Foot feathering the gas, the young man followed the curvature of the dirt path. The ancient truck’s suspension screamed in protest with every dip, headlights bobbing up and down as if it were blinking.
Soft country music played – just gentle enough to be heard – against the ceaseless, overwhelming din of the millions of insects who cried out in indignation at the obtrusive driver.
In the distance to the West, the fiery and hazy sun had begun to sink below the horizon. The fuzzy outline of the mountains glowed orange, as if they were melting. In the form of cascading shades of gray to black to ink, darkness seeped in from the East.
The old truck carrying the young man slowed and pulled off of the dirt road, peeling into an open field with
I also don't own the idea, it was requested to me by the wonderful Amanda. Thank you so much! I hope I did this idea justice.
On the bank of the water, the lifeless trees swayed heavily in the enduring winds. Clouds could be seen not far off in the north, reclaiming the sky rapidly. The mood was changing swiftly as dusk descended dashingly on the hills of the Gabilan Mountains.
At the same time: Snap-Whoosh-Growl-Snap-Whoosh-Growl! Return with a fierceness, causing the rest of the men to separate into two groups with some moving to the left in search of the origin of the beastly sounds and the others moving to the right, combining their numbers with those searching for their missing brethren, while Gottlieb stays behind.
I knew it would happen. As much as I tried to stay optimistic, to put off my feelings of suspicion to an old man's negativity, I knew that this case would cost me something more than just my reputation in the town and that didn't even really matter. In Maycomb, reputation is a day by day concept. Sure, we have more than enough of our fair share of immovable gossipers, and drama kings and queens looking for a story to spread. But in everyone's own mind, if you did something stupid, immoral, or just mildly humorous or entertaining, it was the talk of the town and you were judged terribly for a few days, a few weeks tops. Then the whispers, and glances faded to conversations over coffee, and deep inside jokes. My reputation didn't bother me one bit.
4. “Yet even upon this shadowed terrain sunlight had very lately sparkled.” (page 7, paragraph 2)
Headlights always were intensely bright at night. They’re intimidating. It’s hard to move or react after being stunned by them. These lights were enormous circles, the first sign before the crunch of metal that followed afterwards. An impact side swept the vehicle into the snow. The spinning made the girl dizzy and she was sick upon her dress. The screams of a man and woman joined together in a terrifying harmony before they cut off
Only the tops of the Gabilan mountains caught the fading sunshine after it had gone from the valley. A water snake slipped along the pool, it's head held up like a little periscope. The reeds jerked slightly in the current. Far off toward the highway a man shouted something, and another man shouted back. The sycamore limbs rustled under a little wind that died immediately.
A thick plume of black smoke and ash hung in the air in a heavy haze, almost completely obscuring the lurid red glow of the waning sun. Below, a cloud of grey plaster dust twisted and writhed amid the sea of debris as intermittent eddies of wind gusted by.
Dani and I stand in the sun waiting for the “men” to catch up. The view was worth Quill’s whining and navigating through the snow. The breeze catches in the bright green and gold of new Aspen leaves whispering around the lake. The Pine trees scent the air and bask in the sun to steal its warmth from the forest below. The trees are a dark canopy along our path permitting only a few patches of the raised finely mulched trail to a beam or two of sun. Framed like a photo three pencil lead gray peaks rise above a lower sweeping curve of pines. They look close enough to walk over the ridge and touch them. Boulders precariously cling to the side of the mountains. The perfect deep blue early summer sky is the perfect backdrop.
... into deeper indigos and grays. The dramatic contrasts in light and tone aid in the formation of space without causing too much motion in the scene. The strong lines throughout give the images more conceptual meaning. The mountains are tangible and solid, clearly separated from both the ground and the deep blue sky. The light dramatizes both the depth and clarity in the painting.
We continued down the infinitely long interstate towards our destination. Thunder clouds continued to rumble in, like an ocean tide rolling closer and closer to the beach front. Within minutes the entire landscape was calm and dark. It looked like a total eclipse of the sun, and the once ...
The ruckus from the bottom of the truck is unbearable, because of the noise and excessive shaking. As we slowly climbed the mountain road to reach our lovely cabin, it seemed almost impossible to reach the top, but every time we reached it safely. The rocks and deep potholes shook the truck and the people in it, like a paint mixer. Every window in the truck was rolled down so we could have some leverage to hold on and not loose our grip we needed so greatly. The fresh clean mountain air entered the truck; it smelt as if we were lost: nowhere close to home. It was a feeling of relief to get away from all the problems at home. The road was deeply covered with huge pines and baby aspen trees. Closely examining the surrounding, it looks as if it did the last time we were up here.
When discussing the poetic form of dramatic monologue it is rare that it is not associated with and its usage attributed to the poet Robert Browning. Robert Browning has been considered the master of the dramatic monologue. Although some critics are skeptical of his invention of the form, for dramatic monologue is evidenced in poetry preceding Browning, it is believed that his extensive and varied use of the dramatic monologue has significantly contributed to the form and has had an enormous impact on modern poetry. "The dramatic monologues of Robert Browning represent the most significant use of the form in postromantic poetry" (Preminger and Brogan 799). The dramatic monologue as we understand it today "is a lyric poem in which the speaker addresses a silent listener, revealing himself in the context of a dramatic situation" (Murfin 97). "The character is speaking to an identifiable but silent listener at a dramatic moment in the speaker's life. The circumstances surrounding the conversation, one side which we "hear" as the dramatic monologue, are made by clear implication, and an insight into the character of the speaker may result" (Holman and Harmon 152).
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.