In the grey morning, he heard singing. The melodies and harmonies woke him up from his deep slumber, creeping into the small cottage through the bedroom window. He rose to his elbows and listened intently; it wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t soft, either. It was like a missed lover come home, calling to him, missing him. His thoughts flew to the girl that occupied his bed with him the night before, and called out her name. He waited for an answer and got none. Sighing, he rose from the bed and put on his day’s clothes: a faded cotton shirt, dark pants, and boots. A lowly underpaid fisherman, he was, and he lamented the moment he opened his blue eyes to the dreary morning that came each day. It was a dank job, with no purpose at all, barely enough wages to keep his pathetic little dwelling up to par with the rest. It caused a riff in his life: the girl he loved was barely there, snaking around bars as a maid, scraping up a few pennies here and there. [i]Just to help[/i], she insisted time and time again as she kissed his lips in the morning, when he was actually awake, and ducked out. The singing grew more insistent at that moment, and a great urge to follow it and find the source was gnawing at his gut. He finished up, running a hand through his flaxen hair as he shut the door behind him. And it continued, the singing, as it brought him down to the bluffs that the cottage overlooked, where small caves lingered. It was frosty out and he shivered as he trekked down, wetting his boots and the knees of his pants in the small water ways that dotted the seaside and leaked into the caves. He cursed his rotten luck momentarily. And suddenly, the singing was right in front of him, in the cave. Cautiously, he went in, afraid of what h... ... middle of paper ... ...ough…I must ask something of you, Nicholas.” He worried about what she might ask of him, but curious and skeptical, he said, “Go on.” “Meet me in the caves by the bluffs in three days,” she said, giving him another grin before reaching up to kiss him again. This time he let her, and he was disappointed when she pulled back. She put her cold, wet hand to his cheek again and whispered, “Don’t make me wait.” With that, she turned and swam off. Suddenly, he snapped out of his momentary trance and began to holler after her, “Wait! Natasha, why—“ Then he stopped. In the grey light, glittering in the overcast sun, Nicholas watched, astonished, as Natasha stopped in the vast ocean and, from behind her, a pink tail rose from the water. It was as if she felt his shock and blew him a kiss; then she dove deep into the water and didn’t rise again, leaving him in the cold.
He went on down the hill, toward the dark woods within which the liquid silver voices of the birds called unceasing - the rapid and urgent beating of the urgent and quiring heart of the late spring night. He did not look
The memories began to evaporate, fading faster than they had arrived. The countryside of Felpham blended with the cobblestoned alleyways of London. There was silence. He let himself fall into the arms of an eternal slumber, for he knew that his voice had been heard and he had found what he was searching for. Perhaps now he was to see God again.
It was a warm sunny day in the summer of the nineteen nighties nine, at the Jersey Shore. Sally stood outside her grandparents ' house with hesitation. Should Juan and I have come? Sally thinks to herself. Sally then begins to gaze out at the ocean 's shorelines. As if time had stood still and the world faded away. She closed her eyes and took it all in. It made her think of all the wonderful childhood memories that they had achieved there. Sally remembered playing in the sand, swimming in the ocean, the bright sun gazing down upon her and a boy. This place had memories that Sally would never forget and treasure forever, for that kid now a man was always in her heart and her life.
He admires the world that he live in, the way everything supposes to be. On the way through the canopy filled with dark air, he finds himself among the creepers that dropped along the canopy suddenly shiver as he walks by them, create a pleasant welcome. As Simon finds a beautiful glade that fills with life, which he contemplates the island's sights and sounds as he meditates. Soon after helping the littluns gather fruits, he continued his went on a path that opened in front of him, “Soon high jungle closed in. Tall trunks bore unexpected pale flowers all the way up to the dark canopy where life went on clamorously. The air here was dark too, and the creepers dropped their ropes like the rigging of foundered ships. His feet left prints in the soft soil and the creepers shivered throughout their lengths when he bumped them...the sounds of the bright fantastic birds, the bee-sounds, even the crying of the gulls that were returning to their roosts among the square rocks, were fainter. The deep sea breaking miles away on the reef made an undertone less perceptible than the susurration of the
Her lungs burnt and her breath caught in her throat. Every second she wasted was a second closer to losing him. Then she saw him, a distorted shadow in the moonlight. She cried out his name again through chapped lips. Tears pooled in her eyes, like a gentle ocean resembling her bleeding heart. Mascara smudged around her cheeks like charcoal. She stumbled forwards, her legs threatening to give way. Rough edged rocks tore at her clothes, slashing her trousers like something in a horror movie. But she had to keep going. After all they had been through, she couldn’t lose him now. Not
I blinked rapidly and bit my lip, looking around nervously. He was going to sweet talk me to stay. I let out another scream. "Too many people!" I said and clung tightly to his stiff body.
Deep in the valley the Wood Sprites and the Fairies flocked together, trembling in their masses; when all were gathered they embraced each other in a fond farewell, then they began to sing such a melancholy song, dancing and swaying in a hypnotic rhythm; the song carried out across the wood, birds in the trees stopped to listen, their heads on one side, their eyes shining with sorrow and the animals crept from their dens and burrows to watch. The air in the wood was thick with sadness, a fox gave a low mewl, it's ears flattening against it's slender head, a magnificent stag threw back it's head and let out a long roar that rose and mingled with the notes of the song.
The journey begins on the heels of “Wind,” which lays the foundation for this spirit to rise, really, from the routine activity of a night at dinner—akin to the way an idea just hits the writer, and lingers until it has been completed. On this foundation, the spirit begins to move, with the driving vowel sounds of, “This evening rough winds blow the surface of the river,” and, “...all that answered / the water’s slow passing was the swish of wildflowers / in the long prairie grasses.”
Jimothy Collard walked down a vegetated, moldy, wooden path leading to his villa. It was the night of the third week of November and Jimothy came home from a long day of work. His house was about a quarter mile out in the marsh and his legs would ache every time he’d walk through it. He had no car because he had one job that could feed him, pay the shack, and his dog’s necessities. He was a skinny young man, forking for Vinny Gustavo, at an Italian bakery called “ V Bread”. He slithered through his house and slumped onto his bed. He thought and thought about quitting his job because it was a pain to work there. He whipped up some porridge and got a small portion of dog food for Bubb. They ate in silence, listening to the tall grass, swaying back and forth from the strong wind.
“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)
My subject reported that she had been writing stories since early childhood. When she lived in South Korea, she created short stories in English. After moving back to Russia in 2003, she joined a literature club where a university Creative Writing teacher assisted her and other children to compose stories in Russian. The participants were given two weeks to write a story, which they later discussed with their peers in class and made some suggestions for improvement. The story could be on any topic. After the in-class discussion, the teacher collected their writings, commented on them, and returned them back to the participants for revision. There were no grades in this class since its purpose was to help young writers to find their own voices and styles in writing rather than to assess their work. Anastasia enjoyed these meetings and wrote prolifically. Her writing in English at that time was represented by fanfiction based on Harry Potter series.
In the first stanza the speaker begins to vocalize the thought he had experienced while travelling to his lover’s cottage.
He pulled away for a moment, confusion evident in his eyes, “Ellie, I’m not the one that was shot”.
Obscenities screamed were ringing in my ear, “make it stop,” I sobbed through the tears. The night that brought me here was over, yet echoed in the distance of my mi...
She slammed the door behind her. Her face was hot as she grabbed her new perfume and flung it forcefully against the wall. That was the perfume that he had bought for her. She didn't want it anymore. His voice coaxed from the other side of the door. She shouted at him to get away. Throwing herself on the bed and covering her face with one of his shirts, she cried. His voice coaxed constantly, saying Carol, let me in. Let me explain.' She shouted out no!' Then cried some more. Time passed with each sob she made. When she caught herself, there was no sound on the other side of the door. A long silence stood between her and the door. Maybe she had been too hard on him, she thought. Maybe he really had a good explanation. She hesitated before she walked toward the door and twisted the handle. Her heart was crying out to her at this moment. He wasn't there. She called out his name. "Thomas!" Her cries were interrupted by the revving of an engine in the garage. She made it to the window in time to see his Volvo back out the yard. "Thomas! Thomas....wait!" Her cries vanished into thin air as the Volvo disappeared around the bend. Carol grew really angry all of a sudden. How could he leave? He'll sleep on the couch when he gets back. Those were her thoughts.