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By next period, all I could think about was what Gemma said about the epiphany. The less we exposed ourselves, the less strange things manifested. Did that mean we would never return to the red room or go through any more doors? I had said it myself, but for some reason, this seemed unsettling. My juvenile curiosity wanted to continue, but Gemma had been right from the beginning, it was dangerous, and I had to accept that.
Like a flash of lightning, the conversation I had with Celeste on Monday, jolted my mind. Her vision, me being at the library reading newspapers, the red book, and the dark spirit. I looked around the classroom. I was now in homeroom. Students were either sleeping or listening to their music devices. Glancing out the window, I could see the sky churning into a dark blue,
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Fall leaves smacked against my front windows, but I didn’t care. I felt a swell of elation to be ditching class, but I knew I couldn’t make a habit of it. I couldn’t afford to take any more risks to my permanent record. The public library was coming into view now, and the red book rested snugly in my backpack. Before arriving here, I had made a quick stop at home to retrieved it. I was now ready to face it again, ready to unlock the mystery of it all.
Making a sudden turn into the parking lot, I shortly spotted a parking space most close to the library's entrance. It seemed like it had been eons since the last time I had entered. I turned off the car, grabbed my bag, and trotted off through the rain. It was pouring so heavily now that within a few steps I already felt soak to the bone. Determinedly, I moved past the sliding doors and emerged into the octagon-shaped interior.
The library was warm and inviting and smelt of a concoction of mildew and aged perfume. In observance, the inside was more cavernous than I remembered and more full of elderly couples. If I didn’t know any better, I would have mistaken it for a senior
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.
As she spoke, reality changed, the look of things altered, and the world became peopled with magical presences. My sense of life deepened and the feel of things was different, somehow.... My imagination blazed. The sensations the story aroused in me were never to leave me" (Wright, 39). This sensation extends his existing curiosity, helping Wright to comprehend his love of literature.
When I Glanced inside the torn cardboard box that had “Family room” I discovered one of my mom’s old book named Petals on the Wind written by V. C. Andrews. While she was putting her already read books on the empty oak bookshelf, I asked her “would I be able to have this book?” Despite that it was a book above my reading level, she generally smiled and agreed. Over the years while we sat there watching television, my eyes would wonder like an antiquarian over to the old and new novels. Having my imagination running wild and wondering what type of adventures or mysteries lay inside. My family was firmly about education, with a father that was completing up his Masters and a mother who was continually reading, they both pushed us in the same direction.
It gave the idea, and a clear understanding of what its discussing.It led me to imagine a dilapidated room,with elderly people eating, and using mismatched copper utensils. Their body physically there, but easily seen in their eyes , their minds are somewhere far away. I could see and feel the pearls when I read the line, “ Full of beads and receipts.” I could see them eating the beans,and imagine their back room filled with objects containing their memories. “ This old yellow pair,” and Rememberings with twinklings and tinges,” inspired the imagery of an old couple sitting together and reminiscing about their
Chapter One On a typically gloomy morning in Chesapeake, Virginia, a thirteen-year-old girl was the only one awake. It was two o’clock in the morning, which was extremely early for anybody, even Sydney. However, she had things on her mind that kept her wide awake. As she paced the room, she scribbled on a clipboard, often pausing to shake her head and cross something out.
I am not born with a silver spoon on my mouth to host a feeding program nor offer scholarships to others. I am just a college student. However, KINDLE, one of Rotaract Club's program, made me realize that we do not need to be rich in order to be of service to others. We could always help, if we truly want to. Afterall, money is just one of the million ways to
Utilizing effective diction is key as Welty to put together the mosaic of memories that illustrates the intense presence of reading in her life. Her use of diction pulls the reader into the scenes, it makes them real. When she describe the library the wording allows to hear “the steady seething of the electric fan”, the harsh tone of the librarian’s “normal commanding
There it was. I heard the soft, barely audible squeak of the third to stop stair. I freeze, every muscle tense, silently going into panic mode. Red lights flashed in my mind, as I slowly clicked off my flashlight. I was completely soaked, as the air conditioning had quit working. This normally wouldn't bother me, but it was July and I was smothering in my warm quilt, my plush blanket, and my flannel sheets. I was red faced and breathing hard, but it was made worthwhile with the promise of finishing the Hunger Games that night. Without these, the bright light of my reading light would be seen from the hall. I could've shut my door, but then I wouldn't here my Mom, creeping up to check on
Under the busy streets, the fluorescent lights, and the hot summer night of New York City, I sat in complete silence itching to read the last few words. I didn’t want to be here in the first place. I wanted to be free. I wanted to play outside in the summer breeze of July while sucking on fruity Popsicle sticks. But my mother stopped me. She told me to stay here and finish the task saying that it will be for my own benefit. But as soon as I read the last two words of the last page, I quickly shut the book with a “bang” and ran from it as if it was a sin to be near the book.
Gently swaying back and forth in an old wooden rocker, I take a break from my journaling. While listening to the creaky hum of the tired oak thumping out a blue song, I think about the art of writing, painting with my words, and wonder what hampers my creative practice. A foreboding sense of unworthiness floats into my consciousness and I ask myself why do I feel this way. Rifling through my thoughts a fog wraps around me like a blanket not for comfort but instead to shield the feelings of inadequacy. I take a deep breath and inhale the reassuring sage scent of our family room. I press on in this process of self-discovery; an old black and white photo sitting on a shelf captures my eye. I see an image of myself as a smiling, confident child, which stirs uneasiness within. Following the muddled whisperings in my mind, I return to the day in the snapshot and consider what comes to pass.
I peered around through the rain, desperately searching for some shelter, I was drowning out here. The trouble was, I wasn’t in the best part of town, and in fact it was more than a little dodgy. I know this is my home turf but even I had to be careful. At least I seemed to be the only one out here on such an awful night. The rain was so powerfully loud I couldn’t hear should anyone try and creep up on me. I also couldn’t see very far with the rain so heavy and of course there were no street lights, they’d been broken long ago. The one place I knew I could safely enter was the church, so I dashed.
The setting is in the newly opened library funded by Mr. Lemoncello. This is important, because if it was any other library, they wouldn’t have to escape from it, and if it was old, they also wo didn’t have to escape from
Allison creaked across the old wooden floors of the library owned by her godfather, Mr. Linden. She wheeled the cart of new horror stories and stacked them on the dusty shelves. People believed that the books in “The Forbidden Book Section” of Mr. Linden’s library were haunted because they would never make it back to the shelves. The only noise in the quiet library was the sound of Mr. Linden’s deep, painful coughing.
When walking into the library, one sees rows of computers placed in the center. Tables are against the walls, and in the center is a librarian’s desk. What one doesn’t see is the library begging for more space. Students are cramped at the small tables trying to share the space with each other. The library
Once upon a time, I saw the world like I thought everyone should see it, the way I thought the world should be. I saw a place where there were endless trials, where you could try again and again, to do the things that you really meant to do. But it was Jeffy that changed all of that for me. If you break a pencil in half, no matter how much tape you try to put on it, it'll never be the same pencil again. Second chances were always second chances. No matter what you did the next time, the first time would always be there, and you could never erase that. There were so many pencils that I never meant to break, so many things I wish I had never said, wish I had never done. Most of them were small, little things, things that you could try to glue back together, and that would be good enough. Some of them were different though, when you broke the pencil, the lead inside it fell out, and broke too, so that no matter which way you tried to arrange it, they would never fit together and become whole again. Jeff would have thought so too. For he was the one that made me see what the world really was. He made the world into a fairy tale, but only where your happy endings were what you had to make, what you had to become to write the words, happily ever after. But ever since I was three, I remember wishing I knew what the real story was.