When I almost reached the door, I felt something at my foot, a broken hourglass, that had ran out of sand. Shaking and suddenly bursting into a cold sweat, I furiously jammed the key in. It felt like an eternity, but finally I succeeded. Pushing the door open, and wiping a faceful of sweat from my face, I felt this wave of aromas crash over me. Putting the key in my pocket(FORESHADOWING) and then entering the cellar I tried to calm down. I tried to look for the cask of Amontillado that I bought several weeks ago. There were millions of wines in that cellar (HYPERBOLE). But at last I found it. It felt, lighter, and after opening it I realised that it was empty. I wasn’t enraged, just tired. I made my way to the door, suddenly feeling drowsy. Then I became a little bit nauseous and shaky. Looking into the darkness, I saw, darkness. So I picked up my dying torch and put it up and almost yelled “Who’s there?”. There was no reply but a figure seemed to appear in the darkness. It was carrying a scythe and it started towards me. I fell back, and was caught by the wall, slamming my head against it and dropping my torch. The figure whispered in the dark, “Free the fortunate one, for be warned fate will find
I looked over to the alarm clock and saw a bright red 1:06 AM. The door creaked slowly and a dark figure entered the room. The silhouette walked closer to me, heels clicking on the vinyl floor. A sinister smile spread across her rotting face.
The setting of "The Road" is after an unknown apocalyptic disaster they are traveling south along the road. The setting is very gray and dark; the sun is blocked out from all the ash in the air. Beginning their travel south along the road the book states, “Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before” (3). This quote shows how the setting never sees the light of the sun. It also shows how the air while traveling along the road was always cold because the world was just darkness. The quote says each day got more gray, and this shows that while they were traveling south the world looked the same and it never got better no matter how far south they went. The majority of the setting is on the road, “out
My old journal got taken away when I got locked up in this box. All I get is a bible. The bible looks like its been handed out before to others that have passed in this God forsaken rat hole… I can’t keep my sanity much longer. I’m losing it! All I get is a little pea size hole that gives off some light, if that. Most of the time it’s filled with mud. I have come to believe that the mud is from the vehicles moving outside. It splashes up onto the wall. Sometimes worms will inch their way in the hole and that’s the only meal that has any personal delight. The taste of some what warm meal…
That first night at the barracks changed Eva’s life forever, and it changed her way of thinking. She remembers how tired she was and yet not being able to sleep that night, turning to count a handful of large moving figures on the ground. When she had gotten to 5 she jumped up screaming “MICE! MICE!” to which another girl in a top bunk looked over responding “silly girl. Those are not mice those are rats. And you better get used to them because they are everywhere,” and she was right, they were everywhere. Realizing that they wouldn’t be able to fall asleep the two girls settled on taking a trip to the latrine in an attempt to clear their heads. Neither of them could have expected what they saw. As Eva walked into the bathroom she saw the bodies
1.The narrator wants to go to the bazaar in order to impress a girl. The girl can not go to the bazaar so the narrator tells her he can go to the bazaar and he will get her something.
It was still about five hours until our flight and Alfred looked starved after going without food for an hour. We found a parking spot to abandon his car in until we came back from the trip. The bus to the terminal took a while, but it did not justify waking up so early for the 11 o’ clock flight. It wasn’t until we got inside that I found out just how much the airport has changed. We checked in our luggage and printed out our tickets at this machine that scanned our passports. We went up an escalator to find our gate, but before we could get to it there was this huge line we had to go through.
You will not believe what's happened this month. Before I proceed with my usual banter, I would like to greet you and follow through with the formalities in our monthly letters. How are you and Pa? What are you up to during this time of despair? Anyways, on with my stories. This month I encountered one of my biggest personal achievements yet; I single handedly went into a German Aerodrome and was able to rid of three of their planes and fly back to our base intact. I know you and Pa always tell me that I should know that these are people that we are fighting against. But sometimes it is so hard to view these Germans as people. It's the pain and anguish that they cause us that fuels the hatred that's depicted in most slurs and the overall attitude
I exhale a long, frustrated sigh as I look around the old, battered up, brown and decaying café. It was amidst the start of the French Revolution, and circumstances were heating up. Everyone were in a small groups chattering away at nothing in particular as I stand at the slightly raised platform, waiting for the last few representatives to come. I, Pascal Beaumont, was the organizer of the raid that will be held at the Bastille, in Paris, on July 14, 1789. Tomorrow was July 14, 1789, the big day. Such an evil thing to do, some might think, but not in my situation. I was thirsty for revenge, for the blood that belonged to the royalty, for death. That rascal, King Louis XVI would pay for the lives he took from the peasants. They would never
I didn't think anyone would like that last chapter, but I guess I was proved wrong. I'll continue to write more strange plots, every so often. A big 'Thank You' to all of my followers, favoriters, and reviewers;) This chapter was very fun and entertaining to write. Enjoy!
Chapter 1 A young woman appears out of nowhere and quickly catches up to another who's dashing along a moonlit lane. "Are we late?" She asks as she falls into step besides the older woman. "No not yet, but we need to hurry, we don't have much time." "Follow me," the older woman replies, and her dark cloak billows about casting shadows on the high stone walls that border the lane. They walked side by side in silence for a long ways and then through a set of huge iron gates swung opened before them and onto a narrow driveway. A manor house grew out of the darkness at the end of the straight drive, lights glinting in the windows. Gravel crackled beneath their feet as speeding toward the front door, which swung inward at their approach, though
I do not consider myself to be anybody’s best friend. While I do have many friends that I consider myself to be close with (and I’d like to believe they opposite is true), the school year has just started and many friendships that existed last year may or may not fade away as time passes by. This is because friendships are mainly built on conversations shared daily, whether they be in the classroom or outside on social media. Even if one person is reluctant to hold a conversation, then the bonds of friendship will slowly and steadily break apart due to the lack of sustained interaction on a daily basis. Communication is paramount to ensuring that a relationship is maintained. In my case, I do not believe I interact with anyone on a daily basis enough to be considered “best friends.” Sure, I would consider many people I’m acquainted with good friends, but that is the extent of our friendship. On the other hand, I have several good friends because we have relatively good chemistry. Successful interaction with one another has led to a mutual desire to sustain our friendships.
The homesteads were sparse in these parts, and Devon’s home was about as remote as it could be. His parents had always assured him that living in the countryside was the good life, and that they preferred the quietness to the bright lights and rackets of town centers and cities. But lately Devon had become obsessed with the idea of leaving the village for the excitement of the capital. When not on excavations, his father often spent time working in a research facility in Tridentport. And when he was home, he told stories, thus planting seeds of
Chapter 1: The hitch-hiker stood up and looked across through the windows. “Could ya give me a lift, mister? The driver looked quickly back at the restaurant for a second. Didn’ you see the No Riders sticker on the win’shield? Sure—I seen it. But sometimes a guy’ll be a good guy even if some rich bastard makes him carry a sticker.” The driver, getting slowly into the truck, considered the parts of this answer. If he refused now, not only was he not a good guy, but he was forced to carry a sticker, was not allowed to have company. If he took in the hitch-hiker he was automatically a good guy and also he was not one whom any rich bastard could kick around. He knew he was being trapped, but he couldn’t see a way out. And he wanted to be a good
technology project. The BPTO produced weekly status reports and monthly budget reviews helping the company gauge where it was heading towards. Thus the alignment started advancing (Austin, 2007).