The Journey Of A Trek

It was a regular sunday morning around 6 a.m. when Mrs. Robinson was taking her daily run in the morning. She jogged around the perimeter of the neighborhood at a fair speed while she pondered her plans for the day. Would she go grocery shopping, would she go out with some friends, or would she just stay at home and continue to grade papers, as she was a school teacher. These thoughts were brought to an abrupt halt when she saw something very peculiar in the corner of her eye. She approached what appeared to be a hunched over figure next to one of the rose bushes that lined the fence of the neighborhood. As she got closer, she realized what it was.

As her stiletto clad feet hit the paved driveway, she took note of the Sheriff’s car parked in front of the house next to hers and the bicycle left haphazardly on the lawn, a sure sign of neighboring children. She smiled, basking in the comfort she felt with living next door to the town’s sheriff. Across the street, Carol Peletier was seated on her front porch quietly observing Michonne. She waved languidly at the inquisitive woman as she moved toward her front door.

Physical journeys can impact upon the traveler in many ways. They can be faced with obstacles which can impact on the traveler and will need to overcome. Physical journeys can impact upon the traveler in various ways. This is shown in Dawes poem “last seen at 12.10am” where a mother is on a journey to find her missing daughter. This is also evident in Michael James Rowland 2007 film “Lucky Miles”, where a group of men’s inner journey of friendship despite differences goes through obstacles which they overcome. Another impact upon a traveler is also shown in Bruce Dawe poem “Drifters” which a frustrated mother’s journey of disappointment, which has impacted her when suddenly faced with picking up her belongings and being, forced to move. A

As I drove downtown to visit Carol and Lee, I looked for a back way back in which would mean that I wouldn’t be seen. I wandered around for a while, eventually finding their house situated a few hundred yards from a McDonald on Bragg Boulevard and saw an alleyway behind the restaurant. I went to McDonald, where I waited a while before exiting into the back alley to see if I was followed. When I was convinced that it was all clear, I leaped over the fence into Carol’s backyard and up to the door.

One-thirty on a Thursday morning. I laid in bed worrying, after watching John rush to Main Street for a fire call. My head spun as the pager near my head continued to dispatch calls. “Be careful on the roof Watson, I can see light through,” Feltner’s voice echoed. Ambulance sirens boomed down a four-block stretch of Main Street. My body sprung from the bed and hurried out and down the block. My face began to fill with heat. Just then another page came through, “I know idiot, I put it there.” It was John’s voice. I felt relief and began to walk back down the sidewalk to our home. I heard a young girl screaming for her dog, hysterically. Finally, back in my house, I completely forgot that I had left the two girls upstairs. Thankfully,

Dawn’s early morning light crept over the city, the various shades of amber emanating from the horizon bringing life to the shapeless skyline. Outside Booker’s apartment, the resident sparrows began their morning song of joy, their cheerful chirrup filtering through the dark-haired officer’s dream, pulling him toward consciousness. Moments later, his alarm sounded, the annoying bee-dee-dee-deep, bee-dee-dee-deep shattering what remained of his slumber. With a sigh, he rolled over and hit the off button, returning peace to the cramped room, and stifling a yawn, he speculated about the upcoming day. He’d arranged to meet Tom at the abandoned warehouse before school so they could discuss strategies. But after the previous night’s events, he wasn’t sure where their friendship

Carole and I were fleeing with urgency down the steep driveway, arms and legs pumping with fear. Which way to go? Down the reedy river path with potential snakes and the risk of being seen or the creepy drainage ditch? Looking back toward the house with rapid fire beats in our hearts, fear drove us forward. We searched to see how far ahead we were. Not far. Not as far as we needed to be, but he hadn’t appeared yet. The only logical way was through the rusty damp and dark pipes so we wouldn’t be seen. Our noses wrinkled with the disgust upon entry, filling our nostrils with a strong smell of mold and crud collected from storms.

Gray, nimbostratus clouds blanketed the L.A. skyline, the promise of rain becoming more of a threat with each passing hour. However, the bleak, November day suited Tom’s pensive mood, the impending storm mirroring the tumultuous thoughts brewing within his mind. After countless cups of coffee and only three hours’ sleep, he was on edge, caught in a web of his own making. He wandered in aimless circles around the living room floor, his pinched face showing clear signs of agitation, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. For the tenth time in less than five minutes, he glanced at the clock, unsure if he wanted his visitor to arrive or not. But despite his apprehension, he knew he needed to face his demons, and a gloomy

Each disruption I was unable to ignore, resulting in my leapfrogging from spot to spot. Whether it was a party with hamburgers, people doing Slackline, or people cuddling and kissing, I would leave. Fed up with the consistent commotion around me, I left, Searching for a sense of serenity, I sprinted back to my house, eager to escape the turmoil infecting my leisure hour. As I opened the familiar wooden door, I heard a door slam and expletives flowing out of my brothers mouth. I thought that I had finally found the calmness I had been seeking. I was wrong. I went back outside, sat on the worn out and sun bleached bench on my patio and

The mysterious mood and multiple points of tension in the short-story, “The Landlady,” are built through different literary devices. From beginning to end, something is just not right. The story is about Billy, the protagonist, who travels to Bath, England for his work. While looking for a place to stay, he finds a boarding house willing to take him in for a ridiculously cheap cost. Throughout the story, his landlady, the antagonist, seems a little odd and a bit suspicious. Because of his experiences at the boarding house, the reader learns that not everything is as it seems. The author’s clever use of literary devices in the story, “The Landlady,” creates suspense through foreshadowing and imagery.

Walking back into the living room, a noise outside the back window caused her to stop in her tracks and turn to look out it. Slowly advancing the window, she noticed a figure sprinting off into the distance. Her face paled, as she reached for the door-nob to the back door. Slowly, she turned it and placed one foot in front of the other, her bare feet coming in contact with the damp

Along with Country Club Drive and the wheat field and the large window came a small neighborhood, built like two boxes that fit perfectly inside one another. The smaller box held six houses, each ending in a shared backyard where property lines were identified by the edges of playsets and small aboveground pools. The larger box was separated from its smaller counterpart by asphalt roads, with two roads leading out of the neighborhood like two arms sprouting out in different directions, one toward the community college and the other toward the prestigious golf course in town. On one side of the larger box was my new house, backed by rich farmland, and on the other side a beautiful red-brick house, set against a protected bay of Willmar Lake. And in that house lived Carrie Bell, the youngest child of a general surgeon and a gerontologist. But I did not know that yet.

The street was eerily quiet as I crossed. So was Mike. Staring at me unwaveringly, he said nothing as I approached. The crow's feet framing his eyes, the ridges in his forehead, and the crinkles in his cheeks still stand out in my mind. How many nights had he lain on that bench, covering his face as the wind whipped against it? Now he hugged his body tightly. He was wearing an old pair of tan khakis, a shirt that I couldn't see clearly, and a light multi-colored jacket, its sleeves ending above his pale wrists, that was just slightly too small and clung to his body. As I gave him the money in my wallet, he took it--slowly--and stared at it for a second in disbelief. Although the street in front of the library is usually an amalgam of car horns, headlights, whining engines throughout the night, nothing--not

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players". Many people in my generation live their lives watching history being made around them, while never realizing, as Shakespeare once pointed out, that we are not spectators but important actors within the events of our time period. Part of the issue is that we often lose sight of our own histories - we increasingly focus on our day-to-day pursuits without inquiring what our parents and grandparents did to give us the life we have now. I would create a class, titled Journeys Leave Footprints, that would require students to complete a semester-long project where they analyze their family histories. The students would do research based on information handed down in a family about their relatives, such as finding out the particular hardships their predecessors had to face in particular historical events.

The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails. - William Arthur Ward