“No. they had nothing to do with it.” the man said calmly “Well now I don't really care. Why would I? Now in your dying seconds think of what you have done to your family.” Rojo said and as he finished a loud thump and some gunshots echoed from inside. Rojo and his men all whipped around to see what it was. The man started scooting back and tried to get up and run. Rojo turned and saw him running and within two seconds his men had shot the man in both of his ankles. Rojo walked over to him as he screamed and moaned in pain. “Nice try.” Rojo said as he pulled his gun out and shot the man in the head. Rojo stood up and waved over to someone past Zed. A car drove past Zed and stopped to let Rojo in. As he stepped in the driver got shot. Rojo's
The brother shot at him first. He didn't know it was his brother it was dark. There was smoke in the air. He could barely see across the way . His brother shot him in the arm. He didn’t want to be found dead up there in the morning. He had to find a way down, but he was shooting at him.
The funeral was supposed to be a family affair. She had not wanted to invite so many people, most of them strangers to her, to be there at the moment she said goodbye. Yet, she was not the only person who had a right to his last moments above the earth, it seemed. Everyone, from the family who knew nothing of the anguish he had suffered in his last years, to the colleagues who saw him every day but hadn’t actually seen him, to the long-lost friends and passing acquaintances who were surprised to find that he was married, let alone dead, wanted to have a last chance to gaze upon him in his open coffin and say goodbye.
As The Indian Killer found his house he knocked on his door. But then he looked at the top of his small house and it said Mr. Deathgiver in bold. The Indian Killer was abundantly scared so he thought about leaving. But he realized how many indians he killed and how notorious he was for..- instantaneously, Mr. Deathgiver opened the door and shot a bullet into the air as a warning that he should not mess with him. Mr. Deathgiver
A man carrying two revolvers and two 9mm semi-automatic handguns calmly strode into the Dunblane Primary School. Two people quickly spotted the firearms and tried to tackle the man; he shot them and left them wounded as he continued his journey down the hall of the school. Finally, the man reached his destination: the gym, where a class a kindergartners were having P.E. In the gym, he pulled out the guns and started picking off the five-year-olds one by one. The room was splattered with blood as young children broke like porcelain dolls under the power of the gun. The blood continued to flow, but the intruder did not stop; he took careful aim to make sure he didn't miss. The final insult came when he shot the teacher who was shielding kids with her body. Once he killed her, he killed the kids she was protecting. When he finished in the gym , he turned around walked out, shot at a class as he walked down the hall and walked out into the courtyard. In the courtyard, the killer ended the ordeal by taking his own life (Pederson).
She unexpectedly fell to the ground with Bob standing behind her with a gun in his hand. He said, “And this is revenge for killing my brother.”
Although death seems to be a theme for many literary poems, it also appears to be the most difficult to express clearly. Webster’s Dictionary defines the word “death” as, “A permanent cessation of all vital function: end of life.” While this definition sounds simple enough, a writer’s definition goes way beyond the literal meaning. Edwin Arlington Robinson and Robert Frost are just two examples of poetic writers who have used death successfully as the main theme of their works. Robinson, in the poem “Richard Cory,” and Frost in his poem, “Home Burial,” present death in different ways in order to invoke different feelings and emotions from their readers.
He turned his head away unsuspecting that the time of his demise was near. I raised my gun up, looked through the scope, put the dot on where his vitals should be, and using great effort not to let the shakes take over and alter my shot, I squeezed the trigger. I watched the bright yellow sparks fly from my barrel as the black powder expelled the lump of lead flying straight into his chest. As he staggered away in shock from the events that occurred in what felt like a fraction of a second I kept a close eye on him to know where to retrieve his dead
Once upon a time deep in a large forest there lived a woodchopper, his wife, and their two children, Hansel and Gretel. It was a beautiful forest, full of trees, flowers and butterflies and streams. Matter of fact, the family had everything they could ever want except for one little thing.
As soon as the door closed, and Jace was finally at last gone, Clary immediately sprang to her feet and locked the door. Tears had all ready formed at the corner of her eyes, before she ran towards the pretty canopy bed, and fell down upon its soft, gentle surface and sobbed as if her heart would break. Inside, she was completely devastated. She began to wonder just what exactly had minute, she'd been at home, relaxing in the bright, warm golden sun, working on a brand new painting, and the next, she was off riding into the deep, dark woods with Wayfarer following her father's very trail, and they'd stumbled upon the mysterious dark castle, and the final moment she was trading her life for her father's in order to save him.
There once was a man named Franswah, and he had a wife named Keisha. They both lived in Keithville, Atlanta. They had a little girl named Jasmine, she was twelve years of age and she attended Ghettoville Jr. High School in the seventh grade. Keisha never did like doing anything, so her husband Franswah decided to go out and have an affair with a lady named Shay. Franswah and Shay worked at a law firm together. Shay was his assistant, she always helped him with things and they always went to lunch together. So some nights he never came home or either he came in late. Keisha was never the type of person to just argue, she mainly just questioned him to see what the response would be and she left it alone until the next morning. So one night when he came in he had a funny odor and Keisha asked him what was up with the smell, he told her that he had been working out and got sweaty. Their daughter Jasmine had very high blood pressure, so most of the time she didn’t go to school because of her condition and she stayed ill. Keisha had a younger sister named Ashley, she is the rowdy type that doesn’t care and will tell anybody anything. Keisha was telling her sister about Franswah coming in late, having a odor on him and don’t want to be questioned. So one day when Ashley was over there and he walked in she confronted him and told him if she find out that’s its that he’s cheating on her she was gone handle it. So he got mad and started hollering at Keisha for telling her sister about what was going on in their relationship. Then that’s when Ashley came back and told him that she can tell her anything she want to tell her because that’s her sister. So few minutes later the phone rings and its was Shay. Keisha answers the phone and it was another lady’s voice, and she asked to speak to Franswah. So she asked her who is calling and she told her that it was Franswah’s baby mother. Everyone is in shock, so Ashley gets on the phone and started getting rowdy. Ashley was asking her different questions like how old is the baby, where she live, and where did Franswah and her meet.
Deputy Johnson had seen many disturbing things in his years but when he cam downstairs to find both suspects dead, he was paralyzed. How was he going to explain this, why did they kill each other. He called the station and told them to bring a medic and two body bags. Johnson looked around and noticed that Benson was still moving.
After the sniper shot his enemy he looked at him and realized who he shot. It was his brother, he suddenly thought to himself, “What have I done?”. He was trying to think whether his brother thought he was an enemy, or if he was just crazy. He took his wounded and bloody brother back to base to the infirmary. He knew he killed his brother but he wanted to see if there was still a chance to save him. “Can you save my brother?”, he asked. The medical team all looked at each other and one of them said, “There's no chance we can save him, hes already dead, I’m sorry.” The sniper instantly had a feeling of regret and started thinking of possible ways he could’ve acted differently or how he could’ve said something. He started saying how it's his fault and he should be the one who's dead.
He couldn’t believe it, even after the information had sunk in, his brother was dead and the worst part, he had to examine the crime scene. So he slowly got out of his car, took a shaky breath and walked up the pitch black lane to his brother's house. Ducking under the yellow “DO NOT ENTER” tape, he finally was at the door. He peered inside and then slowly walked in. He had already saw the door hanging from it's hinges alone, looking like a broken person. Farther on into the house he found his brother's badge, lying on the ground. The crimson liquid still pooling around his dead body and leaking from a severed blade gouged in h...
the sergeant: how could he have done that? He shot one of his own men.
The concept of ‘the Death of the Author’ was proposed by, French philosopher and literary theorist, Roland Barthes in his essay with the same title. He proposed a paradigm shift in the way that authorship should be viewed by the ‘Critic’. In opposition to the classical model of critique, Barthes proposed that the focus should be on the readers experience and interpretation; he proposed the idea of ‘readerly’ and ‘writerly’ texts. Rather than focusing on the author’s intent, his or her past building up to the text and the singularity of his or her intent, he suggested that once a text has been committed to written words it transcends into a ‘tissue of signs’ and ‘immense dictionary from which he [the writer] draws a writing that can know no halt’ [Barthes 1977, 147] and the only thing of importance to the critique of the work would be the experience of the reader. He proposed that ‘the work’ itself is merely a string of words that, without a reader, would be void of meaning. He also suggests that these two polar opposites were mutually exclusive of one another and that ‘the birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author’ [Barthes 1977, 148]. The discussion that follows will be based on Stephen Heath’s French-to-English translation of Barthes work from the compilation of essays, ‘Image – Music – Text’, translated and compiled in 1977 (three years before Roland Barthes’ death).