The Lights On The Eyes

The lights of the town were veiled in darkness, a mere inverted shadow amidst the gloom of the night. Distant thunderings, as those brought to mind with Dies Irae or the distant chattering of a great blaze could be heard, drawing nigh upon the trembling hands of the people frantically seeking a shade for the lights that would soon propagate should their brilliance stretch to the skies, but found difficulty locating even their hands at arm’s length, due to the cloud over the town, in the streets, as real and thick as the blanket of golden and crimson extending toward the town at a propeller’s rate, silencing the natural beauty of the countryside amid the sounds of death and destruction.

Amidst the swirling ripple of faceless people meandering around fire hydrants, pedestrian signs, and ragged newspaper stands, he stood; embedded within the relentless stream of continuous people trickling by him. The occasional nudge threatened to dislodge his balance as he gazed across the road where two buildings laden by carmine shaded bricks separated. The same two buildings he walked directly pass early in the dewy morning and late in the brisk evening weather everyday for the past two decades. Surely he knew every wondering power line and dimly lit alley of the surrounding neighborhood? Yet something glimmered from in between the impossibly small gap separating the buildings. His conscious turned from thought to action as he leapt from the scuffed curb and into the high voltage current of traffic without a second

Crumpled newspapers scattered the table like the bones of dead bodies after war. Windows wiped down of memories huddled between oak frames, facing a street with cosy cottages. Single embroidered carpets hugged the floor, covering the marble tiles in delicate silk. A whisper of wind floated in through cracks of the panes of glass, whispering it's songs of misery throughout the house. I breathed in gulps of air, allowing the icy coolness to fill my lungs, and the morning frost creep out. My glistening blue eyes presented purple bags, and my sleek hair was a tangled cobweb. My feet dragged along the stone floor like the walking of the undead. I’d been up all night, searching and seeking for answers.

Tranquil gusts kissed my skin; the sweet sensation of a breeze and the rustle of the trees’ leaves sung me a lullaby. As I lie, back to my trampoline and limbs sprawled, my mind would undergo a sort of cleansing, ridding me of my troubles. My home held my childhood; it possessed memories that had accumulated from day one, intertwining and condensing them to forge a place that would bear peace and serenity. I never contemplated departure, even when it was apparent my parents sought for a better place to reside, for no place could replace my home. Alas, my assumptions were proven to be erroneous.

The last rays of the sun gleamed off golden domes and then shot up into the sky to spark the first shimmering of stars. Then the darkness came. Swift it fell, as though a lamp were snuffed out, and the air stilled, and an eerie silence grew. This was no rowdy city; not tonight. It was a city under siege, and word of the dark sorcery of the previous night ran from district to district, house to house, person to person. Fear ruled the shadows tonight. The house doors were shut. The inns were empty. All the city’s windows were barred.

The car suddenly stopped and jolted me from my sleep. Disoriented, I looked around and tried to make sense of where I was and what I was doing. Over to my left, I saw my sister doing the same. Tall, blue, connected houses surrounded us and we were parked in the middle of a pristine parking lot. Green, luscious lawns sat in front of those blue houses. A gigantic tree surrounded by beautiful multicolored flowers sat to the left of a dumpster and a wooden sign with white script on it. “The Pointe at Stoneview,” I read to myself.

Making her way toward the sidewalk, she turned right on Doveland Drive. Without a car, Anita must walk two and a half miles to reach Forest Creek Lane, the predominantly upper-class part of town. As she walked, her stomach turned as if she had ridden a fast carnival ride and no matter what she tried to calm her nerves, her attempts were futile. When she reached the street, she couldn't help but stare in awe at the beautiful houses that lined it. Some had the latest car park in front, others had empty spaces while the owner was at work. Anita imagined handsome doctors carrying briefcases and housewives wearing wearing the latest fashions. Anita, at 22, still lived with her parents in the not-so-nice part of town, where houses where becoming dalapitated and the roads and sidewalks were cracked and never fixed. Always feeling as if she didn't belong where she lived, she often imagianed what it would be like to live as other

Quiet and unassuming, a modest-looking house lies in the middle of a vast, empty plain, located away from the city and close to the pastoral natural world. Separated from the forceful influences of conformity, but still in touch with the surrounding world, this house is free to think, feel, and experience as it pleases. That’s because this house represents more than the entirety of its physical and visual features; it is a metaphor for my memories, ambitions, secrets, feelings, and emotions.

As I lay in bed on a fall evening, an open window lets in a cool breeze accompanied with sounds of crickets and a faint train horn blare. As I peer out into the dark night sky I see an ebony sky glittered with stars. A sense of calm washes over me and I know I’m right where I’m meant to be! It’s a small town, Galt, with a population under 23,000. I didn’t grow up here, but it’s where I’ve lived for the past ten years, and it’s where I’ve chosen to raise my children. The town is a combination of city and farm living. Children from the same school either take a long bus ride through the desolate and diminishing backroads every morning, or a short walk through the peaceful and charming subdivisions to reach their destination. There is a mixture

Burnt homes, flipped cars, destroyed shops were scattered. The uncertainty that had left her earlier returned at full force as they seemed to move away from the populated area. After about another ten minutes of driving, they came to a stop. ‘At be twenty doll’rs the old cab grunted out. Liana gave the grumpy old man the money and exited the car with her things. In front of her stood a gloomy, run-down ill maintained two story house. The house looked abandoned as if it held no life. The doors and windows were covered in a thick layer of dust. The window panels look rotten and ready to fall off at the slightest hint of a strong wind, ivy cling to the outer wall of the house. The land surrounding the house was filled with unkempt undergrowth.Liana urged herself forward and came to a halt in front of the dirty covered door. Taking a deep breath she reached out and knocked on the

Buildings are crumbling, roofs ruined, yet the foundation of the city is still there. The city has endured hundreds of years worth of storms and time itself. The narrator then talks about how this city was created and all people were filled with joy. Streams were flowing and the stone building stood tall. Splendor and glad-minded men filled the bright kingdom.

It was midnight and no light was burning in the room. Through the window there fell the radiance of the city, lying like a pale gleam upon the face of the girl who sat, leaning back against the wall, without moving, with closed eyelids, her hands in her lap.

The streets of Michigan Ave. were lined with people and their children as they hurriedly rush down the sidewalks. Taxis were beeping their horns, trying to get people’s attention, men and women were just getting off of work after a long day. The sky was a light blue and white puffy clouds were spotted in the sky, there was a light breeze in the air. The water under the bridge splashed lightly against the walls, it was hard to hear over the excited chatter of the people over top of the bridge. You could smell the smoke from the cars but also there was a faint smell of popcorn from a nearby popcorn vendor cart, shops and hotels filled in what the people and cars didn’t, it was truly a beautiful sight.

I was giddy to get home i was walking down my my street “ Walkers rd.” I scoffed and roll my eyes. I walk down this road everyday and appreciate the scorching irony every time. I opened the deep oak doors with force. My 13 year old body still has trouble. I shoved the door with the elbow my grey backpack wasn't depending on. Finally when my body managed to push the door, something wasn't right. By that i mean my house wasn't mine… the orchard my mother obsesses over wasn't the center of the foyer , the bright white walls with the complementary purple rug wasn't there. It was dark with a rustic light switch. I hit the light switch and the creepy hospital lights that turn on one by one showed blinding light that settled to a musty yellow

The atmosphere of this exposition is clearly foreboding: "the dark clouds, broken chimneys, unused street, solitary cat, and dead air" all prove ominous and reflect the sordid ruling mood. Failed culture and solitary of aimless women ("a cat moved itself in and out of railing") not knowing exactly what to do about their predicaments in which