Rachna Shah my heart beats for nothing It ends with the rain. Pouring droplets, beautiful in their ephemeral state of being, cloud their vision; two students trudge up the grimy hill, dirt coating polished Mary Jane shoes, leather fraying at the edges. They are of House Honor, the most valorous house of St. Joseph’s Matriculation Higher Secondary School, though an unbiased view is yet to be ascertained. Maroon collared shirts and white pleated skirts are a murky color, something of a mix of splashing mud from running to catch the bus, the only means of transportation, and the downpour from the monsoon season. The tallest of the girls, Ashika, stands hesitantly outside the polished mahogany doors. “Well, go on then,” Pushpa says in a tone terrified, though it is with good reason. “We’re tardy,” Ashika disagrees. “And,” she continues, staring down at the state of her knuckles, blackened in colors, red welts forming on the sides, “You do know what that means.” Pushpa takes a deep breath. “Professor Palvali adores you, or at least she adores your grandmother’s donations —you go first, and perhaps the rest of us will escape any sort of extreme punishment.” With an aura of reluctance, Ashika enters, something of force in her lethargic step; Moral Sciences is neither a class of prestige nor honor, but more of a class of duty. “Do you have any excuse for being late?” The professor announces, clear and distinct voice shrill, ringing across the classroom. Ashika stands at the corner of the room, unsure of whether to run towards her seat, unfortunately located near the front of the classroom, or wait there for her accorded punishment—perhaps being hit with a ruler or rod, yet physical pain is something of simplicity to deal with... ... middle of paper ... ...ion in vain that her oblivious guardians (she wouldn’t exactly call them guardians, but what else is there to call them?) won’t know of her disappearance during the Opening House barbeque event to anywhere but the Mehta mansion. Though the Mehtas have supposedly resided in the house for generations, there is still the faintest reek of cobwebs and death hanging in the air, and Chaaya’s father has finally decided that selling the house might be for the best. Who has a barbeque in the winter, anyways? Ashika thinks, flicking ebony-flecked hair, stepping outside in the frigid air (frigid compared to the rather arid Indian climate), a chill running down a slender spine as she wraps herself up within a hand-knit shawl, colors weaving together in threads like music blending to create a symphony, except music doesn't cause pricked fingers, blood fading into white cotton.
" Thanks for your help Violet " I say as I walk up the stairs.
...eral topic of school. The sister strives to graduate and go to school even though she is poor while her brother blames the school for him dropping out and not graduating. “I got out my social studies. Hot legs has this idea of a test every Wednesday” (118). This demonstrates that she is driven to study for class and get good grades while her brother tries to convince her that school is worth nothing and that there is no point in attending. “‘Why don’t you get out before they chuck you out. That’s all crap,’ he said, knocking the books across the floor. ‘You’ll only fail your exam and they don’t want failures, spoils their bloody numbers. They’ll ask you to leave, see if they don’t’” (118). The brother tries to convince his sister that school is not a necessity and that living the way he does, being a drop out living in a poverty stricken family is the best thing.
“Time’s up! Let me see…” Pacing back and forth with a pressed finger against her lip, she stopped in front of the unlucky first victim. “We’ll start with you, Mr. Evans.”
The symbolic nature of this story relies on the creation of images of isolation, routine/mechanical lives, and oppression. A feeling of the isolation of the couple and Elisa individually is created through the description of the setting, “As in much of his fiction, this story opens with a personified landscape, a paysage moralisé in which the weather and geographical setting are deeply symbolic gesturing in the direction of the story’s ultimate meaning” (Parini 210). It is described as being “…closed off …from the sky and the rest of the world” (Steinbeck 213). This isolation is further developed as the reader learns that the couple goes into town ...
car was old and coming to its end the engine grumbled as it came to a
“Well please be careful and please stay with the rest of the group so you don 't get lost! And I hope you have a fun time there.”
The Story begins on a beach with three young children playing. Violet, 14, inventor; Klaus, 12, amateur researcher; and Sunny, baby, professional biter who has not totally developed speech. When they arrive to the beach it is a cloudy foggy overcast day. Violet is spending her time here skipping rocks, Klaus is studying tide pools and Sunny is just enjoying her time being at the beach with her older siblings. Even though it is not the greatest day in the world, the children are enjoying their time spent here at their favorite place. No other people are here on beach and this gives the children a place to be alone with their imagination. While playing a gentleman is approaching, but with the fog it scares the children because they cannot see who walks beneath the fog. As the figure gets closer they start to figure out who it is. The strange figure that lurked in the fog is Mr. Poe a friend of the family. Mr. Poe comes over to the children playing and explains to the children that their parents have perished in a fire that destroyed their home. Mr. Poe explains to the children that they will have to live with his family temporarily until he can figure out a plan as to where they will go.
After a rough day at the office, Mike arrived arrived home tired, and hungry. After dinner Mike went to his office before going out to the patio. Louise knew by his behavior that, something was wrong, and waited until the children finished their homework before joining him. When she sat down beside him, without saying a word he got up, went to the living room, turned on the TV, but didn’t watch it, which was what he usually did when he had something on his mind.
Nostalgia. That’s what I’d felt, it was like an overwhelming wave of worry and happiness holding me back and not letting go, and it was. I’d also felt pain, but that was probably from the broken arm. It had been five years since I’d seen V and here we were again, both in the hospital, of our own accord. Again. My heart pumped, and I couldn’t sit still. We’d fought, literally all the time, on purpose. It’s not like we hated each other or anything. It was just our way of having fun. This is a weird way of fun. Said everyone but us.
When I first walked into Mrs. G’s English classroom, I had mixed emotions. I was eager to be there and I’m glad I was provided with an opportunity to interact with students and the teacher before class started. It felt lovely to be greeted by Mrs. G. with a good morning and small greeting. There are approximately 24 students and I did my best to count them as fast I could without making it uncomfortable for the scholars. Approximately, there are 13 boys and 11 girls with only 1 teacher. The classroom at El Sausal Middle School had a multicolored and untidy setting. When I say “untidy,” I mean that the desks, the materials and the equipment felt older and that they had been thro...
“Please! Don’t do this!” the girl screamed. She held her arms up in defense against the malevolent figure with a crown of thorns placed on its head and a blood-stained, white trench coat that enclosed her body.
The girl blinked, and her hand dropped to her sides. "Marcy Gray, I'm eleven," she bit on her lip, and her entire posture changed, she had stiffen up like a soldier - determined and cold. She backed up until her small back hit the door where she was thrown in. "I don't want to stay." She said, her voice shaking. "We did nothing wrong, we're just children!" Marcy yelled, and slammed her right fist into the metal door. Everyone shut their eyes and covered their faces. She continued to hit the door. Repeatedly, making a sickingly sound rhythm.
Unlike the sun, who she went to when she sought comfort, the ceiling acted as a distraction. She recognized every crack and crevice of the wooden surface better than she knew her own body. Each flaw told a story of the house's past. The way the wood dipped in the center after having a terrible rainstorm warp its material. How there was a gaping hole with jagged edges in the corner, where they had to remove a patch of rotting wood, and cover the hole with a plate of corrugated metal; which had rusted over the years, becoming a copper color which trickled down the neighboring walls, permanently staining them. She knew which places would leak when it rained and which water spots had grown the most as time passed.
Seven thirty in the morning, confused, and gazing at my first experience of college I had no idea what this semester would have in store for me. Within the second story of Vawter Hall about fifty to a hundred students are crowding the hall awaiting the arrival of their professors. I was no different; unlike these other chatty energetic individuals I was alone, and desperate to get this first day over with. At eight o’clock bells chime through the building and the students have now dwindled down to those who I will later come to know as classmates and those few who had overslept on the first day. Eight fifteen, the little crowd starts to stir; the professor has still yet to arrive. Around eight twenty a woman with short cut hair arrives in a hurried manner, clearly upset to have arrived after her students. However, to her surprise, and those of her students, the door was