The hours meandered past like slow unhurrying snails. At last Johnny’s head dropped onto his jacket. He was snuggling his jacket to gain some warmth as the chilly breeze filled the atmosphere. His breathing became slower, deeper. He slept. But the boy didn’t sleep: that would not have done; for he had to keep guard. They had no time to get caught now. The responsibility was his. He was the elder. This was how it always had been, as far back as he could remember. Always he had been a big brother to Johnny. The big brother who would look out for him, teach him everything he could, and even protected him from anyone or anything harmful. Now that they were lost - somewhere in the middle of an unknown village - the weight of his responsibility was greater than ever. A wave of tenderness welled up inside him. Always i had big-brothered him; now it was my time to father him as well. For a while he sat staring into the darkness; the darkness was warm, thick and almost tangible. The only light was from the small barn yard houses and he knew that the lights would be off soon. Soon his mind became utterly blank. The day’s events had been too overwhelming; had drawn on him too heavily. The rhythmic beat of the small boy’s slumber came to her lullingly now. Gradually his breathing fell in step with his brothers. The whisper of water drops came to her like the croon of a lullaby. His eyelids drooped and closed, fluttered and closed again. Soon he was fast asleep. In the darkness of the village a lumbering pig creeped out of his den. His large stumpy body forced a way trough the mud; his long snout ploughing trough the mud for more food. Suddenly he stopped: sniffed: his nose dilated. He followed the new strange scent. Soon he came ... ... middle of paper ... ...hey had to find a place to stay. So they began knocking on village doors. No one would take these poor boys in. Humiliating them by mocking them as if they didn’t know what they were saying. They had tried everyone in the village except two houses. Everyone so far had laughed or insulted the poor boys saying stuff like “get out you little tramps” and other insults which would bring any person down. But these boys kept trying, they had something special and they deserved better. They tried the first house. A pause as they knocked. No answer. They tried the last house they knocked and a old man wearing torn farm clothes opened the door. Adam asked the old man “can we stay in here?” he told the old man the story and told him how no one else had let them in just because they were poor. The man let them stay with him and gave them a bite to eat. They were safe for now.
Just as Johnny’s courage shines through so does his fast maturity from child to adult. His childhood was stolen away from him by his illness but instead of sulking he pulls himself together. He takes every difficulty in stride, and gets through them. Even when he is feeling down he hides it for he does not want anyone else to feel his pain. Being a seventeen year old boy he wants to do the things all other seventeen year old boys do.
"’Except the bad thing is, the real humdinger, see, is that I tried for CO status, being a Christian and all. And weird things happened. And…well…I didn’t get it." Page 358
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
Founding Brothers is a non-fiction novel about American Revolution political figures, primarily focusing on Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr, John Adams, George Washington, James Madison, and Thomas Jefferson and roots of American Revolution and the interactions between the political figures. The author, Joseph J. Ellis is the author of several American history books and was educated at the College of William and Mary and Yale University .
The night was tempestuous and my emotions were subtle, like the flame upon a torch. They blew out at the same time that my sense of tranquility dispersed, as if the winds had simply come and gone. The shrill scream of a young girl ricocheted off the walls and for a few brief seconds, it was the only sound that I could hear. It was then that the waves of turmoil commenced to crash upon me. It seemed as though every last one of my senses were succumbed to disperse from my reach completely. As everything blurred, I could just barely make out the slam of a door from somewhere alongside me and soon, the only thing that was left in its place was an ominous silence.
The silence was deafening… with each step, the lump in my throat was expanding, almost ridding me of all oxygen. My heart was pounding erratically and my hand, firmly gripping Scout’s costume was now soaked in perspiration. Amidst the overcast night, a dark shadow consumed Maycomb. The thick air was a blanket of humidity that offered not security, but the assurance of a storm. The pageant was but a distant memory by this point. We had only left a few minutes earlier but my thoughts were congested by an uneasy presence. The warm wind whispered through the rustling leaves. They seemed to dance about my feet, which wouldn’t have been so bad, had the night not been pitch black and unnerving. Instead, it felt as though I could tumble at any moment. I was immensely regretting my decision to reject a ride home when Scout burst,
The frogs were singing again. I had heard them all night through the thin membrane of my tent. Their songs had died down with the rising sun, but now they picked up again with a fervor that sounded not unlike desperation to my teenage ears. I rested in the tent only a few moments before clearing the sleep from my eyes and springing out of my sleeping bag to greet the mourning. Dew droplets still covered everything, and the mourning seemed as magical as any other morning does to a young person of sixteen, camping in the woods.
The window slowly creaked open, a soft wind blew into the small room. The sound of light breathing came from under the sheets were a young boy slept, oblivious to the happenings that night. Soft footsteps hit the floor, the smell of old toys and new bed sheets wafted out of the room, hitting two men crouched down by the bed. A hand reached up, gingerly touching the boy.
When the sky started to grow dark, and the clock struck quarter to seven, he left his house and set off towards town hall. The town was a strange shade of blue, glowing in the twilight, and there was no one on the streets. Instead of street lamps, the wide avenues of Golden Oaks were lit by small braziers that lined the sidewalks. They burned a bright orange against the blue of the evening. The walk was short, and the night was warm, but still Jeb dreaded it. He was already half asleep, and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. But he knew that he had to go. The feast was in his honour, and everyone had been so nice to him. This is the perfect town, Jeb thought. I’m so glad to get away from all that trouble, and be able to live in a quiet town.
It was a village on a hill, all joyous and fun where there was a meadow full of blossomed flowers. The folks there walked with humble smiles and greeted everyone they passed. The smell of baked bread and ginger took over the market. At the playing grounds the children ran around, flipped and did tricks. Mama would sing and Alice would hum. Papa went to work but was always home just in time to grab John for dinner. But Alice’s friend by the port soon fell ill, almost like weeds of a garden that takes over, all around her went unwell. Grave yards soon became over populated and overwhelmed with corpse.
The imagery of darkness, gloom, and death are present in every aspect of the story from the start of this novella to the finish, giving it an air of mystery, and despair, almost like a dream, or a nightmare. The reader automatically senses that something is not quite right, in setting of the tale, and as the haze drifts in and out of the pages, the reader is enlightened little by little.
“The room was silent. His heart pounded the way it had on their first night together, the way it still did when he woke at a noise in the darkness and waited to hear it again - the sound of someone moving through the house, a stranger.”(4)
Standing on the balcony, I gazed at the darkened and starry sky above. Silence surrounded me as I took a glimpse at the deserted park before me. Memories bombarded my mind. As a young girl, the park was my favourite place to go. One cold winter’s night just like tonight as I looked upon the dark sky, I had decided to go for a walk. Wrapped up in my elegant scarlet red winter coat with gleaming black buttons descending down the front keeping away the winter chill. Wearing thick leggings as black as coal, leather boots lined with fur which kept my feet cozy.
I looked up at the black sky. I hadn't intended to be out this late. The sun had set, and the empty road ahead had no streetlights. I knew I was in for a dark journey home. I had decided that by traveling through the forest would be the quickest way home. Minutes passed, yet it seemed like hours and days. The farther I traveled into the forest, the darker it seemed to get. I was very had to even take a breath due to the stifling air. The only sound familiar to me was the quickening beat of my own heart, which felt as though it was about to come through my chest. I began to whistled to take my mind off the eerie noises I was hearing. In this kind of darkness I was in, it was hard for me to believe that I could be seeing these long finger shaped shadows that stretched out to me. I had this gut feeling as though something was following me, but I assured myself that I was the only one in the forest. At least I had hoped that I was.
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’