The Sword Is Far Too Large For A Boy Of Six Essay

Suddenly looking around himself, the child begins to notice the outbuildings as if they were familiar to him and realizes that he is not at a plantation he has never seen before, but is instead watching his own home that he had left earlier that afternoon burn to the ground. Upon this realization the boy begins to run around the conflagration, and comes upon the prostrate body of

All was dark, all was silent. Never would he see his sister or brother again. His poor old mother, without a husband, now without her eldest son. Each day his heartbroken mother would sit at home, in her old wooden rocking chair, waiting for him to come home from a hard day on the farm. But he never came!

​Pedro’s house was set a small distance back from the mouth of the gravel path, just across from the flagpole and the infirmary. The thatched cottage, painted in rich colors, reminded us of Snow White and her seven dwarves. The little house was surrounded by picture-perfect English flowerbeds, full of greenery and edged in bright blossoms, which Pedro tended himself.

“Yes, it is. I’m giving it to you.” I took the sword from him. It felt unreasonably heavy. “This cannot, under any circumstances, fall into the enemy’s hands. Do you know why?” I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I completely understood. I had been told about this sword, one that had been passed down through our family for generations, and that it had two identical sibling swords. One of these belonged to the elves, and one to the wizards. It was a powerful sword, and the one who bore such a sword could only be killed by one of the other two. That was as far as my knowledge reached.

“I grew up there, thought I’d spend my entire life calling that city ‘Home.’ But it didn’t workout that way. I learned to love it here too,” Dustin told his neighbour’s grandkids, remembering the horrific event that tore him away from his home and ended his career. His neighbour, Sally, and her family were the only people who accepted Dustin; they shared something in common, the disaster. Sally lost her husband in the tragedy that destroyed Dustin’s once handsome face.

Rion peered into his sisters’ cradle, smiled, then shuffled off to bed, drawing the privacy curtain behind him. Although the babies would cry during the night, Rion could sleep through a near riot, so Percival was not worried about the boy getting enough rest.

"Try not to go too deep into the woods, Viola." That's the one thing that father had dependably let me know. Every one of the grown-ups in the town said the same thing, so it appeared like a platitude told to kids who wanted to play in the woods. The wind blew, making my skirt and golden braids sway. Holding the hair out of my eyes, I turned upward. Through the holes in the green branches over my head, I could marginally see the blue sky. It was a hot summer afternoon, and there I was, in the forest. There was an incredible woodland close to Salem Town, the town I lived in. The forest, which was abundant year-round, was extremely helpful for the villagers. A prime example how it is useful to the daily life of the villagers in our modest little

Jeff stepped out of the car doubtfully on that first day. The face was plain, green, and colonial, and the garage held only one car. This was hardly the house of his dreams. The boys, however, did not hesitate. Slamming doors, they ran across the yard and began playing among the six stately columns of a giant poplar tree. Before long, weekends and vacations were spent cutting limbs and vines and pulling holly stumps. Now there is an endless play of light and shade. The breeze lifts, leaves dance, treetops sway, and I can

His childhood home is one of the few in the neighborhood that hadn 't been abandoned after the incident. When families fled, fluidly like a stream of grief and fear, his father had stood his ground at the house he bought for his family years ago. Almost nobody wanted to move into abandoned perfectly painted houses, polished with vibrant hydrangea bushes and stained with ink-black tragedy. The property value had plunged like a bird shot from the sky, and the area was now a ghost town.

He made his trek back into the quaint village he had called home, his entire life. The brick clad streets no longer reminded him of his euphoric childhood. He had always had fond hopes that his children would roam these streets freely as

Of all the grieving days I have suffered, this is the worst. Even the scorching suns pleasant rays and the sweet smelling aroma of heather and fresh cut grass failed to improve my mood that summer afternoon. After passing the signpost for Findhorn, my eyes focused on the only structure up ahead of me. The Black Swan Inn. The Inn stood out like a skyscraper in the scenic Moray countryside. With its white, spotless walls decorated with many brightly coloured hanging baskets and painted lanterns hanging from its gutters. It was a place of beauty and a place I held dear to me. The gentle breeze blowing in from the sea front, conspired to dry my tears; tears for someone I had truly loved. I stopped outside the inn and tried to remember the memories from the past. My distress was made worse, as I was unable to remember my own wife's face. How long ago had she died? It must be a few months now.

l know not how it was – but, with the first glimpse of that building, a spirit … I looked upon the mere house, and the simple land scape features of the domain – upon the bleak walls – upon the vacant eye – like windows – upon a few ranks edges – and upon a few white of decayed trees with an a utter depression of soul.

I rose from my nap, it was early evening and a light sprinkle fell. As I showered, I thought about Dad his stories. His inability to distinguish between his homeland and his childhood home seemed strange to me. In that sense he was the opposite of Samuel.

I vaguely remember striding with my white mare, riding through the spring-shrouded woods beyond my Father’s estate. The thought didn’t sit well, and I shoved it away- along with the part of me that marvelled at the way the sun illuminated the leaves, and the clusters of crocuses that grew like vibrant purple against the brown and the green landscape. This oasis never really intrigued me, though that changed last night when I overheard my parent’s conversation about the “mysticism and lethal magic that roomed through the forgotten woods behind our manor.” But these steps of mine strode for a greater purpose, in search for a new place of dwelling, beyond the emancipation of my father’s will and his ill-fated fortune. Though the lands were empty and mundane as the manor itself, I ventured through nonchalantly; perhaps the only thing that soothed my restless mind was the lone sycamore tree that nestled atop a