The Mysterious Disappearance Of Ned Scott

“There was music from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and he champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his motor-boats slid the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with

In ‘The Story of Tom Brennan’, the protagonist confronts a traumatic incident which compels him to undergo a physical relocation and sudden emotional change. The transition Tom predominantly faces is sudden as moving into the town of Coghill where he has to deal with social alienation and the horrific trauma inflicted through past events including Daniel’s anger and selfishness which hinders his physical and mentally growth and development. Tom experiences flashbacks of the ‘usual’ Australia Day with his family showing the complete paradox with what is now their reality and horror juxtaposed towards his flashback of the tragic accident of his older brother Daniel: “Running towards the car. Running into the headlights. Running into the silence of death.” The anaphora and repetition of ‘running’ highlights his emotional and physical devastation which emphasises the initial stages of the novel and negative connotations of ‘death’ assumes the setting. As a result of the crisis, Tom responds rather opposing towards transferring to a new setting of Coghill. Depressing motifs are frequently implied throughout the novel to express the feeling of despair and sadness: “There aren’t words to say how black and empty pain felt. It was deeper than the

"She did not take the broad, beaten road which led to the far-off plantation at Valmonde. She walked across a deserted field, where the stubble bruised her tender feet, so delicately shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds. She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the banks of the deep, sluggish

The blazing light was shining in my face and a slight breeze blew through the arched windows. I spotted an open chest in the attic, whilst spring cleaning. The outside rim of the box was covered in dust and cobbled webs; the hinge was rusty, making a creak noise against the ghost-quiet room. Rummaging my hand around the chest there was a scratchy-substance digging against my fingers. As the sun faded from my sight I lifted up the mysterious object. It was an old rustic book; I flipped through the delicate pages, every touch made a crinkling

“Mrs. May’s bedroom window was low and faced on the east and the bull, silvered in the moonlight, stood under it, his head raised as if he listened- like some patient god come down to woo her- for a stir inside her room. The window was dark and the sound of her breathing too light to be carried outside. Clouds crossing the room blackened him and in the dark he began to tear at the hedge. Presently they passed and he appeared again in the same spot, chewing steadily, with a hedge-wreath that he had ripped loose for himself caught in the tips of his horns. When the moon drifted into retirement again, there was nothing to mark his place but the sound of steady chewing. Then

Literature is compiled of a multitude of ways the phrases can be interpreted by the one invested into the story through different views and experiences. In Edith Wharton’s novella Ethan Frome, symbols are evident throughout, but every one of them can have numerous meanings depending on the angle a reader makes. The symbol of the pickle dish can be derived to symbolize the unhappiness and delusion in someone’s life and rebellion from the familiar every day actions.

Memories of the night before became a vivid memory in the recesses of his dimly lit mind, underneath the sunlight's intruding yet blissful gaze and the sensation of silk against his bare skin felt like a euphoria, a river of midnight encased his slender figure and with the scrunch of his refined nose and furrowed knit of his thin eyebrows, he rose from his slumber. Delicate fingertips leisurely danced across the silken sheets which lost its assuaging warmth only to discern that he was gone, Padding through the spacious house far too big for two alone to fill, and too much of a burden for one to find comfort in. To see his lover, clad in a suit that managed to take his breath away immediately

“It’s not everyday we get company around here,” I reminded myself, “we haven’t shown our chateau in ages.” As we walked down the elegant staircase, each step creaked one by one. My hand-held lamp with the bright, burning fire was in clutch as we walked around the dusty furniture until we saw some of my men. They were silent, but you could see the fear in their eyes - almost like the fear in Rainsford’s. One had the guts to come up, and offer another light looking for a way to impress me with his concern, but I quickly declined.

He waited until the night’s 11th hour. By now the Princess rested in the highest tower of the castle, locked away from the dangerous world, yet so oblivious to the dangers that which fated the rest of her life. Silently the peasant journeyed outside, where he stopped at the wall of the tower where she lay. He watched her in the darkness from below, lifting his face to her, letting the light rest on his every surface of darkness. The night was cloudless. The winds wailed between the motionless oak trees as its thin branches clawed out, ever so slightly disturbing the leaves with its hostile screeches. Not the thick moss of the trees nor the damp leaves squirming in his toes could distract the peasant from so enticing a scent. All that encircled him was the sweetness of lavender and rosewood, filling his entire being as he sunk into the grass, like sand washed over by the water, with every breeze passing

The dust. The endless waiting. The couple next door constantly fighting. She hung a white sheet from a rope and called it a curtain and behind the white curtain she lay down on her cot and she closed her eyes and she slept.” (Page 94)

From across the room, I felt his eyes upon me. Louis had us seated at a table near a window overlooking the slow flowing muddy river. Myles Laveau sat across the room, his dinner companion’s back was toward the room and to me- I was seething with a need to view her face. Why was I feeling this way, he was not mine… I had no right to be angry. I had Louis to my left and Boudreaux to my right, but wanted what was out of reach- at least for the moment. I knew I could have him again; Myles Laveau affected me the same way the flame-haired woman had, but unlike her, he made himself available. The simplest touch from him sent quivers through my pleasure place; just the touch of his eyes upon me had me quivering with desire for him, and

It seemed that she lay on the ground, staring at the bottom of a wagon loaded with hay. She blinked, trying to see the wagon clearly- it sat near a barn, there were several pumpkins on the ground beside the wagon and one atop the hay. Allie raised her head and blinked her eyes several times before the depth of her vision leveled out and she realized that she was in bed. She lay there a moment, staring at the wall- a painting that hung there, had somehow taken her inside it. That too, had seemed real. Her head felt larger and heavier than normal and her mouth was dry. She was so thirsty that when she tried to swallow, she could taste the brandy she drank the night before- Eli had not told her that it would cause one to have strange dreams and make their head feel as if it weighed a ton. She finally made it to a sitting, and then to a standing position. She dressed and then cautiously made her way down the stairs to breakfast- she was not hungry, but she knew there would be plenty to drink besides coffee and milk. She could nibble on something to keep her grandmother from nagging

“In the dawn there is a man progressing over the plain by means of holes that he is making in the ground. He uses an implement with two handles and he chucks it into the hole and he enkindles the stone in the hole with his steel hole by hole striking the fire out of the rock which God has put there. On the plain behind him are the wanderers

Lord William Holcombe rested his head against his lover's chest and listened to the strong steady beat of his heart. The intoxicating scent of their lovemaking floated on the still air of the room and the low-banked fire in the hearth gave the room its only light. Will pulled the quilts tighter around them, keeping out the early morning chill of spring and keeping in the shared warmth of their bodies.

“He strayed away by himself from the watchers whom he had placed in ambush on the crest of the hill, and wandered far down the steep slopes amid the wild tangle of undergrowth, peering through the tree trunks and listening through the whistling and skirling of the wind and the restless beating of the