The Room Was Beautiful As Well

The inn keeper's parlor was the best in town, they told her. His wife was wearing a heavy dress, adorned with lace and a massive broach that she raised a plump hand to touch, as if to be certain it was still there. They spoke of the massive rug, bought from Paris, and the finely crafted furniture they all sat upon. The preacher listened quietly, smiling as though their vanity wasn't a sin, while Mrs. Hartford eyed the dress with longing. Della thought that the dress was tasteless. The lace was poorly made, and the line of the bodice wasn't flattering. The fabric was an odd shade between blue and green, and the woman inside it was far less appealing. She didn't bother to mention that her own parlor had been filled with crystal, and priceless art her father had collected around the world. She didn't mention that her toys had cost more than Mrs. Johnson's gowns, or that she was mispronouncing the tea they'd been served. Not to be kind, not to be deceptive, but because did not matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. She'd given up that life to marry Ben, given up her family, given up her home and her gowns and her education.

Sweat dripped down my face as I tried as hard as I could not to move a muscle. I heard the latch on the wooden door open. “What’s in here?” demanded the slave catcher, questioningly. “Oh nothing, just a - a few pots and pans,” she stammered. The slave catcher slightly opened the door.

A lonely bead of sweat rolled down the side of her chiseled jaw. The luminescence of the fire sculpted her rosy cheekbones. Deep, reddened skin creased against the dense binds of fabric. Little rays of light passed through gashes on the blindfold.

Kat studied her reflection in the oblong mirror, turning her head from side to side. A loose cascade of waves fell forward, drawing attention to the gown’s lace neckline. It seemed lower than when she wore it in Missouri. She supposed the neighbors had formed an opinion about her already, but she understood it was important to look respectable.

In Galatians, Paul writes, “Do not be mislead-you cannot mock the justice of God. You will always harvest what you plant” (Gal. 6:7). Guy de Maupassant proves this point to be true in his story “The Necklace.” The main character, married into ill fortune, wrestles with her pride and vanity throughout this narrative. Mathilde’s pride is the root of her poor choices.

She awoke with great discomfort; the huger pains impaired her, and fogged her mental clarity, but she persevered, and crawled out of the neatly kept bed. It was early in the morning and no one was awake, there was no food on the table, and no servants guarding the doors, so Proserpina made her way to the front of the palace. Each step she took was carefully calculated, for the floors creaked. She arrived at the black wooden doors, still impaired from hunger, and the motionless fog that clouded her mind remained, she clasped the handle of the wooden doors, feeling the carved intricacies, and pulled only slightly. Just then, a hand reached from the dim, and somber atmosphere. The darkened room shadowed everything except the pair of hands that gripped the refulgent, pearl shaped seeds. The sweet smell of the berries was enticing, and her mouth began to water. Emaciated, and weak; Proserpina took the berries and ate. Of all the horrid possibilities she had thought of, this was among the worst. She was taken advantage of in her moment of

“Whatever have you done to end up here?” her voice reeked of pity, reminding me of bells, resounding and irritating. Oh, how I wanted to strangle her, feel her lovely blood drip drip dripping down my hands. With only her indignant bell-like screams echoing the halls, I sighed.

Hot water tumbled down Adele's back like a waterfall, dripping down her cheeks as it soaked her hair and flowed over her skin. Closing her eyes, she covered her face with her hands before pushing her fingers through her hair and she let out a heavy sigh, resting her shoulder blades against the cold tiles. She usually kept her showers short, rarely spending more than five minutes

She saw her reflection gloomily through the jungle of curls she called her hair, and descended her gaze even further towards boiling pot of unmentionables that made her stomach rumble unreasonably.

Lynda, however, was excited about her bright, checkered dress and would continuously try it on. Even if was just to twirl in it for a couple minutes, like she had last night. The faster she twirled the wider the bottom of the dress would spread, flying up toward her dark hair which covered her face as she spun, turning herself into a sunflower. But as her feet started moving to fast and one

Lia Viearits, a woman in her fifties with a kind face, walked down the main street of Maris Palu, a city in the Transylvanian district of Romania. She mumbled to herself. The people she passed greeted her, but she didn't acknowledge them. From time to time, she stopped walking, put her fingers to her mouth, and looked around. She saw the girl she wanted and shrank back into an alley. She took several deep breaths and put her hands on her cheeks. She said to herself, "You must. You must. It's her turn." She stood up straight and walked toward a girl whose name was Ana and whose chief feature was a head full of red hair. Lia tapped her on the shoulder. She said the next part quickly, to get it out of her mouth. "It's your turn, dear."

Frances-Jane’s sobs filled the hollow room. As one tear broke free, the rest followed in an unbroken stream. It had felt as if someone was attempting to strangle her - their hands tightening around her neck as she struggled to gasp for air. Her future was filled with darkness. She stared down at her plain dress- it had fit a little too snug at her stomach. That night with Andy was a horrible mistake, but it was too late. The damage had already been done.

In the morning, Claire spied a mirror from her bed and asked one of the nurses to hand it to her. With the piece of reflective glass, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection. She hadn’t seen herself in so long. Her dark auburn locks were plastered to her abnormally pasty skin. The green of her eyes was barely visible because they were sunken back in her sockets. She looked like a hot

There was a sense of calm over the whole area as she pushed herself into a sitting position on the damp grass. A young woman stood over her, black hair spilling out from a ponytail at the back of her head, bangs in her face and wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Her plain black t-shirt and dark jeans were clean but worn, as if she 'd had them for a long time. Something blue stained the knee of the denim fabric. The girl was lean-framed and thin, her olive-toned skin pale. The worn black Chuck Taylors were clean as well, though the soles were peeling away and the white had turned to grey and brown in places. Her eyes were a striking blue. Who was she?

‘and why can’t you help it?’ ‘Because,’ said the hunger artist, lifting his head a little and speaking, with his lips pursed, as if for a kiss, right into the overseer’s ear, so that no syllable might be lost, ‘because I couldn’t find the food I liked. If I had found it, believe me, I should have made no fuss and stuffed myself like you or anyone else.’ (8)