as I emptied my hands of its overbearing weight. Cracking my back, I let out a sigh. Only one more to go. I dragged my feet over to the last remaining pale grey cabinet and yanked the first draw open. Gathering as many files as possible, I proceeded to swerve around the stacks of colour coded files. My left foot came into contact with a stack of brown files, and I cursed as I lost my balance scattering both files into a pool of brown and white. Groaning in exasperation, I placed the remaining files that had survived the fumble, onto the ground and sat with my knees tucked against my chest with my back leaning against the wall. I dragged my hands down my face as the stress of the move piled on to my shoulders. I sat there, my hands covering my face, regretting that i had not started packing earlier.
I walked to the cell door at the end of the room; it was 12:08 AM. “Guess I napped too long,” I mumbled as I picked up a small stone, and put a tally on the wall. “One day down,” I whispered, trying not to wake anyone else. I went to my rusty bed, and closed
The sound of metal scraping against the stone altar, set a few paces away, echoed in the confined space, as something was shoved aside on it; possibly a tool being picked up, inspected, and then discarded for something better, something worse. I wanted to scream, wanted to plead to heaven, to the angels, to God, for mercy, but I knew
The brown files dropped with a thud as I emptied my hands of its overbearing weight. Cracking my back, I let out a sigh. Only one more to go. I dragged my feet over to the last remaining pale grey cabinet and yanked the first draw open. Gathering as many files as possible, I proceeded to swerve around the stacks of colour coded files. My left foot came into contact with a stack of brown files, and I cursed as I lost my balance scattering both files into a pool of brown and white. Groaning in exasperation, I placed the remaining files that had survived the fumble, onto the ground and sat with my knees tucked against my chest with my back leaning against the wall. I dragged my hands down my face as the stress of the move piled on to my shoulders. I sat there, my hands covering my face, regretting that I had not started packing earlier.
Twenty-six students, myself included, chattered at our desks in Mrs. Jacob’s bright orange, poster covered room. “Hey, when is that paper for history due? Today? You have to be kidding me.” “Can you submit some artwork to the Student Literary Arts Magazine? We don’t have nearly enough.” “I was up until three A.M. AGAIN last night doing homework.” “No band practice tonight! I can go home and sleep!” A melodic buzz of voices saturated the air, accented by the rhythmic tapping and scribbling of pencils. A low hum could be heard for a millisecond before the bell toned over our voices, signaling the start of class.